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Shirou started his morning just like any other.
Like clockwork, he rose from his bed and yawned his way into the kitchen. The kettle was filled and switched on; the rice cooker was set and the flames from the gas stove click-click-clicked until they stood properly. It was a delicate symphony of mundane tasks, certainly, but it held a comforting rhythm. Cooking breakfast guided him firmly into a state of wakefulness. Be it due to some kind of superstition or a genuine need of his, without it Shirou faltered.
A small collection of buzzers rang in the span of two or three minutes, signifying that it was nearly time to eat. On a normal day, Fuji-nee and Sakura would already be here to help with the noise pollution. Sometimes even Tohsaka would make an appearance. Today being Sunday, however, meant that they wouldn't be visiting. Perhaps tomorrow they would make time to stop by.
Shirou dutifully spoons out servings in twos, arranging everything neatly at the table. Somehow, with a proper presentation everything tasted better. Taking a seat in the empty room, he took a moment before gently clapping his hands together, silently mouthing six syllables to himself before starting in on his breakfast. It was a peaceful moment, but it never lasted for very long. After the first couple of bites, the atmosphere in the room would subtly begin to twist, as if casting a dark vingette into each corner. Looking up from his bowl, Shirou seems expectant of something.
It doesn't take long for it to start bubbling up from underneath the floorboards. Outwardly viscous in nature, the blackish substance grows and collects around Shirou as its presence continues to assault the ambience. Even as it takes a human form and hovers over his back, Shirou doesn't appear all that surprised. With a swift change in color balance, what are now pale arms drape across his shoulders and a face softly presses itself into his hair.
Shirou exhales and takes another bite.
"Good morning, Shinji."
With that, the atmosphere settles somewhat. Shinji's just-woke-up voice is like gravel as he groans into Shirou's ear. Brow creasing, he chides a little more firmly.
"Your breakfast is going to get cold."
Shinji gives into Shirou's hospitable demands, but not before inhaling at the nape of his neck with sense of self-satisfaction. Slipping languidly; bonelessly and without fully formed legs, he occupies the space beside him. Shinji blinks wearily over the steam rising from rice and he cracks a wide, lazy smile. "it looks good", he might say, or "Emiya's breakfast is the best" if he was feeling particularly generous. Though, sometimes he said nothing at all. That was fine too.
Porcelain fingers with black stained cuticles wrap themselves around the tea cup, never once flinching at the temperature. Slowly, it is brought up to lips that drink greedily until tea begins to dribble down his chin. Shirou watches all of this out of the corner of his eye, but it isn't really out of the ordinary. Not anymore, at least. eventually, Shinji begins to eat his breakfast. In due time some proper color returns to him, and his legs do too, even if they were bent beneath him somewhat recklessly.
"Mm."
Even when he was being eerily quiet, small noises like that let Shirou know that he was doing alright. Maintaining a form took energy, which is why he was so insistent on preparing a proper breakfast for Shinji each day. While he couldn't really be sure that it helped any, it seemed to act as a sort of placebo for the both of them. The truth of the matter was that Shinji no longer had a body. Illyasviel's heart had long since consumed it, but the connection made through his consciousness and previously faulty magic circuits kept him welded into place. It was a lucky thing that Shinji could remember who he was and what he looked like, because it seemed to give him a sense of stability in an otherwise crushing scenario.
The quicker Shinji becomes accustomed to taste, the more eager he is. The more repetitive the sound of chopsticks clicking against the side of the bowl gets, the more at ease Shirou feels. He doesn't know if Shinji can really taste his cooking at all or if he's simply going by memory, but if he's enjoying it in any way? Well, then that makes him happy. Having just about finished his own meal, Shirou pauses to refill the tea cups. Shinji's has long since gone empty; he's resorted to drinking his soup, but not without a disapproving crease in his brow.
"Sorry." Shirou mumbles with only a slight hint of amusement as Shinji hastily switches one for the other. The mornings when Shinji's tongue couldn't hope to catch the words he wanted to say were often strange, but they were both learning to take them in stride. The amount of concentration required to engage in all of these mundane and painfully human activities couldn't possibly be measured. Nevertheless, both of them had faith that Shinji would figure it out sooner rather than later.
Even for all of the bad decisions he's made, Shinji isn't stupid. Shirou knows that.
He will be just fine, eventually. Until then, there really wasn't anything wrong with taking it slow.
With the bowl of soup, rice furikake, tamagoyaki & heirloom tomato gone, Shinji finishes his second cup of tea. Chest rising and falling with a sated exhale, he drags the back of his hand across his mouth and looks up to meet Shirou with less fatigue and more confidence. Shirou dutifully refills the tea cup again with a chuckle. It took a bit of a jumpstart, but now it looks like it's all systems go. He likes to think he played a major hand in it.
He's not wrong.
Shinji's voice cuts through the room with precision, somehow giving it exactly the proper balance for a Sunday together at home.
"Not bad, Emiya."
Their dynamic feels restored.
"Do you want seconds?"