Chapter Text
There’s something comforting about the laundromat at night. The ancient lighting makes the paint look decades older than it probably is. The two lines of machines are strange and top-loading, and there’s the creaky old bench that spans the length of the narrow space. On the back wall, all the front-loading machines blink lazily. Time seems to move slower in here, with the steady rumbling and clinking and ticking. Every night, Hilda can just follow the motions: sweep the floors, check for loose articles of clothing, collecting the coins from each machine. There’s no thinking necessary.
Hilda is just piling the coins into their tin when the sliding door is slammed open. The glass and accompanying faded signage—‘Starting at $2.50 a load!’—wobbles with the force of the motion. The door-slammer is dressed in only a pair of ratty flannel pants and a conspicuously-open corduroy jacket.
She’s still staring at him when he looks up and spots her. For a moment, his eyes are a shocking green, spanning between them. Then, his mouth forms a perfect ‘O’. A few coins roll off the pile on the bench before she can catch them.
He hefts the bundle of fabric into both arms, surreptitiously covering the skin that Hilda had been getting eyefuls of a moment ago. “Hey. By told me there wouldn’t be anyone here this late.” He laughs shakily.
Hilda raises her eyebrows, smiling faintly. “Yeah, I mean, I live here.”
“Oh.” He seems to think for a moment. “Great! You can help me then.” Before she can amend her statement to say that she doesn’t actually know a thing about washing, he’s already talking. “I… spilled something on this, and I really, really need to get it out. Except I think it may have already set in?”
He steps forward and thrusts the bundle of fabric towards Hilda. It’s clearly silk, in a nice satiny yellow. As he spreads it out a little, she makes out a blotch of something dark right in the middle. She stares, a laugh building in her throat. Really, it looks like a bedsheet, and a heavily-abused one at that.
Hilda tamps down on her wandering mind as she swallows the laugh. “I don’t know, I feel like you should see a dry cleaner for this.”
The guy is in utter anguish. “No, no, I can’t. It’s 10pm and if I don’t get this out right now then it’s ruined.” He places the fabric on the bench beside Hilda, revealing a plastic bag hooked on his wrist. “Look, I’ve got the detergent and everything. Just show me your least broken machine and I’ll leave you be.”
Hilda shrugs and points at the one closest to the door. “That’s your man.”
“That one?”
“Yeah?”
He looks confused. “But wouldn’t it be the most used?”
“Exactly.”
“No, but—”
She sighs, pursing her lips to hide a smile. “Do you want to wash this thing or not?”
He doesn’t say another word as he picks up the silk sheets. Hilda goes back to sorting coins, watching the stranger in her periphery all the while. He’s got to be having some crazy sex to have a stain like that on his sheets. It’s believable enough: the guy is pretty, and he’s got some abs too. Not that she’s looking.
The washing machine is grumbling to life, unhappy to be woken at such a late hour. The stranger sits further down the bench, tapping his fingers on his leg in an absent rhythm. “That must be your spot to sleep, huh?” he says, pointing to the lone plastic chair in the corner. That chair has never been moved in the six months Hilda has been here, and she hasn’t seen anyone sitting in it either. She told Lys that it was cursed, and her friend still watches it whenever she walks past.
She doesn’t look up from the tin as she places the last coin in its spot. “Mm, and I eat the soap pellets whole. I drink the detergents left in the machines too.”
He snorts. “Ah, the D-U’s very own laundromat monster.”
“You know the deal,” she says in a conspiratorial whisper, “you never saw me.”
The bench groans as she stands, shifting on its uneven legs. “Oh, and good luck with that stain.” Hilda aims a wink in his direction, before striding out the door into the cold-dark outside, the box in her hands heavy and a grin light on her lips.
If time stands still in the laundromat, then time in the library is on turbo-fast-forward. The line for the information desk is never-ending, and Manuela fails to see the benefits of having two people on shift rather than one. Also, with Hilda on deck, it's less of an information desk and more of a frustration station.
Hilda keeps a smile pasted on as Linhardt takes his time gathering his things—too lazy to use the computer database, he had instead tasked her with using the database for him. His feigned ineptitude would’ve been impressive if she wasn’t the one doing all the work.
