Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The most important thing was not to rush.

You needed time. Patience. To let yourself move — slowly, carefully — as if rocking on waves, until...

Sakura struck a low, sonorous chord and froze. Everything inside her — and, it seemed, in the entire concert hall — paused for a breath.

...until the moment came to let the melody carry itself forward.

As the sound grew more insistent, more tense, she felt her shoulders tighten slightly. The upcoming section required only precision and technique — the easiest kind of playing, but she still had to be careful.

Her fingers slid over the cool, polished keys with practiced ease. The instrument itself, however, was unfamiliar. The festival performers hadn’t been allowed a warm-up, and she’d had to figure out mid-performance that the lower register sounded a bit muffled*.

That’s why, toward the climax, when the left hand’s part swelled with power, she had to really lean into the keys.

In those moments, she tried not to let her mind get distracted by stray sensations or sounds. But tonight, it was harder than usual. The lights in the hall were far too bright. Odd, really — what had the festival organizers been thinking?

And the smell… She didn’t want to believe the Austrians had actually lit real candles in a concert venue, but something was burning. A bitter, smoky scent clung stubbornly to the air, irritating her nose.

She shifted her shoulder, feeling how the strap of her black gown — embroidered with tiny beads — was digging into her skin.

She really shouldn’t have listened to Ino. A normal dress would’ve been so much more comfortable.

Finally, the ending.

A completely different mood.

Sakura was always struck by how unlike the rest of the piece it was. As if someone else had written it entirely.

Too cheerful, really, after all that melancholy.

Her fingers caught the trill** with a light touch. The notes shimmered — bright and delicate.

Maybe this piano wasn’t so bad after all.

The euphoria of a full, resonant sound pulled a small smile from her. Riding that high, she struck the final chords — grand, clear, satisfying.

There. That was it.

Exactly how it's supposed to be.

A burst of applause broke out — sudden and loud. Sakura flinched. In Japan, audiences at this kind of festival were more reserved. She still hadn’t gotten used to Europeans.

Sakura stood, walked confidently to the edge of the stage, and bowed.

She didn’t want to look at the audience — the lights were too bright, the air heavy with the scent of candles.

She just wanted to leave.

Her fingers were still tingling with pleasure — the last few bars had felt so good in her hands. She wondered if they'd let her play this piano again once the concert was over.

As she opened the door into the hallway, Sakura squinted — the daylight outside hit her with unexpected brightness. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, spilling in golden slants across the pale wooden floor, all the way down to the base of the wall. The floor gave softly under her steps, and the air smelled of fresh varnish, with a faint trace of someone’s sweet perfume.

She didn’t notice right away that she’d stopped walking. Something had shifted — the space felt denser, like the air had thickened around her.

Then she felt it: a gaze, direct and steady, catching her in place. Brown eyes — insistent, focused — locked with hers.

And just like that, Sakura knew: she was no longer alone.

A few meters away, half-sitting on the windowsill with his hands braced behind him, a man was watching her.

His hair was blood-red — so vividly red it felt unreal. And he was beautiful. So much so that it didn’t quite make sense.

He wore a black shirt and black trousers. He seemed completely alien, a contrasting spot in this bright, almost sterile hallway.

And to her surprise, he was Japanese too.

His gaze drifted down her body, but Sakura didn’t feel tense. It didn’t seem like the dress Ino had picked out made any impression on him at all. And yet, he was still looking.

Then he lifted one hand in a casual, almost lazy wave.

What the hell?

Heat rushed to Sakura’s cheeks — sudden and unwelcome.

Since when do adults meet like this?

Sakura froze, not knowing what she was supposed to do. He hadn’t addressed her directly, hadn’t come over.

Instead, he looked at her as if a silent invitation to join him were the most natural thing in the world. As if there were nothing weird about a stranger waving at her without even smiling — and her already walking toward him, weaving past the few people crossing the corridor.

For a second, it felt like invisible strings were pulling her straight to him — the pull so sudden and strong it caught her off guard.

“We...” She cleared her throat as she stopped in front of the red-haired man. “Do we know each other?”

