in this little bathroom, in the house of someone that iwa doesn’t know the name of, the moonlight weaving through the blinds, he’s sure that the world has never seemed so small. you’re sitting in front of him, propped up next to the bathroom sink, hair a little messy from a party that he’d never planned on going to, a half-empty solo cup hanging from between your fingers—and you look pretty. in a way that he knows you always do and never expect to all in the same breath. in a way that seems to be all so easy for you and in a way that seems to capture the attention of anyone who dare spare you a glance.
(it’s hard, of course, to spare you a glance here. not when both iwa and oikawa manage to stand beside you for most of the night. not when there’s something that’s written on bothof their faces, something that neither of them have ever wished to say aloud, but they don’t really have to. not to anyone that isn’t you, anyway).
“where do you think oikawa went?” you ask, looking down at the cup that rests in your hands, squinting at whatever you’d poured in it when iwa had turned his back.
“he’s probably with some girl,” he replies.
he isn’t. oikawa had told him last week that he couldn’t be with another person without thinking about you. iwa hadn’t told oikawa that it was the same for him.
and though he expects there to be a flicker of some emotion on your face, though he expects your face to scrunch together and your brows to furrow, the motion never comes. instead, you laugh, shaking your head and bowing forward until the top of your head nearly brushes against his chest.
“you’re probably right,” you say, a little sigh following the syllables, “god, he’s stupid.”
“you’re telling me,” he replies.
he hates how small this bathroom is. how, even though his back is pressed against the wall, you can still lean forward and he can feel your breath on his skin. he hates how he doesn’t try to press back further. how, instead, he relaxes into your presence. instead, he sets down his drink beside you and follows the sound of your voice. instead, lets his eyes flit over your cheeks and across your eyes and dot the parts of your face that you’ve always told him you hate.
and maybe it’s stupid of him, to not want to be selfish like this. maybe it’s stupid of him to stare up at you a feel a little breathless, to watch the way you move and the way you take up the entirety of this small room and to wish that things were different.
because maybe if oikawa was with a girl, maybe if oikawa was making out with someone in a room and iwa could know that without a doubt you’d choose him—not his damn best friend that everyone always fucking chooses-
he wants to be selfish. he wants to be selfish so fucking bad it almost hurts.
“hajime,” you whisper, as though his name is like the flicker of a flame in the dark, as though it’s the beginning of something more in this bit of silence.
he supposes he’ll never know what you mean to say because by the time you go to speak again, his fingers are already brushing your hair out of your eyes, already brushing your cheek; he’s already watching the flutter of your eyelids at his touch, taking in the way your lips part and the way your stutter of breath hits his lips before they’re on yours.
and he kisses you because maybe this is the only chance he’ll ever get. and it’s not how he wants it to be—it tastes like cheap alcohol and like your least favorite chapstick: the one you’d bought last minute because it was the only one you could find and you swore you wouldn’t keep him waiting in the car for long.
and maybe it’s that damn alcohol sitting on his tongue, but for a moment, he swears you kiss him back, that he can feel your fingers trailing up his arms and then landing somewhere in his hair, that you tug him closer, that you sigh into him as though you’re giving your final breath to him.
“shit,” he whispers, because he knows things like this are never meant for him, “i’m sorry.”
“hajime,” you say again, but breathless now. he’s feels a little less drunk than he did a moment before, and now he’s sure that your hands are in his hair, that your thumb is rubbing a pattern back and forth behind his ear. “please.”
and though he wonders what you’re pleading, he’ll never know what exactly that meant either, because even though he’s letting his eyes fall over your face, even though he’s staring up at you and he’s terrified to move, you do anyway. and you kiss him again.
and one day, when he’s not in this tiny bathroom, when it’s not nearly midnight and the moonlight has managed to fall over both of you, he’ll stop being so selfish. but god, please, let him have this for just a moment longer.
