Chapter Text
The fan’s cranked to the highest setting, billowing the must of July across the room, yet it’s still not enough to cut through the sticky heat of the summertime. You wipe a bead of sweat from your neck before pulling your hair into a tangled bun on the top of your head, cursing Murdoc in the process.
The air conditioner had been choking on its dying breaths for the past couple weeks, and despite everyone’s pleading for a replacement, Murdoc was adamant that a few kicks to the system were all that was needed to keep it running. Until it wasn’t.
You knew he was a Satanist, but you didn’t expect him to be a big enough fan to bring hell on earth. You’re sat on 2D’s bed, clad in nothing but one of his old t-shirts, dripping ice water down your neck and back, and you’re still dying. Parts of your body are fused together by sweat and peel away from each other in the most unpleasant way. You feel like you’ve been wiped down with a stranger’s gym towel, and you are certain you smell the part, too. The heat settles itself lazily across your shoulders, weighing you down and tempting you to collapse onto the bed. But the thought that it has become more of a sponge of sweat props you up into a lackadaisical slouch.
If the floor wasn’t a desert of cigarette ash and cracker crumbs, maybe you would have taken to laying on it instead. It was probably cooler, and at least your blankets would be spared from your daytime filth. Unfortunately, knowing 2D, even if you mustered the effort to help clean his room, it would become a hangover wasteland before you could even take the time to appreciate the cleanliness.
For now, you’re stranded on this miserable excuse for an oasis. Your only solace is a half melted bowl of ice, and your only form of entertainment is staring at the back of 2D’s head as he struggles to come up with lyrics to a new song. At least now you understand some of the band’s messages even better than before. If these dog breath summers are what’s awaiting the earth down its path of global warming, 2D better be coming up with some damn good verses to do his part to stop it.
Unfortunately, judging by the way his ditzy tendencies have become full blown handicaps, it might be unrealistic to expect that the lyrics even rhyme. 2D has been jotting down and scribbling out words on a crumpled piece of notebook paper for the past half hour, and you’re pretty sure his brain has melted out of his ears.
He’s almost choked on the pen cap several times now while mindlessly gnawing on it. Eventually, he finally replaced the plastic with the arguably safer alternative of a cigarette (at least he won’t lodge that in his airway). Except he keeps forgetting that it’s in his mouth when he goes to sip his soda, leaving him with a soggy bum between his lips, and an undrinkable tobacco flavored liquid in his cup. You’ve also watched him take off his shirt and put back on at least five times already, and you’re pretty sure it was because he couldn’t remember why he took it off in the first place.
You obviously don't mind this particular habit. His wiry frame just happens to be the summertime treat you’ve been craving for a while, and getting to see it unwrapped so many times almost makes you forget your t-shirt is completely drenched with your perspiration. You track a bead of sweat as it rolls down his back, following the rigid contour of his lean body. A sliver of starkly paler skin reveals itself as his jean shorts shift a little lower down his hip. You ponder exploring further past the tan line before he shatters the thought with a snappy tune from his keyboard.
He softly sings some gibberish to himself. You hold your breath; it sounds like it has potential. He tilts his head as he lets the notes ring out inside his mind. The angle gifts you a glimpse of his concentrated expression: thick brows in a knot, lips crushing the end of his cigarette.
But apparently it’s not quite right, so you’re back to studying the back of his head.
A tired sigh slips past your lips. Even vibrant electric blue gets boring at some point. Maybe if you concentrate hard enough, you might be able to see what’s going past the walls of his poor, bashed up skull.
“How’s it coming along?” you exhale when you realize your efforts are for naught.
He turns around, an expression of frustration smeared messily across his face as he delivers a “Not too good.”
“Aww,” you croon, “what’s the matter?”
“I dunno. I just can’t concentrate. S’like a thousand degrees in here.”
You pat the bed, beckoning him over. “Take a break,” you offer, “you’ll be able to come back to it with a fresh mind.”
2D doesn’t protest, if not thankfully obliges. He plods over to join you, flopping his tired mass on the mattress with an unenthusiastic heave. You feel his mussed hair tickle your skin as his head lands beside your thighs. He lets out a groan which expresses his exact combination of exhaustion and frustration that you’re not sure he’d be able to communicate with words anyway. You tousle his locks, making him shift himself to rest his head comfortably on your lap.
“Why does it have to be so hot?” he whines, looking up at you with those puddles of black. You pluck an ice cube from the bowl of what was now mostly water and drag it along his forehead. His tongue flicks out through the gap in his teeth as his brooding expression dissolves into a smile.
“Better?” you say, gliding it across his forehead. He gives a lazy nod as his sweat is diluted by the cool water. You roll the icecube further down the slope of his temple, roving over his cheekbone, before making it to his jawline. A soft sigh emerges from his lips as you dip underneath to his throat. You like that sound, so you take extra care to gloss over the sensitive skin there. His lashes flutter down to meet his cheeks in response, and he looks so peaceful that you’re almost disappointed when the ice cube finally reduces to a puddle on his sternum.
“Do that again,” he smiles. He sounds like a child begging to have another go on his favorite amusement park ride. At least this won’t cost you as much, so you grab another ice cube and continue down the path.
