The sun overhead beats down on him, even the wood of the veranda feeling like a burning stove under his hands. Blades of grass cling to the sticky undersides of his feet, sweat drenching his entire being. The fevery, moist heat trapped below his fringe fogs up his glasses. It's hot; even his eyes have dried up.
Tooru doesn't really like the summer.
Heat haze flickers over the burnt, vaguely brownish grey lawn. His melting popsicle drips liquid onto the grass, reminiscent of dew. It evaporates, though- way too quickly- and the spell gets broken. In their wake, the droplets leave little but slightly further singed grass-turned-straw. Tooru sighs.
By sheer compusion he checks his phone. His battery is left at a measly 9%, and he is, at least on some level, aware of the fact that he'll need to get up and charge it sometime soon. But that would involve moving in this blistering heat, so he just locks it again and stares ahead.
Across from him, Hajime sits with a magazine in his grasp, squinting against the glossy pages' reflection of the ever so unkind sunlight. Tooru wonders why he hasn't given up yet. Probably because Hajime can be almost comically stubborn, he knows. It's not like he's going to tell him to stop, anyways- not when he's looking so endearningly constipated.
There's a gnat bite right below Hajime's eye. It's an angry red bump, probably terribly itchy, but somehow, it doesn't seem to bother him. Tooru hates gnats with a passion. Hajime probably even likes them, simply because they're gross, gross bugs and Hajime still has that god-awful glass display with dead, dried up bugs that he's had since they were little.
The popsicle Tooru is still holding onto is nothing but a wet stick anymore. It doesn't seem like he's won another, either. The sun is relentlessly beating down on them, still, not a cloud to be seen in the blindingly blue skies. Hajime turns the page. Then another.
Tooru's phone is down to 7%. He takes off his glasses and places them in the shadow cast by his crossed legs. The heat haze looks even more blurred, if only a little. He feels like humming- deliberately tuneless- even though his throat is parched. So he does, and Hajime raises his eyes to look at him for the first time in ages.
The afternoon wastes away, right below the dirty soles of their feet, but it's hard to be bothered, to be bothered by anything at all. It's unbearably hot, but time wouldn't slip by quite like this if it weren't spent in just this exact, inconsequential way; if it were spent being productive in an air conditioned room, if it were spent wasting away somewhere else, if it were spent in someone else's company but each other's.
Hajime stares at Tooru. The soft furrow of his brow is neutral, if anything; a noncommittal scowl is softly pulling at the corners of his mouth. He reaches up to his face and scratches his gnat bite, the action entirely subconscious. Tooru's eyes follow the motion.
He reaches out and cups Hajime's face- he freckles in the sun, somewhere below his tan, because he's freckled for as long as Tooru's known him- sweaty palm upon sweaty, hot cheek. Seemingly, their bodies wish to melt into each other in every spot they connect- maybe it's because of the heat- and then Tooru detaches his thumb and presses his nail into the bite twice, forming a little cross with the crescent indents.
"It's supposed to stop the itch," he says.
"I see," Hajime replies.
Tooru removes his hand. Hajime wordlessly offers him some of the lukewarm lemonade he'd brought with him when they'd first settled outside. It has since gone untouched. The ice cubes are long gone now, the glass fogged up just a bit, but Tooru accepts it graciously. He spins the straw once before taking a small sip.
It's disgustingly sweet, even to him, and the fact that it's about twenty degrees warm doesn't make it any better, but it's good nevertheless. Hajime places his magazine between them and Tooru sets the glass down on top of it after taking another five sips or so.
"Thanks," says Tooru, then.
"How's it taste?" Hajime asks.
It's a tough question, in Tooru's opinion. He contemplates it seriously, at least for a second or two. Yet he quickly comes to think better of it, placing his hand on Hajime's face once more and promptly drawing him in.
They blame it on the heat, really, when they pull apart again after only two or three lazy slides of their lips against each other, but when they seperate once more, Hajime is smacking his lips. Tooru finds it endearning, really, what with his Iwa-chan throwing little kissies at the air, but he keeps to himself, grinning just a bit.
"It's sweet," Hajime says, a bit too seriously.
Tooru nods with a laugh.
"It's sweet."
a/n: I have finally arrived at the fanfic-writing bottom of hq-hell. Do not send help, I'll just curl up in some iwaoi and cry myself to sleep.