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The first thing Hajime noticed about Tooru was that he didn’t belong here.

Not in a cruel way—just in a painfully obvious, undeniable way. The way he carried himself, the way his clothes looked too pristine, too expensive, too out of place against the dusted wooden floors and uneven dirt roads. The way his perfume lingered in the air, something expensive and foreign, entirely different from the scent of fresh earth and warm afternoon breeze that Hajime was used to.

And yet, for someone so out of place, Tooru somehow managed to fit himself into the scenery like he had always been there.

Hajime leaned against the wooden post of the nipa hut, watching as Tooru sat cross-legged on the bamboo floor, absentmindedly playing with the woven edge of the banig beneath him. The soft glow of the setting sun made his skin look even more golden, his slightly tousled brown hair catching the light like it was meant to be kissed by the sun.

His shirt—an airy white polo left unbuttoned at the top—hung loosely over his frame, his tan jorts barely covering his long legs. His Birks were discarded beside him, and for once, he wasn’t complaining about how ‘dirty’ everything was.

Tooru looked softer like this. Less guarded, less poised, more… real.

Hajime had gotten used to seeing Tooru with an exaggerated pout, sharp glares, and an air of dramatics so thick it could suffocate a room. He had seen him whine about the heat, complain about the dust, scrunch his nose at the smell of the palengke. But now?

Now, Tooru sat quietly, staring off at the vast stretch of rice fields behind Hajime’s house, his lips slightly parted, his chest rising and falling steadily.

He wasn’t trying to prove anything. Wasn’t trying to act a certain way.

He was just—being.

For a brief moment, Hajime felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest, something warm and heavy all at once.

Maybe Tooru didn’t belong here. Maybe he never would.

But right now, sitting under the golden light of the late afternoon, looking almost dreamlike against the backdrop of the rural landscape—

He had never looked more beautiful.

Hajime had always known that Tooru was attractive—anyone with eyes could see that. But under the golden light of the setting sun, he was something else entirely.

The warm hues of the afternoon wrapped around him like they were made just for him, painting his skin in soft ambers and deep oranges, highlighting every sharp angle and delicate curve of his face. His brown hair, slightly disheveled from the wind, glowed almost auburn in the sunlight, a few stray strands falling over his forehead. The light caught on his lashes, long and fluttering against his cheeks whenever he blinked.

His lips—Hajime hated that he noticed this—looked softer in this light, the natural pout more pronounced, slightly parted as if caught in the middle of an unspoken thought. There was something entirely unfair about the way Tooru looked right now, as if he had been sculpted by the gods themselves, placed here to make everyone else feel painfully mortal.

The white polo he wore had loosened throughout the day, the first few buttons undone, revealing a sliver of his collarbone. His skin, sun-kissed and smooth, carried the faintest sheen of sweat from the warmth of the day, and Hajime couldn’t tell if it made him look more delicate or more alluring.

Tooru wasn’t even trying. He was just sitting there, legs stretched out lazily, his jorts slightly ridden up, one arm propped behind him for support. His other hand absentmindedly played with the woven mat beneath him, his fingers trailing over the rough texture in an unbothered manner.

Hajime swallowed.

It wasn’t fair.

He wasn’t supposed to be looking at Tooru like this. Wasn’t supposed to feel this strange, nagging pull in his chest, like something inside him had suddenly been set into motion without his permission.

But how could he not stare when the sunset had chosen Tooru as its canvas? When the sky had decided that, for this brief moment, all its warmth, all its beauty, should exist solely to make him glow?

Hajime exhaled slowly, forcing himself to look away.

Damn it.