Kashimo reluctantly joins you on a trip to the beach
Hajime decides, almost immediately, that the beach is hostile terrain. The sun is too bright—an oppressive, relentless thing that presses against his skin like a challenge. The sand shifts under his feet, unstable, irritating. The ocean roars endlessly in the distance, loud and arrogant, as if daring him to respond. He clicks his tongue. “This place is noisy,” he says.
You grin, dropping your bag onto the sand and kicking off your sandals. “That’s the ocean.” You glance back at him. He’s standing stiffly near the shore, arms crossed, blue eyes narrowed beneath the glare of the Hawaiian sun. His cyan hair catches the light like live wire, and for a split second you worry—irrationally—that he might actually electrocute the sea out of spite.
You walk over and shove a bottle into his chest. “Sunscreen.”
He looks down at it like you’ve handed him poison. “Why.”
“So you don’t get burned.”
He scoffs. “I wield lightning.”
“And yet,” you say sweetly, popping the cap, “you still have skin.” He glares—but doesn’t move away as you squeeze the cool lotion into your hands. When you step closer, he stiffens, shoulders tense, clearly unsure what to do with himself. You reach up and start rubbing sunscreen into his arms, then his shoulders. The corded muscles tense as your fingers glide over his skin, coming to rest at the lighting marks etched there. They branch from the center of his spine, just below the nape of his neck, spreading outward in sharp, jagged lines—thin at first, then widening as they travel across his shoulder blades and down toward his ribs. The pattern isn’t symmetrical, and that makes it feel alive, as if the lightning chose its own path rather than following a design. Stubborn and enduring, like the man himself.
“…You’re awfully calm,” he mutters.
“You’re awfully loud,” you reply.
That earns a huff of reluctant amusement.
The ocean claims its first victory less than ten minutes later. Hajime strides straight into the water like he’s approaching an enemy camp, eyes locked on the waves. He plants his feet as a swell rushes toward him. You barely have time to shout, “Wait—!” The wave crashes into him, sweeping his legs out from under him and sending him straight onto his back. Water splashes everywhere. When he resurfaces, hair plastered to his face, eyes wide with pure offense, you double over laughing.
“That—” he sputters, coughing, “—was a cheap shot.”
You wipe tears from your eyes. “You challenged the ocean.”
He storms back toward you, dripping wet, sand clinging to his clothes, lightning crackling faintly at his fingertips. For a terrifying half-second, you think he’s going to do something unwise. Instead, he stops in front of you, stares out at the water, and mutters, “…I’ll win next time.” You laugh again.
Later, you rope him into beach volleyball with a group of locals. He claims he doesn’t know the rules. This becomes immediately irrelevant when he spikes the ball so hard it nearly tears through the air.
You grab his arm. “No cursed energy!”
He sighs, exaggerated and long-suffering, but reins it in. Mostly. Despite himself, he starts to enjoy it. The movement. The laughter. The fact that winning here doesn’t mean killing someone. When the game ends, he’s grinning—actually grinning—before he catches himself and looks away. You don’t call him out on it. By late afternoon, the beach thins out. The sun dips lower, softer now, painting the sky in warm golds and oranges. You lay out a towel and flop down onto it, staring up at the clouds. Hajime hesitates… then sits beside you. After a moment, he lies back too, hands folded behind his head, eyes closed. For once, there’s no tension in his body. No readiness to strike. The waves roll in and out, steady and endless.
“This,” he says quietly, “is strange.”
You turn your head to look at him. “In a bad way?”
“…No.” A pause. “In a way I don’t recognize.”
You shift closer, resting your head against his arm. He tenses for half a second—then relaxes, letting you stay.
“I’ve spent my whole life chasing strength,” he continues. “Every moment was about the next fight. The next opponent.”
He exhales slowly. “Now I’ve gone an entire day without wanting to fight.”
You smile. The sun finally kisses the horizon, the sky igniting in color. Hajime opens his eyes and watches it in silence, blue gaze reflecting fire and sea. The warm sea breeze ruffles his hair, and he sighs, breathing in the salt of the sea. You can’t help but stare at him, lost in the serenity of lying beside him in quiet solitude.
After a long moment, he reaches for your hand. It’s awkward. Hesitant. Like he’s afraid the moment might vanish if he grips too tightly.
“If this is peace,” he says, voice low, honest, “I don’t hate it.”
Your fingers lace with his. The ocean roars on—but for once, Hajime doesn’t answer its challenge. He just stays there with you, lightning quiet, heart steady, watching the day end. And when the sun disappears completely, he doesn’t let go.
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