She’s still grimacing at Linhardt’s back when the next person in line sidles up to the counter, leaning towards her over it. “Hey.”
There’s a moment where Hilda doesn’t recognise the voice. Then, she’s leaning back in her chair as it squeals in protest. “Ah. It’s you.” Hilda meets his gaze and she feels it again. A tug. The taste of it, mystery, possibility, intrigue, all rolled into one.
The stranger from the laundromat cocks his head. “Just came to say thanks for your help. Or lack of, if we’re being specific.”
“Watch it,” she says, “I may not be so kind next time.”
He averts his eyes, running a hand through the brown waves of his hair. “You have my deepest apologies.” When he looks up, Hilda can see the grin spread over his face. That jokester’s charm is all over him, yet, it doesn’t seem to permeate his eyes. They’re an uneven green-brown, solid like the surface of a pond, the water too overgrown with algae to see through.
With a jolt, she realises she’s been staring, and searches frantically for something else to say. “Was that all, or did you want something else?” Hilda nods towards the shining ‘Information Desk’ plaque, trying not to look him in the eyes as she says it.
“I want quite a few things actually.” He shifts his weight, angling his body towards her. With a nonchalant kind of secrecy, he whispers, “And I’d prefer it if you didn’t tell anyone about last night.” Then that grin is back on his face, the one she’s realising isn’t at all genuine.
Pretending to consider it, she props both elbows on the counter. His eyes flare as she leans towards him. “What’ve you got to hide?”
He narrows his eyes, lips curling into a challenge. “Oh, you know. Secrets and stuff.”
“Hm. You’re a hard guy to grasp, you know that?”
“Oh, I disagree.” He’s smiling again, but it’s not so wide, not so in-your-face: this one is a private smile. He’s staring her down with a challenge alight in those too-green eyes. “I'd let you grasp me any day. My hand, my heart, even my neck.”
Hilda blinks. His mouth is distracting, lips slightly parted. Her hands are flat against the counter as she leans forward, as he nearly meets her halfway across. They could kiss, if she just…moved. But Hilda takes the moment to make a vague noise of ponderance, sucking her tongue against the back of her teeth, enjoying the way his eyes flicker to the pucker of her lips. “I might take you up on that,” she breathes into the narrow air.
He looks about to say something else when the next in line clears his throat.
“Are you done yet?” Lorenz says contemptuously, a stare levelled at the back of her stranger’s head. “We don’t all have time to be flirting with the staff.”
Hilda bites her lip to hide a grin as her mystery man casts her a wink. He raises a dismissive hand to the guy behind him, and then pushes off the counter and begins strolling away with the swagger of a man that knows he has all the time in the world. Lorenz makes a sound of disgust in the back of his throat.
She’s still watching her mystery man’s retreat when he turns mid-stride to mouth, ‘I’m watching you,’ to her. She finally allows herself a smile, mirroring his. He’s still walking backwards out the door—she almost warns him about falling, but a marauding group of students blocks her view. There’s no telltale cry of anguish, so she assumes he’s fine, and turns back to Lorenz. He’s watching her with open distaste.
“Yes?” Hilda says, testier than she should be.
He harrumphes. “That guy is more trouble than he’s worth.”
“Oh, you’re so right.” She furrows her brow, pouting a little as she pretends to consider something. “I really needed your help in working it out. I was wondering, as well, whether you knew how to access the library database? I’m just so hopelessly confused by it all.”
Lorenz, the misogynistic little twerp, perks up immediately. “Of course! I’d be happy to help.” He shuffles around the counter, wedging himself between her and the computer to begin tapping away. Hilda’s laughing to herself behind his back when he turns around. She rearranges her expression to one of doe-like fascination as he begins trying to explain it to her.
All she has to do is back away slowly while nodding along. “Thanks for the help, Lorenz! I’m going on break now.”
He just sputters after her, though he cuts off the dramatics when the mousy girl in line asks for something. Guys like Lorenz never change—he’s the exact same as he was in high school, except now he’s doing business on the verge of starting an investment firm. Snob, but a rich one.
Walking right out of the library doors onto the grass beyond, she ponders what mystery man does. Surely not business.
