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On their second date Ushijima took him to a western-style cafe for brunch, and over a light breakfast discussion on the merits and demerits of certain types of fishing rods Hajime watched him scarf down roughly a plate and a half of scrambled eggs, caught somewhere between nauseated and amused: and it’s this exact memory that now finds Hajime locked in a staring contest with Ushijima’s gas stove, stick of fridge-cold butter in one hand, bowl of chopstick-whisked eggs in another. He thinks turn on at it as hard as he can, and when that doesn’t work, fire, and he swears he can feel the temperature over the burner rising a few degrees. Flames, he tries again, and this time a spark appears before it fizzles out just as quickly.
Hajime woke up first this morning, achy in all the good ways, too wired by the exhilarating feeling of being in a bed he’s only just starting to be familiar with to go back to sleep. He’d tried cuddling with a blessedly naked Ushijima at first, who was out like a light—deeply gratifying for Hajime’s ego, and proof that his stroke game hasn’t tarnished one bit—but that got sweaty and uncomfortable fast when his body wasn’t letting him drift off again. With a kiss to Ushijima’s shoulder he’d rolled out of bed, borrowed a shirt that’s loose on him even though Hajime isn’t a small guy by any means, and thought to himself: why not do something nice?
The thing between them—a couple hookups, dinners, their first ever stay in movie night yesterday—is about as old as Hajime’s magic, which is to say, not at all. Dating, nominally, because the word situationship doesn’t exist in Ushijima’s vocabulary. After years of getting strung along in college, it’s nice to date someone as straightforward as Ushijima is. If he says he’s interested then he’s interested; no backtracking, no mind games.
If only his magic could be that simple.
“What are you doing?”
Hajime turns. Ushijima’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen, (with clothes on, thank god, or Hajime would’ve abandoned the eggs altogether and dragged him back into bed) hair sticking up in a million directions. It’s still strange to see him this unguarded, and Hajime’s heart does a weak flutter when Ushijima stifles a small yawn, eyes crinkling closed.
“Making breakfast,” Hajime says, ignoring the fact that he obviously isn’t. He can imagine how he looks right now, ingredients in hand and just…standing in front of the stove, unmoving.
“I can see that,” Ushijima replies, walking closer. Not in a snarky way, only stating a fact. Again: straightforward. “I meant with the fire.”
“Oh.” Hajime sets the ingredients down and turns around to face him. “Okay. I thought I’d turn the stove on the other way, you know, but I’m still not sure how this whole magic thing is supposed to work? And now that the idea’s in my head I can’t do anything else until I get this right. Sorry. You’re probably hungry.”
In the space between Hajime opening his mouth to now Ushijima has crossed the length of his kitchen, gripped one of his wooden dining chairs, and swung it around to straddle it backwards so they’re almost at eye level. “I am not that hungry. Perhaps you need a physical conduit,” he hums, tilting his head consideringly.
He’s very lovely like this, sharp edges rounded out by sleep. Hajime resists the urge to fix a piece of hair that’s fallen into his face before he remembers that he doesn’t have to, that this is something he’s allowed now.
“Not a wand, right? That seems ridiculous.”
“Not a wand.” The piece of hair is brushed to the side and falls right back into the same spot. Maybe he’ll buy Ushijima hair clips for his birthday. “A physical motion. Your abilities rest in both the body and the mind. You need something to connect the two.”
Hajime leans down—only a tad, because Ushijima is large even when sitting—to press a kiss of thanks to his forehead. “That’s good advice, Ushiwaka. Then again, you also do this for a living.”
“Yes. So don’t worry. If you get hurt, I can fix it.” He takes one of Hajime’s hands in his own and runs a roughened thumb up and down the back of it, once, twice, before letting go.
Physical motion. That makes sense; Hajime has always been the sort of person to talk with actions rather than words, to ground himself in his hands, the things they can do. Chop, clean, fold. Make Ushijima writhe and pant. Why should his magic be any different?
This time, Hajime sort of—waves a hand over the burner while he concentrates, visualizing the blue-white glow as hard as he can. Fire roars to life, tendrils of it jumping up and licking at his palm.
“Shit!” Hajime yelps, leaping backwards, prevented from tripping over the dining table by the stability of Ushijima’s arm on his lower back. After the initial sting the pain has faded with shock, but when he looks down at his hand it’s red and smarting. He can never remember the steps for burn aftercare. Cold water? Ointment? Definitely not ice, he knows that much at least.
Ushijima’s by his side in a blink, hovering over his shoulder and asking Hajime to lift his palm slightly so he can look at it. “Sit,” he murmurs, voice a low rumble against Hajime’s back. “Let me heal you.”
And—that’s right, he has a…not a boyfriend, but a something now, so he doesn’t have to messily bandage his own nicks and scrapes, search up what to do when a dog scratches you on the internet, and pray for the best.
When Ushijima takes his burnt hand, splaying out the fingers, he hisses; the pain is slipping back in, worse than before, and it springs tears in his eyes. Ushijima frowns, eyes narrowing as he examines the damage. But beyond the hurt, there’s a sense of satisfaction. “I did it! That actually worked. Ushiwaka, you might be a genius.”
A small, crooked smile spreads across Ushijima’s face, like he can’t decide if he’s happy or worried. “I always knew you could,” he says, completely sincere. He rubs a thumb along Hajime’s palm the same way he did earlier, back and forth. It stings despite how careful Ushijima’s being, and Hajime distracts himself by observing Ushijima himself, the contrast between the power in his arms and the gentleness of his fingers. His olive-green shock of hair stands out anywhere else but blends in perfectly at home, where he’s taken to leaving mason jars of hyacinths and crocuses on nearly every surface, lavender and violets, gradients of purple. Hajime likes it, likes imagining Ushijima tending to his flowers, watering them, speaking to them in that low voice about the weather. Likes him.
The pain leaves him, bit by bit. Eked out slowly, sap trickling from a tree.
“Done.” Hajime looks down at his hand again. It’s still a little pink, but the worst of it has faded, and it doesn’t look like there will be any blistering. “It might peel a bit,” Ushijima continues, “but you are okay.”
Hajime feels better than okay. He feels like climbing into Ushijima’s lap and trading lazy kisses, keeping him there until he works up the nerve to ask what are we? But he doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he says: “We left the stove on. Do you still want breakfast?”
By some miracle, the kitchen hasn’t burned down. Ushijima frowns. “I can cook for us.”
“But I was planning on–”
“Hajime.” Ushijima brings his hand closer and presses his lips to the paper-thin skin at the inside of his wrist, where his pulse beats closest to the surface. “You are hurt. The gesture was more than enough; I am more than touched. Allow me to do the rest.”
Creation, destruction, healing: the most basic of cycles. Hajime plucks one of the violets out of a jar and tucks it behind Ushijima’s ear, just because he can. He wonders: what can he create, next time, with the fire hidden in him?
“Come over on Friday. I’ll make us hayashi rice for dinner.”
“I’d like that.”
Mollified, Hajime stays seated, resting his head on his forearms so he can watch Ushijima putter around the kitchen, deftly stirring the pan and putting bread in the toaster, and figures he wouldn’t mind waking up to a couple more mornings like this.