Something like amusement flickered in his stunningly beautiful eyes. He shook his head with a crooked smile.

“I would’ve remembered.”

“Um...” Sakura was completely thrown off.

Had she misunderstood? Was that wave not meant for her?

But no. Even now — or maybe especially now — she could clearly see how intently he was looking at her. His gaze moved over her pink hair (apparently, she wasn’t the only one fond of unusual colors), paused on the small scar on her cheek, and then stopped at the same strap that had been bothering her during the performance.

The stranger pressed his lips together and looked at her, puzzled.

“Was the strap bothering you while you played?”

“What?” Sakura raised her eyebrows in surprise.

She couldn’t shake the thought of how ridiculous she must look — unable to form a single coherent sentence.

“It seemed like something was distracting you,” he said, with quiet conviction.

“Me?” Sakura felt her cheeks warm, the blush creeping down her neck like a traitor. “I’m sorry — I really don’t understand,” she admitted, before she could embarrass herself any further.

“Japanese is your native language, isn’t it?” he asked, narrowing his eyes slightly.

“Well, yes,” she nodded, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “The problem’s more with the content of the question.”

The stranger let out a short, amused huff — then offered her his hand. In that moment, the air around them seemed to stir, and Sakura caught a trace of his scent — something surprisingly pleasant, like essential oils and medicinal herbs.

“Akasuna no Sasori. Pianist. Mozarteum*** graduate. I've been playing on my own terms ever since. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He smiled — suddenly, for the first time during their awkward conversation — and a chill ran down Sakura’s spine. The shift in emotion was so abrupt, it startled her.

“Sakura Haruno. I’m a pianist too,” she said, reaching out her hand.

Amusement flickered in his eyes again, and Sakura immediately wanted to slap herself.

Of course he knew she was a pianist. He’d just seen her on stage!

“I play in a chamber ensemble in Munich,” she added quickly, trying to salvage a shred of dignity.

Sasori didn’t seem to judge her at all. On the contrary — he seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself.

The handshake was unexpectedly gentle. His warm hand caressed hers rather than shook it, and suddenly, Sakura felt a flush of heat rise within her.

“I liked the final chords,” Sasori said, almost conspiratorially. “The piano in this hall is terrible, but it worked perfectly for those last few bars.”

He still hadn’t let go of her hand, and Sakura swallowed.

What was he saying? The final bars? Oh — right, the final bars!

“Really? You noticed that too?” she asked, brightening. “I thought the sound came out clear and full, almost ceremonial.”

“I agree,” Sasori said, gently brushing his thumb across her palm in a calming gesture. “You hadn’t played this piano before, had you?”

“No! They didn’t let us try it. The—”

“—the lower register’s muffled,” he finished for her.

"Yes," she replied, once again feeling awkward.

"If you’d like, I can arrange for you to try those chords again tonight — after everyone’s gone."

"Really?"

Sakura’s heart picked up its pace. Her hand, still caught in Sasori’s, felt strangely at home. She glanced down at their joined hands — and suddenly feared her own palm might betray her.

"Of course I can," Sasori nodded, pulling her back from the edge of those uneasy thoughts.

He smiled, just a little. Sakura noted that it still looked just a touch unnatural.

"And will you... come with me?"

"No," he said simply. "I wouldn’t come between a performer and their study of the instrument. But we could meet later this week, if you’d like."

A warm wave of gratitude spread through her chest.

"Yes, that would be nice. Coffee?"

"Anything you want, Sakura," he sang sweetly — and finally let go of her hand.

He took her number, and just as she was about to leave, he asked:
"So was it the strap or the light?"

This time, she knew exactly what he meant.

"Both," she said honestly.

That smile almost passed for real.

Chapter Text

They had agreed to meet in a couple of days, so Sakura hadn’t expected to run into Sasori the very next morning. Even less had she expected it to be so pleasant.

The morning was cool, the air crisp and damp the way she liked it. A short but brisk walk from the hotel to her destination had been enough to shake off the early hour.

