FILI

Opening up the windows did little to nothing to cool down our tiny apartment. There was no escaping the suffocating heavy heat in the air; nothing to do but lie entirely still on the sofa, but not so long that you stick to the old vinyl like Velcro, because the ice cream truck might one day come down the street and stop in front of the complex instead of speeding past like children aren't melting in the sun –you had to be ready.

I cut my hair in June, when it started to dampen in the sweat on my back. The cheap hairdresser had trimmed it too short to look very good on my square head, chopping away while I'd fallen asleep in the chair, leaving nothing but tiny spikes of blond hairs. "I'll cut it myself next time," I'd promised Ma then, because I shouldn't have been spending my hard-earned cash on someone who would mess up the first real cut I'd gotten in years. It grew back unnaturally quickly, thank goodness, to a sort of shaggy mess that wouldn't do what I wanted in the humidity –I missed my braids; but it was better than nothing.

Kee was more enduring than I was: his hair survived the whole summer an inch below his shoulders, thick and heavy, and nothing to be done with it but tie half of it back. He'd just showered and was asleep on the couch beside me, still damp, calves trapping my thick thighs to the uncomfortable cushion and I'd push him right off if he wasn't about to be exhausted by work and wasn't worth disturbing. I picked up my notebook and tried to make notes for a sketch relating to this heat –but damn the humidity was sweating my brain out my ears. I dropped the pencil in a warm huff, rubbed at my eyes, and stared out the window. It wasn't sunny –god knows sunlight would boil the wet air!— but even the dark clouds bore no hope for a cooling rain.

"We might get a storm," I groaned, accidentally waking my brother next to me. I winced but smile a little to have my only company conscious. "Sorry, Kee."

"'S fine," he yawned, as if nothing had been disturbed. He winced as the heaviness lingered in his limbs. He didn't bother to sit up, but spared me the dead weight of his legs, whining all the while. "What time is it?"

I checked my phone; it was almost dead but held on to show me the hour. "Four-eighteen," I sighed, tucking it back into the pocket of my shorts. He groaned loudly and rolled over, off the sofa, face-palming the dingy rug. I laughed a little and nudged his head with my foot. "Wake up, you got work. Thranduil will have your ass if you're late –you can't keep blaming the bus schedule." He worked as a cleaner at the luxurious Woods apartment uptown, and hated going three out of five days a week. "It's just three hours and then you're done. You already showered, get up!"

Kee fumbled to his knees like a baby giraffe and got to a swaying standing position. He rubbed at his forehead and gratefully found there wasn't a bump to blemish his carefully toasted face. "Anything in the fridge?" He'd showered and slept before he could eat, and now there was no time.

"I don't know. Maybe some milk, a hot dog –leftover boiled chicken. I don't know; you don't have time for this. Pick something up from a cart." I stood and went to hurry him out the door in his t-shirt and shorts. The hallway outside our corner apartment was no cooler and I almost couldn't bear to let any possible coolness leak through the open door, but Kee was slipping a pair of too-big worn-through sneakers on. I stood shamelessly in my underwear, confident that no one was around to see me, blocking the way back in so he might not stall himself longer. I softened a little just before he left –"Be sure to get something to eat, on me." I stuffed a crumpled five into his wet palm. Even if he stopped for a minute or two on the way, he was a runner, and wouldn't miss his bus.

Kee nodded shortly and went for a little parting hug, but thought better of it. He patted my shoulder instead and ran to food and detested work.

I was about to head back in when I heard a loud crash at the other end of the hall. I groaned quietly to myself and shouted out to ask if everything was okay. I'd much rather go do nothing than stand here in the sluggish warmth –but altruism, as Ma said, had never sizzled out in my conscience, and I couldn't resist. I took a step, and then another, watching where I thought the noise had come from. The hallway made a sharp turn, but by the time I made it to the inner subsection of the fourth floor, I saw what had happened.

The man was small and doe-eyed, copper-haired and surrounded by bags that had fallen apart. I winced and watched him try to gather himself and his basic belongings scattered along the dusty carpet. He seemed a rather neurotic type, and when I called out to him again, he jumped to attention.

"Hello!" he greeted me with a pasted grin, and stuck out his hand like he did on a regular basis. I stared at it for a fraction of a second before cautiously clasping the outstretched palm and appeased him. He looked rather flustered still and stared at my face so intently I worried I might have drooled in my summer sedation. "I'm, uh—" He pardoned himself a moment to wipe at his nose with a handkerchief. "I'm sorry –allergies. My name's Bilbo Baggins, I'm just moving in today."

"Oh." And again, my urge to help betrayed me with a small smile quirking at the corner of my lips. "Do you need any help?"

He stared some more for an awkward moment, still looking either into my eyes or right at the bridge of my nose. For a second I wanted to shield myself, but I looked down to see I was still in my boxer shorts, and the redness in the man's face –Mr. Baggins's rosy face— seemed to transfer there to my own. I stuttered an apology but he laughed and assured me that, if I got some clothes on, he would very much appreciate the help.