There happened to be this hellish week right in the middle of August when Axel had been packed off for visitation with his mother, when Sora was off on a family vacation, and when god and the universe had decided this was the perfect opportunity for a freak heat wave. The city existed in a wavering mirage, lawns died, thermometers burst, and Roxas existed in a ball of misery surrounded by every fan in the apartment cranked up to high. He tried everything from sticking his clothes in the freezer to lying in the sun on the back patio and waiting for the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness to finally overtake him, hoping he'd wake in an air-conditioned hospital being treated for heat stroke.
By the end of the day he was sunburned, had discovered that frozen shorts were not the greatest idea in regards to some of the more specific areas they covered, and he'd blown the fuse in the living room three times. Once the sun set and the world collectively let out a sigh of relief, Riku threw his front door open without ceremony, hair tied up in a way that was too girly for Roxas to have the energy to mock, and asked if he had a buck in change.
The buck was for Roxas to buy his own slurpee, as Riku was short that much after getting an oversized half-cherry half-lemon, a box of Whoppers and a bag of gummi worms. They went to ground on the cooling sidewalk in front of the 7 Eleven between the trash bin and the newspaper vendor, blue raspberry staining Roxas's mouth until Riku laughed and asked if he'd been blowing Smurfs.
It was funnier than it really should have been, the dizzy lethargy of a hot day combined with the rush of sugar to his system and he was just glad that Riku was cackling like an idiot, too, or he might have felt self-conscious, gas patrons hurrying in and out of the convenience store rolling their eyes at the noisy teenagers. They were probably high or something, damn kids, but it was really too hot to do anything about it. Let their parents worry.
Finally calming down enough to breathe properly, Roxas grabbed a handful of gummi worms, sputtered, "You'd know better than I would, man," and a second later realized that was probably the wrong thing to say. He did that a lot, strangely; there were some things he thought about backward and forward before he ever breathed a word of it, and then some things that just tumbled out of his mouth without warning, and all he could to was pause, stick a gummi worm between his teeth and pull until it stretched out twice its length and finally broke with a snap, and think, damn, that was fucking stupid.
There was a sort of shocked silence following the gummi worm snap, not really appalled or offended or even awkward, just a sort of woah in response, and then Riku snorted and started laughing again. "You asshole."
After another minute of Riku laughing, trying to stop and failing whenever he looked at Roxas and his blue mouth, Roxas said, "I haven't said a word about your hair, Rik. Not one word."
"Fuck you," he started, breathed a few times, dug two fingers into the Whopper box. Then, "Think you can find another buck?"
"Doubtful." Roxas's slurpee pulled empty, the slush nearest the bottom solidifying around the straw. "Why?"
"The dollar theater is air conditioned." Riku gave up digging around and tilted his head back, dumping the last few candies into his open mouth. There were more than he expected, and he had to chew for a minute before he could continue from the side of his mouth. "Thought we could watch something with snow in it, remember what it's like to be cold."
"I have March of the Penguins at home."
"That'll work."
Roxas figured, grabbing his slurpee and the gummi worms and crawling to his feet, that with all the windows open and all the fans running, the television and DVD player on too loud and the inevitable phone calls to their absent comrades that would ensue sometime halfway through the movie, that the fuse box was destined for three more visits. That he'd probably come up with a creative insult for Riku's girly ponytail around midnight, when he finally stopped sweating.
