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The fire crackles and sparks when Todoroki tosses a fresh bit of dry driftwood into the embers. The flames dance for a moment, rising higher, as if trying to reach up and meet the glow of the moon. A few little pops from the burning wood, and then the campfire settles down again into a warm steady glow. He holds his hands out close to it for a moment, letting the heat bring feeling back through his fingers, and then rubs his warmed hands over his arms as he moves to sit in the fold-up chair he placed not far away from it, near the tent.
It's a clear night, the only thing dimming the stars is the brightness of the full moon hanging low over the ocean. Its glow reflects off the waves, broken up by the rising of their foamy crests. The surf hums in the distance, crashing against the sand before being scooped back up by the sea. There's a chill in the air, the season growing late, though the days are still warm enough that he doesn't need much more than a T-shirt when he's out combing the beach for Makamou.
Zanki's sweater is draped over the back of the chair, and Todoroki picks it up before he sits, then tugs it on over his head. His hair, sticky from the salt in the air, sticks up in odd directions after, but he doesn't bother combing it neat again. When he slumps down in his chair the collar of the sweater brushes at his chin. Zanki's scent still clings to it, rich and warm. He closes his eyes for just a moment as he breathes it in, lets that scent warm through him in much the same way as the fire's glow.
Sitting up straight again, Todoroki reaches to the side, picking up his Ongekigen from where it rests. He settles it in his lap, calloused fingers gliding over the strings, checking for battle damage first, then strumming here and there, adjusting the tune. When he's satisfied, he starts working out a melody, nothing fancy, nothing heavy, just gentle notes flowing one into another.
The wind blows, tousling his hair. The tent flap rustles. There are footsteps in the sand, and then a warm presence settling down to sit beside him.
"That sweater suits you."
Todoroki keep his eyes on his strings, but in his peripheral he can see his mentor's hands cradling his own Ongekigen, then working to adjust the tune, just as Todoroki did.
A moment later a second set of notes joins his own, and Todoroki smiles. He doesn't have to think about what his hands are doing, where his fingers will rest on the frets, what notes they want to strum. They move naturally, adjust comfortably, matching Zanki's, or leading their own way as Zanki's harmonize.
"You did well today." Zanki's voice is quiet as the wind, careful not to interrupt their wordless song.
Todoroki smiles so wide his cheeks hurt, and he very nearly fumbles in his playing. He catches himself, and their song goes on, smooth and gentle. The waves add a background rhythm, a steady slow beat, and the fire crackles out a primitive melody. A few ghost crabs skitter across the sand near Todoroki's feet, disturbed from their burrows by the campfire, the angle of the glow distorts their shadows, elongates them into thin stripes that almost reach Zanki's ankles.
As the song evolves, Todoroki shifts in his chair, spreading his legs a bit wider to better accommodate his guitar, and leaning more forward, his head tucked down, curling around his instrument. This new position has his knee pressed lightly against Zanki's, and he can feel gentle vibrations through the contact, feeling what he's playing in addition to hearing it.
"I'm very proud of you." Zanki says, as the chords progress. He doesn't have to say the words for Todoroki to hear love from him. To feel it. Zanki was never one to get himself tangled up in words, in long explanations or declarations of sentimentality. He always said what he needed to, and let Todoroki ramble on with the rest.
The song fades out naturally, just as Todoroki's limbs, so worn out from a day of fighting, start to ache from the position they're being held in. The chords slow, the notes get softer, and then the sound of his strings is just an echo across the waves.
Todoroki lets out a slow breath, rubbing at his eyes with his forefinger and thumb as he gently sets his Ongekigen back down. The fire has burned low, no more flickering flames, just gradually fading embers. The night air's grown colder, and he wraps his arms around himself, snuggling more fully into Zanki's sweater. His scent still lingers on it, just barely, almost overtaken by the smell of salt and sand and wind, and Todoroki's own scent, neutral to his senses.
He rubs at his eyes again, and his fingers come back wet. It's late, and he's tried. He has a long day ahead of him tomorrow, and that's even if he doesn't get woken early by a Makamou attack. After one more inhale, his nose tucked into the collar of Zanki's sweater, he rises from his chair, folding it up after so it won't get blown down the beach while he sleeps. He douses the campfire, and in the renewed darkness he looks out toward the horizon, out across the waves and the flickering moonlight.
"I miss you." Todoroki draws in a breath as he hugs his arms around himself once more, then exhales slowly, watching the shape of his breath as it mists in the air, like it's carrying away his words.
After a long moment of silence, Todoroki turns and gets into his tent. He zips the flap shut, and crawls into his little sleeping bag. He doesn't take off Zanki's sweater. Sometimes when he wears it, it feels like Zanki is there there with him.