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Kid thinks he might die a gruesome death— melting into a human stew in this sunny seventy-something degree weather. The smoke choking the room certainly isn't helping, either. His boiling guts will not show mercy to the carpet.
“Killer,” he calls to the gangly teen blowing smoke rings. “Put that shite out already.”
There’s a comical pause as Killer waves the blunt around, as if he’s seriously weighing the pros and cons of doing so. “Nah.” He dodges Kid’s punch to the stomach. “You feeling hot and bothered and that sort of filth?” A twinge of jealousy bounces around his gut (and maybe something else too intertwined to recognize) seeing how Killer’s cheeks shine with only the thinnest sheen of moisture, grin wide as ever; annoyingly and effortlessly cool in the way he lounges back, shirt long ditched to proudly expose a thin yet somewhat fit chest. Probably could be equated to a runner’s body; a swimmer’s, even.
“No fucking duh, you fucking numpty!” Pure frustration etched into Kid’s brow only furrows deeper as he’s promptly sniped in the head, gunshots ringing loud in the tiny apartment of an impressive 500 square feet. Everything in their shared living room is a DIY wonder, cobbled-together-TV a generously donated relic from a flunky off of Friendster atop a stack of pornos serving as a TV stand. Killer snorts as the Xbox 360 controller goes flying into the wall beside their strange creation. Such an insignificant thing, the briefest flash of pearly (or, honestly, yellowed) whites. Kid copies the pleased squint of his eyes to memory, scrubbing sweat from his forehead in a poor effort to hide his fluster— and he can't help but curl his lip at himself, acting like some squealing hen. “This is some of the highest temps recorded,” he tells the ceiling.
“Thank you, Jimmy Neutron,” the ceiling sayeth. It sets him off in Classic Kid Fashion.
“You're absolutely fucking radge, you know that? You’re pishing your last of the junk on the couch and I’m sweating my arse off and the landlord won’t fix the piece of shite he calls air conditioning—" he pauses to peak the corner of a broken window through the scope of his digital sniper, only to get a particularly unlucky headshot through the head "—did’ya fucking see that? Who plays like that? This skag on COD has been hard scoping me all round. And you can't put your fucking bifter out for one second!” His outburst comes out particularly bitter— but who can blame him for his misery? Fort Williams gets constant rain for at least half of the year. The sun is a visitor, a rare occurrence. A deadbeat dad, popping in a few days in the weeks to say, Hi, how’s it going cuntbag; enjoying the drizzle? His thin Scottish skin doesn’t pay him any favor, either. Combine unbearable heat by European standards and the strange tight and painful sensation that rises in his chest whenever his elbow brushes against Killer’s pant leg; or when Killer, high beyond fucking belief, lets his head loll back onto the cushion of the leather and his Adam’s apple protrudes up to the sky, and Kid just can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the bob of the skin making him want to press his weight against Killer's body, for no reason at all— why, it’s downright torturous. None at all, even when Killer finally seems to snap out of daze to acknowledge Kid’s huffing and puffing to look him straight in the eyes.
He blinks. “Is that Edinburg I hear?”
“Get the fuck out!” Just from the lazy smile alone, Kid knows he’s definitely getting off on this.
“Good luck paying rent, then. It’s sad, really, all the work I’ve put in trying to get you to go to school for more than three days a week will have gone to shite.”
“Well, fine, the geezer at the mechanics down the road pays well enough. Has anyone told you that you really need friends your own age?”
“Plenty. Focus on the game while I reconsider this relationship. You play like gash.”
Kid, as Kid does, raises his hackles at the insult. He considers bashing Killer's head in with the controller. He could swing it into his nose and that would definitely set him off, scuffling on the living room floor, in such close proximity to the tan skin he itches to gently drag his fingers over, maybe even press his lips to— only to punch and scratch instead, grapple with each other and tell each other I love you in the only way they can without hurting their manly pride. He entertains this twisted little daydream, as he always does; imagining a fictional ending in which they would end their scrap and dissolve into heated kisses, stumbling into a bedroom maybe, pressing fumbling hands into each other’s pants, slick with fluids of all kinds and bodies pressed so tightly together, skin on skin, enough to meld into a mushy pile of human desire— something like the adult CDs he watches in the dead of night, when Killer can't hear the name he moans and the strange noises that crawl out his throat— give or take the acting.
“You’re a part of the Axis Powers, huh? Check out this gadge, the cunt on your team got two kills. Might give you a run for your money as the worst shotgun player ever.”
He's effectively broken out of his stupor at the jab.
Hot summer air disperses slightly as Killer finally manages to wedge open the broken window, albeit with a fair amount of muttered curses as he uses as much upper body strength possible to wedge the rusted sliding joint free. Their broken blinds cast the loveliest of orange light, tracing the high bridge and jaw of Killer’s slim face, manliness not quite grown into at his age of seventeen (save for the stubble on his chin). Kid can't help it— as the next match starts up, he enjoys the muscle-y show as Killer continues to fumble with the other windows. If he was a sap, this would feel like fate. Instead of fawning, he calmly and completely normally reaches for the controller to skip the loading screen.
“You don’t know shite about shotgu—” Kid snarks, rest of the sentence mumbled by the joint being pressed to his mouth. It tingles against his lips, in the best and worst ways. “Shotguns." He accepts the offering with a heavy inhale and purposely-exaggerated exhale. The smoke goes straight into Killer's face as he lowers himself back down on the couch. "Nothing but a cunt who’s lording my Edinburg-ness over me.”
It's all euphoric: the way Killer lets his hand linger there just a moment longer is euphoric, the warmth of the room is just okay. And the thought of whether he really meant to brush his cheek like that or was just moving in slow-mo from that weed fatigue is a thought that is just okay. And the death screen, as if responding to him, echoes with the groan of the character collapsing to the ground and fades into black alongside the stupidly condescending quote: One more victory and we are undone.