The city was waking slowly. Along the cobblestone street stretched rows of tents and stalls, their fabric covers rustling with every gust of wind. Sakura wandered without hurry, letting her gaze drift over vintage jewelry, piles of books, and porcelain dolls with faded eyes. Steam curled above some of the stands, carrying the smell of roasted chestnuts and fresh coffee. Someone poured drinks into paper cups; someone else quietly shifted the coals.

Her coat barely kept her warm—but that hardly mattered.

Sakura watched the people with lazy curiosity. The crowd at the flea market was a mixed one, but what she always loved about such places was how absorbed everyone seemed to be. They chatted, gestured animatedly, asked questions and listened with intent. They bargained, frowned, shook their heads—and lit up with joy when their find turned out to be a good one.

Everyone was busy with their own pursuit, and no one noticed Sakura. The perfect place to lose oneself in the crowd.

To her surprise, the man who had occupied her thoughts all evening and morning was standing at a small stall. Spread out on the dark cloth before him lay books, inkwells, antique glasses, and a small copper tuning fork.

Sasori wore a long black coat, severe and elegant, accentuating the straightness of his posture. Black leather gloves peeked out from the sleeves; in his hands he held an old book, pressed carefully against his chest.

He wasn’t smiling. His face remained still, almost mask-like—yet in his concentration there was something unexpectedly alive. In the way he nodded, in the way he leaned in to catch the seller’s words, there was a sense of real presence.

Sasori was absorbed.

And then she heard his voice.

Of course, they had already spoken in Japanese. But in German, his voice sounded entirely different—unexpected, disturbingly pleasant.

He spoke smoothly, with that very cadence she herself had long been striving for. His German was musical—nothing like her own.

Sasori’s voice was so deep, so low, that her heart seemed to falter for an instant.

He spoke unhurriedly, without empty politeness, choosing his words like someone who truly wanted to understand.

Sakura held her breath.

She didn’t approach right away. Instead, she stood a short distance away, listening as he discussed a rare edition of some philosophical treatise with the seller, studying his profile, the stern line of his jaw, the tense line of his shoulders.

After a few minutes, Sasori paid—slowly, without lifting his gaze from the book. He didn’t tuck it into a bag but kept it in his hand, as though it had already claimed his full attention.

It struck Sakura, suddenly, that she wanted to capture his attention in just the same way.

When he finally turned toward her, his eyes skimmed the bustle of the street for a moment—then settled almost immediately on her.

Sasori walked toward her unhurriedly, still pressing the book against his chest. He carried again that scent of warmth and sharpness—essential oils and bitter herbs.

“So I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t wait until tomorrow,” he said in that same soft, low voice that sent a shiver down her spine.

“I was just walking,” she replied, feeling the cool air sting her flushed cheeks. “Every Sunday I promise myself I’ll stay home and rest, but somehow my feet always carry me elsewhere.”

“This isn’t the worst place to end up.”

He lifted the book slightly, showing her his find.

“You don’t often see an edition like this outside a library,” he explained. “It’s strange how some things vanish for years—only to turn up where you’d least expect them.”

“You… know a lot about antiques?”

He glanced away for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts.

“In my family it was… a tradition,” Sasori said. In Japanese, he needed a little more time to find the right words. “My parents collected works of art. The house I grew up in was full of them—tapestries, porcelain, books, furniture, instruments. Each piece had its own story. I suppose I kept that love within me.”

“Do you… have a large family?”

He shook his head slightly.

“Now it’s only my grandmother. We hardly speak.”

Sasori fell silent, and Sakura suddenly felt awkward for having asked something so personal. But before she could apologize, he added:

“I’m glad you’re here. I hate waiting.”

She met his steady gaze.

“Really?”

“Of course. I wanted to see you again as soon as possible.”

The words sounded almost matter-of-fact, yet something inside her tightened into a knot.

Sakura wanted to make a joke, to tell him he ought to be more reserved, but instead she exhaled:

“I’m glad too. Truly.”

They moved slowly along the stalls. From the outside it might have looked as though they had spent many mornings together already. From time to time he paused, picking something up—a miniature vase, a bronze trinket box, the carved handle of an umbrella—and studied it with the same attentiveness he’d shown the bookseller. Each object he weighed in his hand, tasted with his eyes.

