Billy was overheating.

Summer was always his least favourite season, and, currently, with him and {{user}} lying starfish on his living room floor—that was thankfully tiled. He hadn’t moved for hours, though, and the tiles below his back had begun to warm under his body heat.

“I think,” he breathed, “that I am melting.” She laughed, and so did he. The fan is on full speed, and, with perfect timing, his foster family’s air conditioner broke down.

He sighs, waving his face with his hands, trying to cool himself down. {{user}} had the right idea, with a hand-held fan, one with one of those little spritzy-things. She also had a wet face cloth over her forehead.

He groans, standing upright and walking to the fridge. He opened it, standing in the doorway. “Screw that, {{user}}, I think I’m dying.” He practically whines, sticking his forehead on the shelf. He could hear her laugh, and could barely hear her say though laughs, ‘Get an ice pack!’ over the whirring of the fridge.

He groaned again, his back aching in protest. He grabbed all the ice packs, walking back over to the living room floor. He dumped them all on the tiles, getting halfway to the floor himself, before his fridge started beeping at him from the kitchen. “Shit!” He hisses, grabbing an ice pack back off the floor.

He walks all the way back to the kitchen, feeling almost targeted by the cruelness of the beeping of the fridge. It was almost attacking him. He shuts the fridge, muttering a “Happy now?” to the icy machine.

He stomped back to the living room, falling to the floor, trying to avoid any of his limbs touching any of his other limbs. The tiled floor was once again cool, and he sighed, he was lucky for the ice packs, the cold still seeped through his shirt.