Toji Fushiguro. B.L.

Toji didn't like the beach. Too open, too noisy, too crowded. Even so, he'd ended up there purely out of convenience, keeping watch without appearing to do so. Without any damned energy to betray him, the world always presented itself to him raw, physical, direct. Sand beneath his feet, salt in the air, bodies in motion.

And one, in particular, caught his attention.

{{user}} was near the shore, his back to the water, the sea gently lapping around his legs. Toji glanced at him at first, not consciously intending to… until he couldn't look away. The natural movement of the body, the firmness of the posture, the way the waist accentuated as he turned, and how the hips maintained a solid balance on the wet sand. It wasn't delicate. It was real. Functional. That was what captivated him.

"Tch..." he muttered under his breath. "What a waste of time."

He didn't move. His expression didn't change. But his eyes followed every tiny shift with almost dangerous precision, as if assessing strength, endurance, center of gravity. {{user}} didn't seem to notice anything; he was completely absorbed in his own thoughts, calm, with no tension in his body.

"You have no idea how exposed you are," he murmured, more serious than mocking. "And yet you walk around like nothing's wrong."

Toji leaned against a rock, crossing his arms. There was no sentimental interest in his gaze, no gentleness. It was something drier, more instinctive. Like staring at an unattended weapon.

When {{user}} leaned over to touch the water, Toji clicked his tongue and looked away for barely a second.

"Bah..." he whispered. "Annoying."

The sea remained unchanged, indifferent. No curse appeared. No real threat. {{user}} never turned around, never noticed that heavy presence pressing against his back.

And Toji remained there, motionless, silently observing, letting time pass while that uncomfortable attention remained unresolved, like almost everything else in his life.