He absorbed.

Sometimes Sasori asked her opinion. Or simply looked intently in the same direction she did.

He was touching her again.

When she stumbled slightly on the uneven stone, his hand closed around her elbow—steady, careful—and stayed there much longer than necessary. Then he helped her step across a shallow puddle, offering his palm, warm beneath the smooth leather of his glove. When she paused at a stall to look more closely at the bright jewelry, he came to stand beside her and enclosed her fingers with his free hand, giving them a gentle squeeze.

Each touch sent a current along her spine.

Sakura caught herself unable to stop looking at him, listening to his voice. She noticed every little detail: the almost tender way he held the book, the way he moved, the tilt of his head as he examined a ceramic inkwell. Everything about him seemed whole, composed—yet beneath that exterior there was something else.

And it was that something that made her heart beat faster. Not entirely in a good way.

Falling in love didn’t always come easily. Sakura knew that well from bitter experience. Sometimes it began as a faint spark of unease inside, only to flare into a fire that could burn you alive.

That was how it felt now. Everything was lovely, right, almost perfect—and yet something inside her trembled. She couldn’t shake the sense that something important was about to happen.

At the end of the row Sasori turned to her.

“Come with me. My apartment is ten minutes away. It’s warmer there.”

Had he really just invited her over? So soon?

She didn’t dare ask what exactly he meant—instead, she chose the safest question she could: “What do you mean by ‘your apartment’?”

The uneasy feeling stirred again low in her stomach.

“I mean an apartment I own. One where I can invite a woman I like.”

Her heart was beating too loudly for her to reply, so Sakura simply nodded.

Sasori’s hand slid toward hers once more, his fingers intertwining with her own.

The touch seared her skin. Everything happening felt so unreal that she hardly felt like herself anymore. It was as if she were watching someone else from the outside.

Because things like this didn’t happen to her, to Sakura Haruno. She rarely even went on dates—and she certainly didn’t hold hands with men she’d only seen twice in her life.

Ever since she had made the decision to leave Japan for good, she had tried to be brutally honest with herself. The new bond she had forged with her own self had become her anchor, her way of moving forward without fearing the blows of fate. Sakura knew with absolute clarity that she no longer wanted to do what society and its suffocating expectations demanded of her. She wanted to walk her own path and never again look back at what she’d left behind.

That was why honesty with herself mattered so much: if Sakura had kept lying, choosing convenient falsehoods and burying her problems, she would never have achieved what she had achieved.

Her freedom.

Where could she find the strength to live, to fight a rotten system, if all her energy was wasted waging war against herself?

And so, standing on a sunlit autumn street in Salzburg, her hand entwined with Sasori’s, she admitted it to herself: she was unbearably drawn to this extraordinary man.

She admired his beauty, his mind, the way he carried himself. She couldn’t help but be moved by the fact that a man like him had noticed her. Not that she thought herself unworthy—no, not anymore—but still, it touched her.

She could see that he singled her out from everyone else. That he truly was interested. All his attention was fixed on her, and the moment Sakura allowed herself to imagine where this might lead, her heart began to pound twice as fast.

And then there were the touches.

She had never felt anything like them in her life.

It seemed to her that Sasori knew exactly what he was doing when he brushed against her waist, when his hand lingered over her knuckles, when the pad of his thumb traced the beat of her pulse.

It didn’t feel intrusive, or insistent, or crude. Yet all of those precise, measured touches became for Sakura the most deeply sensual experience she had ever known.

She could hardly breathe.

The wave of heat that surged from his hand, as he closed his grip around hers more firmly, rose so strongly it touched her neck and face before sinking deep into her belly.

The walk to his apartment was short, but Sakura knew she would remember it in every detail: the autumn chill, the echo of their steps on the stone, the dry rustle of leaves caught in the corners of old courtyards.

They spoke little—but their silence wasn’t heavy. Sasori asked questions: had she been to Austria before, did she have friends here, did she like Munich. Sometimes she answered in single words, because it was hard to speak: her mouth was dry, her heart hammering high in her throat. Her whole body seemed to scream that something momentous was about to happen.

Or perhaps it already was.