The night is quiet, the breeze is cold. Your fingers lazily glide along the comforter, following each dip and crevice formed from the wrinkles. Its fabric absorbed the cool air from the AC, leaving no warmth for your hands to feel— and you, a little disappointed.

Save for the hum of the mosquito frying contraption and Oikawa's breaths— there isn't much for your ears to pick up on. Only the ephemeral rustling of tree leaves that dissipated once the wind finished its pit stop. The stillness of midnight melancholy lingered between the both of you, but that was until Oikawa murmured a particular phrase.

“Porque pa contigo yo ya quiere?.”

His voice was airy, sneaking in breaths as he spoke. Pronunciation a little wonky, diction not the best—it was barely above a whisper. He chuckled silently, finding it amusing how he's barely made any progress on his speaking skills. You insisted there was, albeit he couldn't see any difference.

“I know, despite being here for 5 years I'm still bad at Spanish.” He pointed it out, not having the patience to wait for an insult therefore he took the initiative to do it on your behalf. Oikawa knew you weren't the type to tease him about anything, mostly because his 'work, then play' attitude made you understand where those insecurities came from. But he wanted to hear it badly. What you would do to the pedestal once you saw how average he really was.

It was uncomfortable. You didn't say anything yet. He was usually a dog— in for the treats, in for the praise. Him wagging his tail with fervor for a tirade made your fingers fiddle with each other, before his large hand reeled you in closer. You say, lips close to his ear. “I'm not saying it's bad. Just needs a little more work.”

He smiles, that grin turning into a little giggle. He pulls you in more until you're between his legs, suddenly craving your body. It was hard to control his expressions when you knew how to get him so quickly— even if you weren't trying at all.

“Can you say that again? Your accent's really hot.” You almost shudder at how his voice dropped to a much lower, comfortable range. With a tone that poked nefariously close to espiegle and discord— you put space between the two of you, his hands still snaked around. your waist.

You reach for his tumbler, deciding that the reason why his cheeks were flushed was because he had one too many drinks, and not because he just enjoyed your company to the point his forthrightness started to striate through.

His lips parted at your offer, gaze flickering between you and the less interesting object in your hold. He finally realized what you were meaning to do, laughing right in front of your face.

“Kiss.. I need a kiss. I'm asking for a kiss. Not water, sweetheart.”