By the time she’s standing in the flickering light of the laundromat, switched on all day against sense, time, and brightness levels, she still hasn’t been able to find an idea that sticks. Perhaps she’ll take him up on his offer. Then, maybe she’ll be able to do more than just grasp him better.
Hilda can’t help but glance at the door every so often. It’s often enough for her to find Marianne staring at her when she’s done scrutinising the shadows outside for the tenth time.
“Is a monster about to jump out at us or something?” says her best friend of six years. “Please, a warning now so I can escape with my life.” Marianne’s humour is as deadpan as usual, though you wouldn’t guess it from how she looks. Hair dyed a pastel blue—opposite Hilda’s bubblegum hue—and eyes always gently smiling.
She wasn’t always so easy to joke or smile, but things are different now. Hilda is happy she’s happy.
“Don’t worry, I’d protect you with my life.”
Marianne snorts at that. “You’d sooner die than ever be forced to do anything of your own volition.”
Hilda just lifts a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Maybe so.”
“But seriously,” Marianne says, fixing Hilda with a stare, “why are you so…absent right now?”
Her scrutiny is familiar—her eyes interrogative, asking, ‘What are you hiding?’. Hilda pins her own gaze to the bulb flickering out of time with the others. She’d have to replace those at some point. When the landlord asks her to, which will be never.
At her lack of response, Marianne just says, “You’ve got plenty of time to decide what you want to do, you know.” Hilda, in her peripheral vision, sees her friend arch her eyebrows. “And even if you regret it later, there’s nothing stopping you from changing—”
“It’s not about that,” Hilda says sharply. Then, she forces herself to meet Marianne’s eyes, and says more softly, “Thank you, Mari, but that’s not what I’m thinking about now.” It’s not exactly a lie, but Marianne already knows that—they haven’t been friends for this long for her to be incapable of seeing straight through Hilda’s lies. Hilda barges on before Marianne can say anything else with the words ‘future’ or ‘decision’. “It’s about a guy.”
Marianne actually laughs at that, a grin sweeping away the serious consideration. “A guy you like, that you think is going to come here?” She gives the place a once-over, as if checking again that yes, Hilda is waiting to see her man at a laundromat—dusty, weirdly-stained, with horrible lighting to boot.
“Whatever!” Hilda says, crossing her arms. “It’s not that bad. Plus, I don’t like him; he’s just interesting.”
“Okay, now this is actually worrying. I can’t believe you’re in denial.”
“This is your reminder that I live here, Mari. Meaning: I could kick you out whenever.” She pats the washing machine she’s perched atop, whispering, “It’s okay, baby, I still love you.”
Marianne rolls her eyes, still laughing. “Tell me about him.”
Hilda flips her legs up onto the machine, leaning back on an arm. It’s dusty, but she’s used to the stuff now. “He’s, like, so pretty”—she swipes her hand on her skirt, frowning at the chalky mark it leaves—“and snarky, but not in a mean way. He was totally flirting with me last week too.”
Hilda grins at the way Marianne claps her hands together. “And the name of your pretty-and-snarky-but-not-mean guy?”
The sound Hilda makes is a close-lipped ‘hm’, which Marianne interprets perfectly. “Please,” Marianne says, “for the Goddess’ sake, tell me you know his name.”
“Ye-es.” A beat. “No.”
Marianne looks at her with utter weariness. “You are kidding. How are you ever going to find the guy?”
“Well, he kind of just keeps finding me,” Hilda says, twisting her earring with her free hand. “Like, I’m sure he’ll just turn up again.”
“Why was he even here?”
Hilda leans towards Marianne with a conspiratorial smile. “Had to wash some sheets very late at night. There was a, uh”—she lifts both eyebrows, smirking—“suspicious stain.”
Marianne goes pink: the exact shade of Hilda’s hair. In an unnecessary whisper, she asks, “How do you know it was…you know.” She’s as adorably prudish as always.
Examining her nails, Hilda says, “They were silk. And, he wasn’t wearing a shirt.”
“Unbelievable.”
“I’m basically blackmailing him with his embarrassing laundry trip.” She covers her mouth with a hand, and adds, “Oh, but don’t let him know I told you.”
