Disclaimer: Kazuya Minekura owns Wild Adapter. I do not.

Warning: Language.

Notes: First person POV (Tokitoh); that being said I hope that everyone can understand this departure from my usual level of vocabulary, grammar, and tone. I'm not implying that Toki-boy is stupid or slow, but he definitely isn't as literate as Kubota—the kid's knowledge base comes from questionable media sources and a primary schooler.

This takes place roughly between Vol. 2 and 3. Just a one-shot I wrote at work. It's been really hot and humid here for the last week and my little AC unit is on its way to the graveyard, I'm afraid. My office feels like a sauna.



June 2009

It's ridiculously fucking hot in this apartment. Kubo-chan threw all of the windows and the porch door open an hour ago, but the air isn't moving. It's just hot and sticky and stale, and the stink from the dumpster downstairs and the drunks pissing in the alley four stories below is starting to linger in here.

I stripped down to my shorts about ten minutes ago, modesty be damned. I'm sure as hell not going to melt because my roommate is a pervert and I don't want to lay here on the floor, barely-dressed. Besides, as much as I yell at him, I know he isn't going to do anything to me just because I'm in my underwear. Well, at least not if I don't want him to. Kubo-chan and I have a funny relationship. I'm not sure what we are to each other exactly, but I think I'm okay with that. It's just awkward to explain when people ask, so I mostly just tell them to mind their own fucking business.

That's probably why everyone says I have no manners or tact, whatever that means.

My back is sticking to the damned floor. I roll over onto my stomach. Eventually I'll just fucking melt, and Kubo-chan will make some stupid comment about having to clean the wooden floorboards in the living room again. He doesn't seem bothered by this heat at all, as usual. He's still wearing a shirt, for one, and second he's sitting on the couch reading some new manga he picked up and smoking. That dumb quack hasn't called today, so I guess he doesn't have to work.

I'm not sure if I'm glad that he's home. I always feel weird when he leaves--especially when he's gone overnight, and I can't sleep. Normally I just sit here and play video games and carry my phone with me everywhere--even to the bathroom, but I'll never tell him that--and I try real hard not to stare at the clock. I don't miss him, exactly. I just... I don't know. I just feel all girly and fucking gay when he's gone. It's stupid and I hate it.

Lately though, I feel weird when he is home, and it's driving me up the damned walls. All of his stupid little habits grate on my nerves, like the way he answers questions with questions and his curry rice and his smoking. He asked me what I wanted for dinner last night and I almost punched that squinty smile off of his dumb face. What the hell is wrong with me?

This stupid heat isn't helping, either. I'm stretched out on the floor, I feel like I'm dying, and for the life of me I can't figure out why he's just staring at his book instead of looking at me.



I watch him turn a page and my stomach feels knotted and twisted, like I ate something I shouldn't have. Where the hell did that thought come from?! Since when do I care if Kubo-chan's paying attention to me? I'm not some damned kid! Why does it matter that he's reading some stupid comic book when I'm sprawled at his feet in my skivvies, hot and frustrated and really fucking angry.

I'm going nuts.

It's because of the heat. I'm all bent out of shape because it's well over ninety degrees in this apartment, there's no breeze, and the AC unit crapped out on us a week ago. I'm pissed off because it's too damned hot to turn the TV on, or even take a nap, and normally I'm asleep around this time every day. That's why I want to knock that stupid book out of his hands and climb onto his lap and yell at him to look at me.

Stupid Kubo-chan.

I can hear myself grumbling at the floor, and I probably sound like one of those crazy homeless guys that live in the alley behind our building, but I don't really give a shit, right now. I just want to be mad for no good reason and growl at the dusty floor under my cheek. Even my hair is sweating. If I had any sense I'd go turn the shower on as cold as I could get it and just sit there, until Kubo-chan tells me to come out because I'm all pruny.

Actually, that sounds like a really good fucking idea.

Getting up is a little harder than it should be, because it feels like my skin is superglued to the damned floor, but that ice-cold shower has never sounded better. I move to walk past the couch and to the bathroom, and I lose my balance as Kubo-chan reaches out, lightening-fast, and hooks two fingers into the elastic waistband of my shorts, tugging hard. I flail and sputter and land on his lap, where I definitely didn't want to be, and he drops the manga on the seat next to him and leans down and kisses me.

It's fast, really nothing serious, but the smile curving his lips lingers. I forget to yell at him and call him a pervert. His jeans feel good against my thighs, his worn-out old tee shirt feels good against my chest, and I can't even really glare at him. "What was that for?" I ask.

Kubo-chan pulls me against his chest with an arm around my shoulders and stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray he's got balanced sort of haphazardly on the arm of the couch. Those things are fucking nasty, but they smell like him--or he smells like them--so I guess I don't mind them so much. And his shirt definitely smells like smoke. "You looked upset."

Sometimes it freaks me the fuck out how he can read a book and watch me at the same time and I don't even notice. "I wasn't," I snap back, but I'm not a very good liar. We both know that.

He just chuckles quietly and runs one hand down my back, his fingertips trailing down my spine. I can't help the way my back arches into his hand. It makes me feel stupid and needy, the way I always lean into his touch, but it feels good. I'm still trying to decide if that's normal or not. "You didn't have to strip to get my attention, you know," he sighs into my ear, tipping his head against the back of the couch and staring at the ceiling. I press my knees against his hips and bury my face in his throat. "I'm always watching you."

That should bother me. I know it should. I mean, he sounds like one of those fucking serial killers on the movie channels that stalk people and then murder them. But Kubo-chan is Kubo-chan. He doesn't really mean anything by it. He's just being honest. It still pisses me off. "I didn't do it for you, pervert," I mutter into his neck. "I stripped because it's too fucking hot."

Kubo-chan's fingers are petting the small of my back, and I want to shout at him that I'm not a damned cat, that I don't need him to pet me, but I guess I like it. His other hand is on my hip, just sort of there, but I don't mind it.

"Too hot to wear clothes, but not hot enough to sit somewhere else?" he asks and I just fucking know he's grinning up at the fan that's pushing stale air lazily around the room. I punch him in the chest but I'm not getting up. He pulled me onto his lap and that's where I'm staying. It's sort of awkward sitting here, but I really like being close to him. I sling my arms around his shoulders and lean my weight against him and close my eyes and just breathe. I think that I could get used to this--being with him like this. I feel sleepy, and I think maybe I'm just tired and that's why I press my lips to the side of his neck and call him an idiot.

A few minutes later I know I'm falling asleep on his lap, in my underwear, with his arms around me, and if anyone walked into our apartment right now and saw this I wouldn't give a damn. He's still smiling up at the ceiling like a son-of-a-bitch, but I don't think I've ever felt this comfortable before. And I'm still pouring sweat, his shirt stuck to my chest and my thighs glued to his jeans and his fingers drawing lazy patterns on the wet skin above my tailbone, but I guess it really isn't that fucking hot in here.