You skid the ice along his collarbones, before winding down the center of his chest. Breathy yelps trickle from his throat as you pass over his sensitive scars and near the divot of his adonis belt. He looks up at you and flashes a mischievous smirk. “Again,” he repeats a lilt in a voice that was all too familiar. Your eyes crawl knowingly down his torso, to where denim meets sweaty skin. Sure enough, he’s already pitching a tent that you’re not really in the mood to check out. The very notion of physical activity is enough to send another puse of heat exhaustion throughout your body.
Rolling your eyes, you dismiss his request with another ruffle of his hair. He pouts at you, but you have an excuse. “The ice is all melted anyway.”
“But I’m so bored.”
“I thought you wanted to relax.”
“I mean, yeah. But not anymore since you’ve gotten me all hot and bothered,” he confesses, “well I guess it would be cold an’ bothered. ‘Cos of the icecube-”
A chuckle falls from your lips and saves him from making a fool of himself. You stroke his hair out of his face. “How about you finish the song first? I can help.”
He squints thoughtfully at you before accepting your offer, bounding out of bed to retrieve his paper and pen. The bed squeaks as he hops back on with much more fervor, and he shoves the sheet in your lap.
It’s all chicken scratch, which you should have expected. His name is literally two symbols, and even then he can’t sign it intelligibly half the time. Regardless, that doesn’t stop you from trying. You hold the crumpled paper close to your face as you try to make out each verse letter by letter. You start to wonder how he passed primary school before a strange sensation on your knee steals your attention away.
“2D, what are you doing?” you say as you jerk your leg away from what seems to be his pen. It leaves behind a dark smudge over a couple crudely drawn flowers and hearts.
“Hey, watch it,” he chastises you playfully. “Don’t ruin my picture.” You try to come up with a retort but the heat has dulled whatever sharpness of your tongue you had left.. You say nothing as he pulls your leg to his lap and meets your skin with his pen. The ink feels sticky as it smears across your skin. You try to concentrate on decoding his strangely cryptic rhymes, and you almost make out an entire line, but then he brushes over that sensitive part behind your knee and you flinch again.
“Now look at what you’ve done!” he squacks. Your eyes dart to the jarring line branching out from a patch of dainty flowers. He shoots you an exaggerated frown before trying to do damage control. “How am I going to fix this?” he sighs, rubbing his forehead. You look at him pensively, awaiting his reaction. He licks his thumb and tries to rub it off, his slick skin massaging yours. You’ll admit it feels strangely nice,but it only makes things worse.
He resorts to converting the line into the stem of a larger flower, lines blooming from the end to form the petals He doesn’t look up as continues to doodle more daisies and hearts around your knee, crawling up your skin and spilling over to the tops of your thighs.
They’re wonky and crooked. You’re pretty sure Noodle could do better. But he’s trying, and it’s awfully cute.
“Whatcha drawin’ there?” you say. You already know the answer, but the silence of his sudden concentration is a bit uncanny.
2D shifts a little closer, bowing his head closer to his “artwork” and makes a few more marks before delivering a response. “I dunno. Whatever you want it to be.” You feel his soft breath roll over your skin, contrasting with the dampness of sweat and fresh ballpoint pen. “There's some flowers here,” he explains with the enthusiasm of a child young enough to be drawing in such a fashion, “An’ I put a bunch of hearts over here, for you.” You smile at the tiny tokens of his affection and watch as he trails them all the way to the crease of your thigh.
“What are you gonna put there?”
The smirk he’s trying to hide tells you it’s nothing as innocent as the drawings before. You try to make it out by feel. At first, you think it might be something obscene, but it seems to be actual letters. One of them’s definitely an h. When he finally pulls his head away, you peek over.
2D woz here it reads. How tasteful. You give him a playful punch as he lets loose a snicker and keeps going with the pen. He reverts to gingerly drawing more hearts and smileys, uneager to risk losing the position he seems to be enjoying very much: his head resting comfortably between your thighs. He manages to stay featherlight with the pen until he inevitably pokes it in much too hard.
“Sorry!” he says immediately as you cry out. “The pen - it was running out of ink and- I’m sorry.” He plants a soft kiss where he jabbed you and looks up to reconcile.
His eyes are dark and hopeful, big and round. A tuft of hair falls on top of his snub nose. His mouth hangs open a little, revealing his missing teeth. You can’t stay mad.
“It’s okay,” you coo, petting his hair. He beams back at you again, pressing his grin into your skin, then bringing it all the way up to meet yours. He tastes like cigarettes and cherry popsicles, both of which being the two things he’d been sustaining himself off of all summer. His hands travel up your stolen shirt and beg to go further. You so desperately want to let him, but you doubt either of you would last long enough through the heat to finish.
“Later,” you sigh, yourself now longing for the return of nocturnal gelidity. You peel away his fingers and return them to him with a kiss. He steals another peck on your cheek and plops his head back down on your lap. This time, you note how it’s surprisingly heavy considering how much of an air head he is. The hum of the fan steadily reclaims the room as you both fall into a satisfying sort of silence.
It’s nice.
This is nice.