Marianne sucks in her cheek, thinking. “Do you know what he studies? Maybe Lys knows him.”
At the mention of studying, Hilda sags a little—not that she would ever let Marianne see it. “How’s the report going, by the way?”
“It’s…going.”
She says that, but Hilda knows she’s already got a first draft done, weeks before the due date. Marianne has always been critical of her work. Sometimes, Hilda wishes she had been too—maybe then she might have amounted to something, other than the local laundromat ghost.
They talk more: about Marianne’s cat, Komodo; roller-rink plans for the upcoming Saint Seiros Day; tomorrow’s outdoor movie-night; and Marianne’s run-in with an ‘absolutely hulking, gorgeous guy’ (her words). Hilda’s laughing, and Marianne’s still flushed, when she checks her phone.
“Should’ve been back on shift fifteen minutes ago,” Marianne says. That doesn’t convince her to get up any faster, though. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Remember the picnic blanket!”
“Duh,” Hilda says, and holds out her arms for a hug. Marianne’s hair smells of lavender, and Hilda allows herself a moment to just breathe it in. “Love you, prude.”
“Love you too, dummy.”
Hilda’s waving even after Marianne turns around on her way to the convenience store up the road. She goes right up to the glass, taking the moment to check around for any approaching patrons. The one person she’s looking for doesn’t seem to be turning up though. Hilda glances at the washing machine he’d used, as if it could summon him; then, she scoffs at herself. All of this about some guy she’d had around one and a half conversations with.
That doesn’t stop Hilda from taking one last look out to the street as she climbs the stairs to her flat. Unsurprisingly, there’s no one. Not many people use the laundromat at the graveyard hours of night, apparently.
Hilda forgot the picnic blanket. It’s a fact that Marianne and Lysithea haven’t been able to let her forget their entire walk to the green where the movie is being screened.
“I told you she’d forget,” Lysithea says smugly.
Marianne sighs. “I even reminded her yesterday.”
Hilda steps between them. “I’m right here, guys.”
“I don’t speak to people that forget the picnic blanket,” Lysithea retorts. She shoves Hilda with her shoulder, earning a shove back. Marianne, on the other side, becomes collateral with a squawk. Hilda is now being shoved on both sides as they all laugh, grass crunching underfoot.
Lysithea squeals as Hilda nearly sends her into the nearby pond. “Okay, okay, I surrender!”
“Mention the picnic blanket again and it’s pond for you,” Hilda says with a menacing grin.
“Fine.” Lysithea crosses her arms. “I forget how strong you are sometimes. What, with the lazing around.”
“Ha ha,” Hilda deadpans.
Marianne stops so suddenly that the two of them take a few more steps before realising. “It’s him.”
“The hunk?” Hilda asks, at the same time that Lysithea says, “Ah, the brainiac.”
They both stare at one another in confusion, and then turn in tandem to look askance at Marianne; she, meanwhile, just stares stricken ahead. She answers absently. “Yes. Both. Obviously.”
Hilda pushes her lightly forwards. “Go talk to him!”
“Yeah, what are you waiting for?”
“Well, I mean, I didn’t actually talk to him before…” she says, not meeting their eyes. “Like, I may have just been on the counter when he was buying a sandwich.”
Hilda can’t help but exclaim, “He bought a convenience store sandwich, as a meal?” which only earns her a reproachful look from Lysithea.
“Doesn’t mean you can’t talk to him now,” Lysithea says, catching Marianne’s arm in hers. “Let’s go.”
Marianne is desperately backpedaling, making feeble excuses, even as Hilda loops her arm through Marianne’s other and joins Lysithea in towing her towards the movie crowd. “Blond one, right?” Hilda whispers out of the side of her mouth.
“No!” Marianne says too quickly.
The blond in question is massively tall, and built wide across the shoulders—Hilda can see the strain of his back muscles against the thin shirt he’s wearing. Downright slutty, if you ask her. The man has to know what he’s doing.
Hilda meets Lysithea’s eye around the back of Marianne’s head. “Hil, Lys, I swear to the Goddess, it’s alright, you really don’t need to—”
“Hey,” Lysithea says coolly.
