ooh it's turning cold here in the southern hemisphere but could i get a suo hayato, awkward meet ugly please? 🌸 💨
The strap of your tote bag gives out without warning. One second ago, you'd still been carrying the weight of the world around your shoulder, the next you're free to race after a can of diced tomatoes rolling down the street. A foot stops it from turning into the unfortunate aftermath of a car accident, and you're barely able to stop yourself from running into the guy attached to said foot, breathless and sweaty and so, so, so done with the world.
"That's mine," you gasp, sounding more annoyed than thankful. The guy smiles. The bright tassles dangling from his ears make him look foreign, but you think you've seen him around before.
"What are you making?" He asks.
His smile widens. "Sounds great. I'm starving."
You huff. "Not for you. For me."
"Oh, but don't I deserve some sort of prize for saving your dinner?"
He nods, and for a second he seems to agree with you. "Breakfast then? I'll pick you up tomorrow."
"Give me back my tomatoes," you huff. He's cute, and you would have agreed to a date with him on any other day, probably, but not with his foot on your dinner, and your dignity lost somewhere on the way here.
"Gladly." He winks as he hands you the can.
Suo winces. His nose is bleeding, blood dripping into his mouth and onto his shirt. He isn't a stranger to injuries, but it's been a while since he'd looked this rough.
The narrow alleys he's wandering through are mostly deserted, and he's thankful for that. He doesn't want familiar faces to see him like this.
A window opens above him. He looks up on instinct, and turns away swiftly at the sight of your face. He recognizes you, even with the greenish paste caked onto your skin.
"Suo?" You ask. "Is that you?"
"No," he shuffles past. "My name is Sakura. The green stuff on your skin is getting to your brain."
"As I said, I'm Sakura. That's kinda my thing."
Something hits him in the back of the head, not quite hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to notice. He turns to find a towel on the floor and your face staring down at you.
"Whoops," you say. "Must have fallen out of the window. Would you be so kind to bring it up?"
"What's in it for me?" He asks. His nose is still bleeding. He wants to go home.
"Dinner?" You offer, checking the time. "Or a late lunch, whatever you want to call it."
"Breakfast it is," he says, smiling.
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