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It was nearing midnight in December and the AC was still running. Daytime in Vegas was dazzlingly bright no matter the season, but temperatures quickly plummeted with the winter sunset, so if you were unlucky enough to be stuck outside after dark thanks to, say, a delayed bus coming from the shopping center, the freezing winds picked up and billowed cold hunks of sand into your eyes, glasses be damned. More often than not, Theo and Boris shimmied into the house on Desert End Road with wind-whipped cheeks like they’d been slapped, Boris wet-dog shaking sand and rocks out of his hair and blowing rapidly into his cupped palms. Thought we are in the desert, he’d say— his favorite kvetch any time the temperature dipped below a balmy 65— it was like twenty-six outside when we left, why should we have to bring our jackets?
Neither of them could very well feel the cold now, even though the air conditioner was blowing directly above them. The house smelled of coolant where they stood, mixed with the floral, powdery fragrance of the fancy dryer sheets Xandra liked to tumble her clothes with.
“I’m not a freaking soccer mom,” Theo drawled, taking a drag of his swiped Marlboro Light and blowing smoke out the left corner of his mouth. He leaned an elbow on the washer and focused on schooling his face into an exasperated glare. “I mean—ha ha!—I didn’t sign up for this, I’m not gonna sign any fucking school permission slips. I thought I—oh, my God,” he choked, face crumpling under the force of his uncontrollable laughter. Boris was a heap on the carpet by his feet, greasy dark crown exposed to the ceiling, rib cage expanding and deflating rapidly beneath his dark blue thermal. He pummeled the ground with his fists; a tap-out gesture he frequently performed when he was in stitches.
“Fuck, you should see yourself,” he weeped, clumsily scrubbing a hand over his face as he sat back on his haunches. Crawling on all fours, he reached for the bottle of vodka on top of the dryer, but his stick bug lankiness wasn’t enough to even graze the bottle with his fingertips.
“What?” Theo asked, snatching it with a flourish. His voice had already gone hoarse from drinking, which helped sell his showstopping impression. “You want more, after everything I buy around here? After you ate all my hot wings and little cocktail sausages?” They had, in fact, finished off both of those; the black takeout boxes were sitting empty on the kitchen counter to prove it. Theo carelessly stubbed his cigarette out on the dryer, leaving little craters of ash on the smooth white metal.
“…Little cocktail sausages,” Boris was murmuring, a stupid, giddy smile stretched across his face. He was barely capable of stringing a coherent sentence together, instead opting to fruitlessly stretch his fingers up towards the bottle; an alcoholic Creation of Adam. “Potter,” hiccuping, black eyes glittering, a giggle leaping from his throat, “I can see up your skirts.”
Theo yelped, catapulting backwards like his modesty was legitimately in peril. As it was, he was still technically dressed in his tee shirt and jeans, the only difference being that one of Xandra’s sleazy, too-short dresses was bunched over them. A “going out” dress, she called it, when she was hogging the landline to chat with her friends: Let’s get together this weekend. That new place I was telling you about opened up and I just got this new going out dress off Nordstrom Rack.
“And you scream like a girl too!” Boris crowed, clearly taking a great pleasure in this new information. Theo placed the bottle of vodka back down on the washer and used the edge of the machine as leverage to repeatedly kick Boris in the ribs. “Ay! Fucking asshole!”
“Fucking revenge,” Theo clarified, glasses slipping down his nose.
“I’ll show you revenge,” grabbing him by the pants leg and yanking him to the floor. Theo rag dolled, unable to catch his breath or collect himself; the corners of the ceiling shifted rapidly. Boris seized the opportunity to crawl across his limp body and take the bottle from his tingling fingertips. Theo kneed him in the chest. “Ow! Shit!”
“‘S what you get for perving on some old lady.”
“Not old!” Boris scowled, retreating. “Mature. Educated,” a slow grin: curtains pulling back to rows of uneven gray teeth. “Can teach a lot to young boys such as myself.”
Theo mimed vomiting, pushing himself up with one arm and sticking his fingers in his mouth. One of the wire straps slipped off his shoulder, causing half of the sparkly silver cowl-neck to fall to his navel. The dress was much too big on him, even with the added bulk of his clothes underneath, the hem of it rested around his mid-thigh. On Xandra, it showed off the full smooth expanse of her tanned, muscled legs. Calves flexed from her heels, which she kicked off in the wee hours of the morning and left sprawled in the entryway like tipped cattle.
“Oops,” he giggled, suddenly recalling one sunny afternoon in the pool. “Wardrobe malfunction.”
Both of them in stitches. Boris’s Russianate howl echoing off the empty walls. He moved with a lower frame-rate, gestures uncoordinated and possessing a jerky quality.
“Is because you have nothing to fill it out,” he said, cupping two hands underneath his own chest and making a squeezing motion with his palms.
Theo secured the strap back onto his shoulder, pursing his lips and squinting to mimic Xandra’s narrow, beady eyes, “Shut up, kid,” a great heaving sigh, the weight of the world on his shoulders. “I cannot deal with children right now, Larry, I really can’t. You would not be-lieve the long day I’ve had. Do you know how hard it is to flash my tits at angry customers for an extra tip?”
“I’m surprised you earn any moneys with these,” Boris replied, reaching to give Theo a double purple-nurple. Theo swatted his hands away: a cat fight. Totally girlish, but Theo couldn’t imagine Xandra fighting this way. Virulent bridesmaids yanking on each other’s earrings and ponytails. He couldn’t imagine her fighting at all, actually— at least, not with her fists. The aggravated, blasé tone she adopted when irritated shut down most arguments quickly enough.
Boris was still trying to wriggle his hands down the neck of Theo’s shirt, exposing the flush creeping from his hairline to his chest. Their skin was hot and clammy where they touched, both burning red and sweating tiny alcoholic bullets.
“Get off me— fucking weirdo,” Theo panted. When Boris’s hands failed to cease, he socked him in the jaw. Hard.
“Gah,” birds tweeting, a halo of stars circling his head. Boris gingerly cupped a hand around his face, opening and closing his mouth experimentally. “You’re a real fucking animal, you know that?”
Theo shrugged, “Whatever. You earned it.” He was overheating now— cheeks radiating heat. Dark, overgrown strands of hair plastered to his forehead. The armpits of his shirt were damp and chafing. He sat up and forced the tangle of silver fabric over his head, leaving it in a heap by the laundry bin.
“You turn into a fucking WWA fighter when you’re drunk,” Boris complained.
“WWE.”
“Ah?”
“Not WWA, genius. That’s not even a thing.”
Boris made a teetering gesture with his palm, downturned and flat. Same thing, more or less.
“Okay, sure,” yawning. “Come downstairs with me, I recorded Grand Hotel on your dad’s VCR.”
He cautiously got on his feet, stumbling to one side and catching himself on the dryer, leaning down to help Theo up. The room was silent; air completely still. Belatedly, Theo realized that the AC cycle had finished. Not that it mattered: there was nobody around to feel it.