Marianne instantly stiffens, which is great, because she’s no longer got a claw-grip on Hilda’s shoulder. She actually shudders when Hunky Blond turns around, turning her head ever-so-slowly to mouth, ‘I’m going to fucking kill you,’ at Hilda.
Hilda just shrugs, suppressing a laugh. She returns her gaze to Hunky Blond as he greets them. “Hi.” Silence, as he looks at them and they look at him. Until his eyes focus on Marianne, and he says, “Wait, I know you—you work in the convenience store, right? Just up the road.”
Lysithea knocks Marianne’s ankle with hers, seeming to jolt her awake. “Yeah! I’m, um, Marianne.”
Hunky Blond smiles. Loathe as she is to admit it, Hilda can say without a doubt that he is handsome—in the typical blue-eyed-blond-haired way. Blue-eyed as in the singular, because there’s a cotton eyepatch taped over his right eye. “Lovely to meet you properly. I’m Dimitri.”
Hilda lets go of Marianne; there’s no way she’d even want to escape now. She raises a hand in a wave as Marianne introduces her and Lysithea.
She’s about to go make her excuses to leave as Dimitri and Marianne begin bringing up their degrees and courses and whatnot, when someone calls, “Dimitri!” in an all-too-familiar voice.
Hilda’s eyes find him before she can even process whose voice she’d recognised.
“Claude! I was wondering when you were going to get here.” Dimitri has turned as Claude covers the final distance. They hug, and Hilda can only stand there, blood thrumming too-loud against her skin.
Dimitri seems to realise they’re still there. “Marianne, Hilda, Lysithea, this is my dear friend, Claude.”
Claude turns his predictably charming grin to them. “That’s me. Nice to”—it’s at this point that his eyes land on Hilda, prompting the smile to fill out a little more—“meet you.”
“Yeah. Don’t think I’ve seen you around before,” Hilda says, tilting her head to fix him with a stare.
Claude raises his eyebrows, mirth murky on his features. “Neither. I think I’d remember if I met you before.”
They’re still facing off when Lysithea clears her throat. “Well. Don’t suppose one of you has a picnic blanket?”
“You’re in luck,” Claude says, cat-like in how fast his attention shifts to her. “I just brought ours. I think it’s big enough for the three of you too.”
That seems to decide it. Marianne and Dimitri head off first, a noticeable gap between them even as they talk animatedly. Claude tips his head in Hilda’s direction before wandering after them, whistling. As soon as his back is turned, Lysithea rounds on Hilda. “What was that?” she hisses.
“Hm?” Hilda says, gaze still caught on Claude’s back. “Not sure what you’re talking about.”
“Liar. You’ve met him before.”
Hilda shrugs. “I just learnt his name.”
“And you were eating each other with your eyes. Your sarcasm isn’t very good, either.” Lysithea gives her a smug grin. “I see all.”
“Yeah, sure. Like how you foresaw me forgetting the picnic blanket, huh?”
“Hey, you brought it up.”
They laugh, and Hilda is glad that Lysithea doesn’t press her for more when she whispers that she’ll tell her later. They catch up to the other three, who’ve found a spot somewhere near the back, beneath a willow tree. The lake laps quietly at the shore behind them, overlapping with the secretive shuffle of branches above them.
Dimitri laughs suddenly, at something that Marianne said. “You can’t mean that?” he says, a laugh shifting the words out of shape.
Lysithea throws Hilda a meaningful look before sitting next to Marianne, leaving only spaces in Claude’s vicinity. He’s got his back against the tree, eyes blissfully closed. Hilda peels off her sneakers and carefully positions herself on his right, stretching her legs out over the blanket.
She only has to wait another moment before he’s splitting the silence. “I know she's Marianne, because Dima’s said her name a half-dozen times already. You don't look like a Lysithea either. So, it must be Hilda, right?”
“Good guess. Now I get one, don't I?” She sends him a wide smile, not knowing exactly what she's doing or saying, really—but when has she ever known that?
“Shoot.” He leans his head back, eyes falling shut again.
She blurts, “You must really like crosswords.”
