something, someplace, sometime

He rings the doorbell.

Jon remembers when he first met Mitt.

" Now, I'm not very good with hair-" Mitt begins, waving the hairbrush and scissors around carelessly. Jon gave him a glare.

" - but I think it looks good!"

" You fucked it up, that's what you did." Jon snapped woefully. He looked like... like... he wailed. Jon threw the mirror forcefully at the ground, watching the plastic bounce harmlessly on the grass. Mitt picked it up carefully.

" I'm sorry." he said truthfully. Jon just glowered.

" Sorry isn't bringing back my hairline, dipshit." he growled.

Rick skipped his checkers pieces along the board, flopped on his stomach. Jon watched him from the same angle, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

" Can't believe he just left like that." Rick muttered.

Jon frowned. " Not forever." he offered. " He'll be back."

" Still kinda soon. And here I thought we just managed to become friends."

" You ain't much better." he teased. " Going back to Texas and all."

" Yeah, but Texas isn't an entire different country." Rick bemoaned. " I'm gonna miss him."

" Mm-hm." It was his turn now. " Think he misses us?"

" I hope so."

" Think he'll run off with some french prostitute while he's there?"

Rick giggled.

" Checkmate."

" Oh, come on." Rick shoved him light-heartedly.

They're sitting at one of the empty tables of the nearby McDonalds, even if they haven't bought anything. The surroundings smells entirely of summer heat and sweat and hamburgers and ketchup regardless. Jon's cap sat by him unworn, his entire uniform disheveled.

He inspected the cookies with his eye, holding it to the sunlight. Rick smiled patiently as he watched him, his own Boy Scout uniform considerably neater.

" Well?" he asked. Rick snorted.

" I don't think you're supposed to sell these." Jon determined. " It's for girls."

Rick's face fell instantly.

He tried to smile.

" We can still eat them though." he offered, handing it back to him. " There are other ways to do fundraising, I'm sure."

Rick rolled his eyes, spitting his tongue out at him playfully, even as he didn't object.

The fire licked at his hands, the flames dancing over the stick that he held over the pit. Mitt scuffed the leaves with his toes, concentration etched on his face.

" Something the matter?" Rick asks, stabbing his stick into the dry dirt, burying the embers away. No response. Fair enough. He looked back at the fireplace. It was almost nighttime now, the dusk coloring his vision with greys and dark blues and blacks, cold, crisp air clinging and burying into his lungs.

" It's nice out here." Mitt offers. " The trees are really tall."

" Uh-huh." Rick agreed. " Way taller."

" We can make it to the lake tomorrow." he offers. Mitt shrugs. He doesn't look especially happy and that's somewhat worrying. " The lakes are pretty big, too, you know."

" Way bigger." Mitt agrees, even though it makes no sense.

" He looks kinda weak."

" Billie."