Chapter Text
Admittedly, it’s not a great room.
The floors are black speckled tile, stained blue and red and green, dirt is caked into the corners and the grout. The walls are stark white, dotted with posters and signs and obscene graffiti. The machines are old , rattling things that have been retrofitted to take credit cards as well as coins. There are fluorescent lights like track marks across the ceiling, giving everything a harsh burn around the edges. The benches pushed up against the walls and windows are made of plastic and are uncomfortable. The vending machines repeatedly refuse to take money of any kind, and when they do they refuse to forfeit the chosen snack.
But it has become a kind of safe haven.
The purple bench is your favorite because it’s harder to see the stains, and because it allows you to hide behind the vending machines from the windows (where, many times , guys of all kinds have knocked on the glass, catcalled, and made your heart race with fear for your safety) while also giving you a pretty good view of the room. You glance away from your book to check your phone. Usually, when Haerin is done she’ll send you some kind of text (past examples include: “That was hot,” “Yum,” and an eggplant emoji with a winky face) so that you’ll know it’s safe to go back to the apartment.
It’s 1 AM and still no text. You’re in for a long night.
It’s awful, but you did bring a lot of laundry. So at least it will be productive. Plus you’ve brought Herodotus , which you are woefully behind on. And a couple of Red Bulls.
You sigh. Despite that mental pep talk, you are exhausted . Professor Go really laid into your seminar group today about the historical analysis you all were supposed to (and somehow collectively decided not to) do this week. And Penny has been a wreck since Jackson left for his semester abroad. And you ran out of ramyeon last night.
You shift uncomfortably on the bench and lay your head against the wall. What you’d give for your own bed right now.
And then, just because you’re soaked through with your personal rain cloud and because it’s very, very late (early?), the door dings and someone enters the abandoned laundromat. And you already know who it is.
Peeking from behind the vending machine, you spot him: The Laundry Fairy .
It’s been two and a half weeks since a sighting. His hair’s darker. His shoulders seem tense, and the way he puts down his laundry basket is almost angry. He only ever brings a single load at a time; you figure he comes so often that he never needs to bring more than one load. He’s got his signature detergent and fabric softener (Downey).
Tonight he’s wearing tight black skinny jeans and a grey sweatshirt. Sneakers. If you squint, his hair seems to be fashionably gelled.
“Who are you?” you whisper.
You gasp when he flinches, slamming yourself back against the wall to completely shield yourself from his gaze. You’ve come to believe that The Laundry Fairy is like Santa Clause—you can’t let him see you! But it’s possible that’s just your social anxiety talking.
When you peek back out again, he’s opened the washer and is slowly, carefully putting clothes inside. You watch his shoulders as he does it, the tension giving way to relaxation. It makes sense that doing laundry would relax The Laundry Fairy.
You sit back onto your bench again and sigh. As always, the appearance of The Laundry Fairy does make you feel a little bit better. You are not the only person with nothing better to do but laundry at 1 AM on a Friday. You are not the only person that enjoys it, that finds comfort in it.
You’re surprised though when you hear him curse softly from across the room. And even more surprised when you hear his foot slam into the machine, “Stupid.”
When you look out from the other side of the vending machine again, you see he hasn’t started his machine yet. His wallet is laid on top of the closed lid, and notice a couple of empty slots. No card. He always pays with his card.
You dig into the pocket of your sweatshirt, feeling around for the coin purse and untangling it from your cheap pair of earbuds. You fumble through the change, calculate the laundry you still have left and make a decision. Heart racing, you stand from the bench, emerge from behind the vending machine and offer The Laundry Fair some money.
“Do you,” you’re stuttering, coming to a complete stop when he spins around (surprised anyone else is here) to look at you. You’ve never seen his face full-on before, you now realize, and it’s gorgeous. You sputter, mutter the word, “Fairy,” under your breath, because now that you’ve seen him your inside joke is obviously true , before actually getting out your question. “Do you need some change?” Your voice is quiet, like the full force of his face has turned your volume down.
He’s so pretty you want to die. You want to choke on your words or your change or your personal rain cloud and just disappear from the Earth. He’s so pretty.
And he’s blushing. He scratches the back of his neck and nods, “Yes, please.”
His voice is so melodic you want to die. Death is clearly the only option.
You’re so overwhelmed that you’re frozen. And he seems embarrassed so he stays where he is. Your offer of a few coins hangs in the air awkwardly, your hand in the air with your sushi-cartoon-covered coin purse.
It takes at least thirty seconds for you to realize that you actually have to give him the money . You stumble forward like a newborn calf that’s just discovered its legs, holding out your coin purse desperately.
He reaches out his hand, hovering inches above yours when the door opens with a sharp ding and a sudden burst of activity. You flinch, pulling back slightly, blushing as if you’ve been caught in an incredibly intimate moment. When you glance at his face, you find it similarly colored.
He knows the intruders.
There’s six of them that come tumbling into the laundromat, the largest group of people you’d ever seen come in at one time. The Laundry Fairy looks up when they enter, his hand subconsciously falling away from you and your almost-touch.
“JK! JK!” A boy with brown hair and a blue jacket emerges from the group. His smile is a box that takes up his entire face; if all you put in that box was warm feelings and happy memories. A Bright Fairy. Most importantly though, he has a small blue square in his hand. “You forgot this,” the boy says, handing him the credit card and jumping to sit on a closed washer.
The loud sound that the machine makes when the boy jumps on top of it makes you unfreeze. While they’re all preoccupied you hurry back to your hiding place. You slide onto the plastic bench and try to press yourself against the wall, your heart racing. You lean forward to peek out from behind the machine; everyone’s chatting happily, no one seems to have noticed you, except for The Laundry Fairy (who hadn’t seen you run away, but has noticed your absence and is adorably surprised and confused to find you no longer standing where you were). You smile at his expression, a warm fluttery feeling in your chest.
You shift your gaze to inspect the rest of the group: there are the Laundry Fairy and the Bright fairy (you guess that they’re the youngest of the group in the way the rest of the group surrounds them, indulges them). The eldest seems to be a boy with light brown hair and what seems to be a limitless supply of lame jokes, but you can already tell that they all admire him. Then there’s a boy, too, whose hair you guess used to be pink but has faded to an almost blonde color, a hint of dark roots - the Laundry Fairy is watching him with what you would almost call reverence. Then there’s a boy with bright orange hair, his arm around the Laundry Fairy casually as he laughs and his eyes disappear. Another has almost black hair and the kind of comfort in his limbs that oozes confidence and happiness. When your eyes scan for number seven, you almost have a heart attack when you find a pair of dark eyes already watching you. His hair is mint, stuffed under a gray beanie, and his tired eyes are latched on you.
You press yourself against the wall again and stick your head in your book. They talk for what seems like ages, but soon enough you hear the familiar swishing of a (second, to yours) operating washing machine.
“Let’s eat!”
“What’s open?”
There’s a grumbling of different answers (the consensus is, unsurprisingly, McDonald's) and then the shuffling of many feet. You peek your head around the vending machine when you hear the door open, happy to be greeted by seven (slim, muscular, broad…) backs. You sigh in relief, your levels of social apprehension already lessening. Your eyes find the Laundry Fairy easily, tousling his hair as he takes one last glance back into the laundromat (it is brave of him to leave his clothes unprotected). And just as he does so, he finds you. And maybe you imagine it, but you could’ve sworn there was a little smile on his lips at the sight.