He opens one eye. She can feel her neck burning, heart thumping, as she wonders why in the world she said that, instead of anything else, something cool, or smart, or—
“Correct,” he says, cheek dimpling as he smirks. “How'd you know?”
“Just a hunch.” She makes herself shrug, as if she hasn't been thinking obsessively about how he talks and acts, and then trying to work out who he is, really, based on the one and a half conversations they’ve had.
With the way Claude is staring at her, though, she thinks he might have guessed the truth. “Anyway,” she says quickly, “what are you doing here?”
“Watching a movie.” He glances up at the massive projector screen, which remains a blank white. The crowd talks in crescendoing volume as he adds, “Should be, anyway.”
He’s watching her again, and she shifts under his scrutiny. “Something interesting?” she asks, putting on a smirk.
“I’ve got a friend having a party next week. You should come.” It’s too dark for Hilda to make out his eyes, but she catches the white of his teeth as he flashes her a smile.
He’s inviting her as his plus-one? The thought makes her chest constrict. “I’ll think about it. Might be busy.” She swallows, hoping his sight of her is as bad as hers of his.
“Sure,” he says, in that same upbeat tone. She wants to go, really, but…well, she doesn’t really know why she said no. May have to do with the utter anxiety the thought of going on a real date with someone brings her—not that a party invite actually constitutes a date.
She keeps stewing. They don’t say anything for a while after that. It’s ten minutes into the movie—they finally got it playing—that Hilda asks, “What do you study?”
He says, “How do you know I even go here?” and Hilda feels a tug, a blind feel into the dark; maybe he knows you, it says, maybe he understands. But then Claude grins. “Kidding. I’m doing a dual degree: law and poli-diplo.”
“Oh,” Hilda says. What had she been expecting, for him to say that he’s also a loser living on campus for a university he doesn’t even attend, following doggedly after friends more ambitious, more notable?
“What about you?” he asks.
It’s the dreaded question, the one that makes Hilda’s heart sink to the depths of her stomach. She pulls her necklace from beneath the collar of her shirt, pulling the pendant back and forth along the chain. The urge is so strong; she can feel the words growing in her lungs, growing claws as they prepare to climb up out of her mouth. It would be so easy: I’m doing art, or even, I work here.
But Claude has the stare of a cat—bright and piercing and long. Her lies wouldn’t stand a chance. They’d be shredded, and she’d be thoroughly embarrassed.
She opens her mouth to just say it, to just let the truth go. But Lysithea chooses that moment to turn around and whisper-shout, “Shut up, you two.”
Hilda sends her a hard look, which prompts a snort from her before she turns back around. “This movie is boring,” she says to Claude.
He raises an eyebrow. She goes on before she can think better of it. “We could do something else.”
Claude leans towards her. The light can’t seem to illuminate his irises, dark as a willow-tree’s shade. He looks at her and she looks at him, silence gaping, until he says simply, “Like what?”
The words are stuck at the back of her throat. Hilda coughs awkwardly and looks away. “Let’s just…let’s just stay here,” she stammers, even as his eyes flicker downcast away and she feels overwhelmingly like she has made a mistake.
They sit in silence. The movie plays out. Hilda tries her hardest to pay attention, but she is preoccupied with other things.
She’s all too aware of Claude beside her. Every movement he makes, every time he looks at her, every time she looks at him. They’re both careful enough that they avoid ever meeting eyes, but she knows that he knows. Being this close to him has pulled the string between them taut. Hilda is caught in a web of her own making—and the worst thing is, she knows how to get out of it.
But she keeps waiting for him to say something else to her. Even after the movie ends, and they’ve said their goodbyes, and Marianne is softly squealing about Dimitri, and Claude is walking further and further away from her, Hilda waits.
She likes him and she knows he likes her—she tugs, and he tugs back. But the string constricts, and Hilda just wants to be free.
When Lysithea asks her what that was all about, Hilda just shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter,” she says with a watery grin.
Silence, again. Hilda is not thinking about Claude. Not at all.
Above, a sliver of moon like an eye closed. The stars are bright, as bright as only the prematurely dead can be. Hopes are dashed in their undead starlight; Hilda would rather wither under fluorescent lights for the rest of her slow, uneventful life.