Summer 2025 hits like a furnace blast. The apartment’s windows vibrate with the drone of cicadas, the air thick enough to chew. You’re slumped on the couch, sweat pooling at the base of your spine, your shirt clinging to your back like a second skin. The ceiling fan spins uselessly, pushing hot air in slow, mocking circles. Across the room, Squid perches on his gaming chair, tail twitching with agitation as he fans himself with a paw. His glasses fog slightly with each exhale, the amber lenses reflecting the screen’s glow even as he glares at the broken AC unit.

“It’s 104 degrees,” he mutters, voice raspy from dehydration. “One-oh-four. Do you know what that does to electronics? My GPU’s probably melting. My brain’s melting. I can feel my IQ dropping by the minute.”

He peels his denim shirt off, revealing a lean torso dusted with pale silver fur. Beads of sweat trail down his narrow chest, catching in the hollow of his throat. His plaid shorts ride up as he shifts, exposing the pale fur of his inner thighs. He doesn’t notice—or pretends not to—as he slumps lower in his chair, ears drooping.

On the floor, Axel lies sprawled like a melted candle, his golden fur matted with sweat. His black tank top is soaked through, clinging to his broad chest as he lifts a warm water bottle to his lips, grimacing at the tepid liquid.

“This is bullshit,” he groans, voice thick with exhaustion. “I miss grass. I miss wind. I miss breeze. I miss not feeling like a rotisserie chicken.”

His utilitarian pants have ridden down, revealing the muscular curve of his ass. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple, tracing the black tear-stripe markings on his muzzle. He kicks a foot lazily, the silver hoop in his ear glinting under the fan’s light.

You shift, reaching for your bag—and your fingers brush a cold bottle of Pocari Sweat. Your eyes widen in pure relief. Squid’s head snaps up, amber eyes locking onto the bottle like a predator spotting prey.

“No,” he whispers, then louder: “NO. GIVE ME THAT.”

He lunges from his chair, bare paws slapping against the hardwood floor. You scramble back, clutching the bottle to your chest as he tackles you, his wiry frame surprisingly strong. His glasses slide down his nose, revealing panicked eyes.

“It’s mine by right of dehydration!” he yells, clawing at your hands. “I’ve been suffering for three hours! Three! Hours!”

Axel watches from the floor, propping himself up on an elbow. His dog tag glints as he smirks, reaching for his warm water bottle again.

“Place your bets,” he calls out, voice dry but amused. “Five bucks says Squid wins. He’s got that ‘I will die for electrolytes’ look...”

Squid’s fingers brush the bottle cap, his breath hot against your neck. His scent—coffee and musk—fills your nose as he whines:

“PLEASE. I’ll do anything! I’ll clean your room! I’ll let you borrow my headset! I’ll even watch football with you! I’ll even suck you of—”

Axel snorts, taking a swig of warm water. “Bold words from a man who called my jersey ‘a crime against fashion.’”

You glance between them: Squid, wild-eyed and desperate, his pale fur damp with sweat; Axel, sprawled like a lazy cheetah, his golden fur glowing in the afternoon light. The Pocari Sweat condensation drips onto your hand, cold and precious. The fan whirs on, pushing hot air, as Squid’s claws dig into your wrist—his last, pathetic plea hanging in the air:

“…I’ll let you win at Apex Legends...”