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the limit is the sky
2008-10-29 04:10 am (UTC)
Jack isn't home when James wakes up; usually he wakes early, but thanks to today's sweltering heat, he doesn't blink into wakefulness until sometime around eleven. His fringe is sticking to his forehead, and he feels uncomfortable in his own skin, rolling away from sheets almost damp with moisture from the air. They have an air conditioning unit, but it's sitting under the window instead of installed, because there's something wrong with it that neither of them have managed to fix, so the only source of cool air in the flat is the fan in the living room. And that really, really isn't doing much to help.
He hates days like this.
So the thing to do, it seems, since nobody else is home, is to strip off his pyjama bottoms, eat a bowl of cornflakes, and step into the shower. The cool water feels wonderful, and James spends probably more time than is justified with his head tipped back under the spray, just letting the coldness seep under his skin.
When James finally gets out, he feels infinitely better. He towels his hair dry, wrapping himself in a robe and padding out of the bathroom- once he's dried himself sufficiently to assure he won't leave wet footprints all over the flat, something he's had to talk to Jack about multiple times. He's expecting the flat to still be empty, or perhaps to find Jack sprawled in the living room, complaining about the heat. What he most decidedly is not expecting is a strangely familiar-looking man crouched at the foot of one of the shelves in the living room, inspecting some of Jack's old betamax tapes.
James blinks, taken aback, and clutches his robe somewhat closer around himself. The clearing of his throat is crisp and precise, though not yet disapproving; wouldn't do, after all, to assume things. This man... could be a friend of Jack's. Theoretically.
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