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The first time Riddle brushed Idia’s hair, he hadn’t meant for it to become anything.
It had been one of those evenings when he stopped by the Ignihyde dorm. By then, visiting Idia had become a regular part of his routine, sometimes to study, sometimes just to sit nearby while Idia worked.
He pushed the door open expecting the usual sight: screens glowing across the darkened room, Idia sitting in front of his desk with that familiar blue halo of flame-shaped hair flickering above his shoulders. But Idia wasn’t at his desk. He sat on the bed instead, knees drawn up tightly to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs, chin resting on the top of his knees. The posture made him look smaller, folded inward.
And his hair looked… wrong. The flames flickered unevenly, the glow duller than usual. A few strands curved awkwardly out of place, like they had been raked through too many times. Despite how chaotic the hair always looked, Riddle had long ago noticed Idia actually took care of it. But today it looked too messy.
For a moment Riddle simply stood there.
“…Idia?”
Idia didn’t look up right away. His gaze remained fixed somewhere on the floor.
“Bad day?” Riddle asked.
Idia gave a soft, humorless laugh.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “You could say that.”
The room fell quiet again. Riddle didn’t press him for details. He knew by now that if Idia wanted to explain, he would eventually. Instead he glanced around the room, trying to think of a way to comfort his boyfriend. Dating was still new to him, and sometimes he worried he was doing things wrong, and he just wasn't…the comforting type.
That was when he noticed the brush sitting on the nightstand beside the bed. He hesitated only briefly before picking it up.
“Sit still,” he said gently.
Idia finally looked up, blinking at him.
“…Huh?”
But Riddle had already climbed onto the bed behind him.The mattress dipped slightly under his weight. Idia shifted automatically, making room without fully understanding what Riddle intended.
Then the brush touched his hair. The very first stroke made the flames shiver, a faint ripple through the strands as the bristles slid carefully downward.
Idia froze.
“R-Riddle…?”
“Hold still,” Riddle murmured.
Riddle half expected it to be difficult— something strange about brushing what was technically fire—but instead the bristles slipped through smoothly. The texture was warm and soft, closer to silk than flame. He brushed carefully, working through the uneven sections one at a time. Whenever he encountered resistance, he used his free hand to separate the strands first, letting his fingers slide gently through the glowing flames before brushing again. Each stroke smoothed the chaotic strands, guiding them back into their natural shape.
After a minute or two, Riddle noticed Idia’s shoulders had dropped. The tension that had been curling through his posture earlier slowly began to loosen. His grip around his legs relaxed and his head dipped slightly forward as if some invisible tension had begun to melt away. The flickering glow of his hair steadied as well.
Neither of them spoke while Riddle finished brushing. When he was done, he set the brush back on the nightstand.
“…Um… thanks,” Idia said quietly. That was all he said. Riddle didn’t think much about it afterward. At least, not until the next day.
***
When Riddle entered the room that evening, Idia was sitting on the bed again, in the exact same position. Arms around his legs, chin resting on his knees. The brush waited on the nightstand beside him.
Idia glanced over when Riddle stepped inside.
“…Hey.”
Riddle paused, then he picked up the brush. He didn’t comment on it and neither did Idia, but the habit began there. It became part of their evenings without either of them discussing it. Sometimes Idia’s hair truly needed it, after a long stressful day filled with too many social interactions. Other times the flames were already smooth and well-kept.
But every night, Idia would eventually wander to the bed and sit down in the same curled position.
Sometimes Idia talked about games or tech updates,words spilling out in distracted tangents. And sometimes, when the day had been difficult again, he’d simply relax there and breathe. Riddle would sit behind him, brushing slow strokes through the warm strands while the hum of electronics filled the silence.
The motion was soothing. Riddle found that it calmed him just as much as it seemed to calm Idia. He liked seeing the way the way the uneven strands slowly smoothed out beneath the brush, the way Idia’s breathing always became slower by the end.
And occasionally the color of the flames would change slightly beneath his hands. Sometimes the glow brightened when his fingers lingered too long while smoothing the strands. Other times the blue shifted faintly toward soft pink and turned a little warmer.
It took a while for Riddle to fully piece together what that meant, but once he did, his heart filled with fondness every time he saw it. Idia’s hair reacted to Riddle's touch. Trust, affection, whatever other emotions Idia struggled to voice aloud, the flames betrayed them. Riddle found himself paying closer attention after that, to the subtle brightening when he brushed near the base of Idia’s neck, the pink glow when his fingers accidentally grazed the sensitive skin behind Idia’s ear, the little pulses of warmth. Each small change felt like being let in on a secret.
One evening, after a particularly long session, Idia gave a quiet laugh, soft and a little sleepy.
“You know what this feels like?”
Riddle continued brushing.
“What?”
Idia shifted slightly, tilting his head as the brush moved through the longer strands near his neck.
“Like I’m one of those ridiculously expensive cats rich people spoil.”
Riddle blinked.
“…Cats.”
“Yeah,” Idia said, sounding amused. “You know. The fluffy ones that get brushed every single day while their owners go 'who’s a fancy boy' and feed them premium food.”
Riddle huffed in amusement. Without thinking too much about it, he leaned forward and pressed a small kiss into the soft glow of Idia’s hair.
“I enjoy taking care of you,” he said.
Idis froze, then, instantly, the tips of his hair flushed pink, and it quickly spread upwards. Riddle stared for a moment before a quiet laugh escaped him. Idia groaned and buried his face deeper against his knees.
“Don’t comment on it… you already know it does that when my emotional stability takes critical damage.”
Riddle's lips curled in a fond smile.
“It looks very pretty like this,” he said. Idia let out a muffled whine, mumbling something about critical hit combo, and Riddle couldn't help but laugh again, his heart full of tenderness.
***
Riddle discovered something about himself during those evenings: he liked giving affection. He liked the way Idia leaned back slightly into his presence. He found it precious, the trust in letting someone handle something so personal. And it became easier to give it in other ways.
And Idia… returned the affection just as freely. At first it had been tentative. A shy hug, a hesitant brush of lips against Riddle’s cheek. But the longer they dated, the bolder Idia became. Now he wrapped Riddle in warm embraces without warning. He pulled him into lazy cuddles on the bed while they scrolled through their phones. Riddle wasn’t used to that kind of love, it still startled him sometimes. But he leaned into it, soaking up every bit of warmth.
And almost every evening, Idia still sat on the bed waiting. Riddle would pick up the brush, and Idia’s hair would glow a little brighter beneath his hands.