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The sunlight was already hot at nine in the morning, but the constant air conditioning in the room kept him cold. Freezing really. How did people want to live in this temperature, Boris wondered. They should try living in places where it was cold all the time, all through the winter. Then maybe they wouldn’t try to refrigerate everyone in summer. But the constant humming of the air conditioner was comforting. Better than silence. He had a fondness for those noises that no one else noticed. The buzzing of fluorescent lights, the whine of the fridge. Everything was just too quiet without all that. The desert was too quiet, unless you could hear the wind.
The tinny music still played from the little ipod on the bed, something classical that he didn’t know. Potter had some good music on there, and then he had scads of poncy stuff Boris had never heard about, and would never tell him in good conscience that he thought it was poncy. Potter had one of the earbuds half out of his ear, the other had been in Boris’s until he got up and wandered to the bathroom to piss and then maybe... or no. No, he was fine. No, wait... yes, ultimately, to puke. He came back to the bedroom feeling better, despite the headache. Popchyk was nowhere to be found. Boris crawled back onto the bed beside Potter, sitting crosslegged and slouched against the wall and rubbed his face before he looked at the other boy, still sleeping.
Idly picking at something on his chin, Boris regarded him, head tipped to the side like a curious bird. He sat forward suddenly as the classical music reached some tinny crescendo and then reached out. His fingers hovered for half a second, then combed softly through Potter’s hair, watching the curls as they twisted around his fingers. They were too shiny, oily, and Boris knew if he got close enough, they would smell unwashed and human, the way Potter’s hair did at the back of his neck when Boris curled against his back some nights. Sometimes he wanted-- Boris blinked his dark eyes now, once slowly and then a little faster, as though trying to pull himself back to present, as he felt his penis slowly start to fill, brush up against the inside of his thigh inside those bloody pajama pants that were too big at the hips and the leg and everywhere. Sometimes he wanted to open his mouth against the top of Theo-- the top of Potter’s spine, and kiss him there. The breath rushed into his lungs, now, cold and dry, and never quite filling them.
What would Potter do... if he did it? What would Potter do, if he did it sober? If he did it now, just leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth, pulled his bottom lip between his own and sucked... His fingers tightened accidentally in those unwashed curls of hair behind Potter’s ear and suddenly Potter groaned and wrinkled his nose, just waking up. Boris hadn’t been prepared, he’d been too far away. Quickly he jerked his hand away, and, in a panic, slapped him gamely on the cheek and said, “Wake up, Potter, I’m starving.”
“Borisfuck,”
“Come on.” He clambered off the bed, adjusting himself while his back was turned, but he was already mostly soft again. His next breath shuddered out relief. “Come on, Potter.”
“Mnnngh.”
“My treat, Potter, come on, I’m going to die.”
“Your tr-- it’s my money. I gave that to you yesterday so you could-- forget it.”
“It’s all the same, Potter, huh?” He dropped onto his knees on the mattress, jostling it as much as he could, on purpose. “I'll make it then. Come on. Eggs! Bacons!”
“Fucking hate you,” Potter moaned, swatting at him, and Boris ducked and pulled away, back on his feet. He watched Potter rolling up to sitting and untangling himself from the headphones. He looked wrecked and hungover and beautiful, Boris thought, his hair all stuck up on one side. Their eyes met. Theo: “I might kill you.”
“Yes, yes. After breakfast, you kill me, but first some Aspirin. And tea!” Boris practically chirped, and disappeared from the room.
When he was gone, Theo buried his face in his hands, remembered the feeling of Boris’s fingers in his hair. He’d been awake since he’d heard him vomiting in the bathroom... charming, as always. He hadn’t expected the touch, but he’d lain still. And there was something deep in the bottom of his belly that-- that had been waiting. Was waiting still, tight and hot. The slap had startled him out of it, mostly. He flopped back onto the bed, eyes closing again, just as Boris shouted “Potter!” from downstairs.
Theo opened his eyes and laughed at the ceiling. It felt only a little hollow. Then he climbed to his feet and went downstairs and watched Boris burn himself on the frying grease and sulk and say, “You do it, you do it,” and push him towards the stove, and so Theo did.
And for a while everything went back to normal. For a little while.