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It’s one of those rare days where they’re both up early enough to greet the sunrise. Tooru shuffles into their living room around half past six and steals Hajime’s coffee, his cheeks and arms indented with fresh pillow creases. He curls up against Hajime on their creaky, overstuffed sofa, nuzzles into the space between his neck and his collarbone and presses his lips to Hajime’s jaw.
“G’morning,” he mumbles, voice still thick with sleep.
“Hey,” Hajime says. He’s reading through a section of his anatomy textbook, fingers splayed out over the pages to keep them flat. His phone is cycling through an instrumental playlist, the kind that Tooru hates but will never say so because of how much Hajime relies on them to study. He noses at Hajime’s jaw, drawing his legs up over the textbook and his thighs.
“Oi, asshole, I’m trying to study,” Hajime says, but his voice is soft. After a moment, he pulls the book out from under Tooru’s legs and sets it face-up on the coffee table.
“You scare me, Iwa-chan,” Tooru says, letting his eyes drift shut. “No one should be productive this early in the morning. The sun’s not even out yet.”
Hajime runs a hand through Tooru’s hair, humming. “Look who’s talking. Can’t you only get shit done at night? I don’t get that at all, it’s way too late.”
“It’s because it’s so late,” Tooru says, muffled against Hajime’s shirt. “Takes off the pressure.”
“Pressure?”
“Y’know, everything gets all hazy, edges get softer, that kind of thing.”
“No, I don’t.” Hajime sounds vaguely amused. Tooru would normally glare at him and say something about him being a smartass, but it’s warm and the sun’s not out yet and Hajime’s voice still sort of has that sandpaper quality that makes his chest vibrate when Tooru leans against him. So he stays.
They sit like that for a while, curled up against each other. Hajime runs his fingers through the tips of Tooru’s hair. Tooru presses a kiss to Hajime’s neck and takes his free hand in his own.
“Morning, Tooru,” Hajime whispers into his hair. He’s smiling—Tooru can tell, his voice has always curled up at the edges along with his smile—and something in his stomach turns over. Tooru has always been a heartbreaker but Hajime talks like this anyway, spills secrets into Tooru’s split ends like it’s nothing. Talks with that low, steady, morning-slow voice that makes Tooru feel like he’s on fire.
“Good morning, Hajime,” he says quietly. Hajime squeezes Tooru’s hand, and Tooru’s eyes flutter half-closed. He leans back into Hajime’s chest, letting Hajime pull him closer. All he can see is the blurry outline of the coffee table, of the carpet, of their legs. Steam is still rising lazily from the abandoned mug of coffee.
“Hey, Tooru,” Hajime starts, and Tooru opens his eyes fully. He looks up, and his stomach drops. Hajime is looking down at him, his hair falling into his eyes, and in that moment, the sun finally peeks over the horizon.
Sunlight filters suddenly through the wide screen doors that lead to the balcony, glancing off the railing and into the living room. Hajime is bathed in it, profile aglow in the sunlight, not a single plane of his body left untouched. Light bursts across the bridge of his nose, the tips of his ears, the curve of his lips.
“Holy shit,” Tooru breathes, “marry me.”
The song dips into a soft guitar solo and Hajime’s just sitting there, completely unaware of how the sun frames him in red and gold like he’s something larger than life. He’s always been pretty, but this—this is something else. This is out of the fucking ballpark. Tooru would like to make a formal request that the world re-evaluate its definition of beauty so that Hajime is at its center. It’s what the world deserves. It’s what Hajime deserves.
“You’re so weird,” Hajime says, but he breaks into a wide smile despite himself. “How am I supposed to know when you’re asking for real if you spring it on me twice a day?”
“I’ll make it big,” Tooru mumbles. “Write it out in the sky, that sort of thing.”
Hajime leans forward to tip Tooru’s chin up. He’s grinning. “Dumbass. Why’re you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like—”
Hajime leans forward to catch Tooru’s lip between his teeth. They’re both loose-limbed and sleepy in the sun’s glow, and Tooru breathes out a sigh when Hajime’s hands splay flat across his shoulder blades.
“Like you’re in love with me,” Hajime whispers.
“Oh, fuck off.” Tooru pulls away, but Hajime leans up, still smiling. “You can’t pull this after I literally just asked you to marry me, Hajime, that’s not even—”
“I will,” Hajime says. He catches Tooru’s hand in midair, his eyes bright. “Marry you, I mean. Whenever. Wherever. If you mean it, I’d—I would. I will.”
“Of course you—”
“I’m serious.” Hajime squeezes Tooru’s wrist, just gently enough to remind Tooru of being four, of being seven, of being nine and wandering through life hand-in-hand with Hajime. “It’s always been you, you know. And I mean that in the best way possible. It’s always going to be you, Tooru.”
His hands come up to Tooru’s biceps, running gently along the lines of his shoulders. The light is catching in his hair, now, burning red against the couch cushions. Tooru wants to lick the sun off of his skin.
“Fuck, okay,” he sighs. He runs his tongue over his lower lip, watching Hajime’s gaze drop. “Yeah. That’s—I’ll—Let’s get married, someday. Please. I’d like that.”
Hajime leans in. Tooru allows his jaw to be tipped forward, falling into him like he’s always done and probably always will. His heart had been set on this collision course from day one.
“Pretty,” Hajime says, his eyes soft. He brushes Tooru’s hair away from his forehead. His hand falls to the back of his neck, pulling him forward until they’re practically nose-to-nose. He doesn’t even know that he was this morning’s household miracle. Doesn’t know how it feels to burn, even though he’s got a face like fire.
“Hajime,” Tooru whispers, lips brushing the corner of Hajime’s mouth, “I think you’re beautiful.”