You watch him from behind the bar, his head tilted back, the way his shaggy navy hair falls as he swallows another lungful of whiskey like it’s water.

Toji Fushiguro is a sight to behold — the scar he has down the corner of his lips is twisted as he laughs loudly — too loud, it’s almost obscene, not giving a shit if he bothers any of the other patrons. It’s a Friday night and the rowdiness of the saloon is dying slowly, the clock ticking around 3am.

You know him — blue eyes like a midnight sky, blazing with stars with the way his eyes gleam with danger. He’s a well known outlaw and you’re a well known bartender — your saloon is a choice favourite for its discretion and no discrimination policy. Hardened outlaws all drop their bad blood at your saloon’s doorstep.

Whiskey flows, accents drawl, and you run your bar, pouring drinks and offering nothing to the men who gaze but never touch — an incident involving three broken fingers and a drunk patron had a good way of keeping them behaved.

Toji comes in sometimes —sporadically in a pattern you’ve never managed to nail down. Comes and goes as he pleases and drains your best whiskey as he does. By the looks of him, he’s high off victory — probably escaped some bounty hunters in fuck knows where. The dim lights of your saloon bathe him, his cowboy hat tipped forward slightly, his dark jeans cinched in by a leather belt and a gleaming buckle, wearing a tight black shirt, pistols tucked on either side of his hips.

You watch him knock back another whiskey, and you’re cleaning some glasses, a rag in your hands when his eyes drag away from whoever he’s entertaining with his revolting jokes, and flick up to meet yours.

You arch a brow wordlessly, having met the stares of incredibly dangerous men in your time as a saloon owner, and his doesn’t make you flinch. You see a glimmer of what could be amusement in his eyes.

“Starin’?” he asks, his voice a low raspy drawl from knocking back countless drinks but he doesn’t even seem tipsy, the bastard.