Work Text:
“So. Much. Clutter,” Hange thinks out loud while looking at their kitchen. They wrinkle their nose and purse their lips, inhaling deeply. Their hands move around containers that hang around and occupy the counter. Some things need to be thrown out. Others need a good wash. There’s stuff that needs to be put away. And there’s the vast array of objects with no designated place, that desperately need one.
The clock shows 3:14.
There’s still time; one more hour before it’s too late to clean. Thursday tea is why Hange keeps some specialty herbs: just the two varieties that their friend drinks. Hange isn’t a morning person, and most certainly not a tea person. They’d stuff their tea with sugar to make it drinkable. They had a pleasant surprise on a trip, with a cup of rooibos served with milk and honey. It was sweet, aromatic, refreshing, a feast that didn’t even resemble tea.
Hange gathers jars that need to be put away and bottles follow into the pantry. It doesn’t take a long time, surprisingly. A packet of some forsaken, unidentified herbs falls off the counter and spills on the hardwood floor.
“Shit!”
They bring the vacuum. A cute, cordless model received as a gift sucks in the herbs, only to stop immediately. It always runs out of power in times like these. Hange notices dust bunnies under the table.
They go get the charger. They search for it in every pocket of that wall organizer. Their hand comes out empty.
“Where is it? Maybe it’s in the living room.”
Hange looks for that charger near the outlet. It’s not there. Red frustration builds up as they look at the clock again. Soon enough, it'll be too late to be cleaning, and they’ll start sweating out the four coffees they had.
They pick up their phone. After three rings, a raspy and bored-out-of-its-life voice answers.
“Yes, Four-Eyes, what’s now? What did you lose? Did you look under your hallway bench? Maybe it fell there. Now leave me alone, I’m working.”
“Right! The stupid bench!”
Hange hangs up and follows the new lead. A grin spreads on their face as they hunch down to look under furniture. Empty bottle, tissue paper, dust bunnies.
“Damn! No charger.”
Hange sighs, pushes back their glasses, dusts off their knees. They don’t pick up anything from under the bench. Back into the kitchen, they inspect it to do whatever needs to be done so it’s deemed ‘satisfactory for dogs’, and not ‘too filthy to be inhabited.’
Empty jars aside, dirty dishes in the washer, rotten fruit in the bin, recyclables to their baskets, Hange is pleased. An approximately clear working top and a clean table should suffice for their exigent friend.
A teaspoon falls with a clink. When Hange crouches to pick it up, the dust stares back. Oh. They were about to vacuum those bastards, so their precious friend doesn’t cough at the unacceptable sight.
Again, they go to the storage closet to look at the guilty wall pocket that hid the needed charger. Nothing.
Again.
The charger is nowhere.
Again.
Hange gets it off its hook, turns it upside down, crying, because they don’t only have fur balls in the kitchen, but also crumbs in the living room. A good sweeping on turbo is needed to get to an ‘acceptable for animals’ state.
Hange’s eyes widen when a white paper falls from the textile organizer. They pick it up and time stops when they read it in slow motion:
‘So your floors are easier to clean – L’
They stand there for a long moment.
“I need to clean, or he’ll berate me for being messy. Fuck! That’s why I keep certain things in certain places, so they don’t go missing like this!”
They could never meet their friend’s high cleaning standards. He’s a freak for all things pristine and minimal, and Hange is, well… Hange is a maximalist.
Hange’s workspace is filled with papers. Hange gets out all potential ingredients for one simple recipe. Their wardrobe piles on a chair, despite possessing perfectly functional dressers. They forget to put things back, and they never not find their things, as long as nobody tempers with their invisible system.
Phone in hand, they call again. Three rings. A flat and rough voice answers.
“Yes, Four-Eyes, what’s now? What did you lose? Did you…”
“I searched in the hallway, it’s not there.” They cry out and slam the phone away.
Sheepish steps take their tired body to the living room doorway. They make mental notes of the next tasks. The lousy state of the rug brings Hange to their senses.
“Maybe… maybe I left it...” Hange mumbles upon approaching the extension cord. They already searched under the sofa, on the desk, on the table. The charger might be lost.
“Aaaaahhhh! Why am I so messy all the time?!” Hange yells at the wall clock.
4:32
Hange wishes for a classic vacuum.
Defeated, they start clearing the coffee table, hoping that the charger will materialize out of thin air to save the day. The bookshelf seems vacant since nothing’s threatening to fall off. They pick up some books and the stupid charger falls down. Hange lets out a nervous cackle and sticks the jack into the slot to load the battery, while they take a shower.
Hange times their washing. Teeth brushing, showering, towel-drying, lightly ruffling their mane so it’s not too wet before getting dressed, the entire task takes up eleven minutes.
All cleaned-up, they step on crumbs with clammy feet and start vacuuming with an uneasy smile plastered on their face.
Pillows fluffed, room aired, floors – finally – vacuumed, teacups set, Hange is prepared.
They call.
Three rings.
“Yes, Four-Eyes, what’s now? Wha–”
And Hange breaks down, falls to their knees, while bitter tears roll over their cheek.
4:58
He is always there at 5 sharp.
Hange looks at the clean living room, at the clean kitchen.
Idle tears.
They are still crying when they start the kettle.
5:01
Nobody.
At 5:02, a knock on the door.
Hange jumps in surprise, opens it, to find a heartbroken Moblit, Nanaba, and Mike. Hange looks like they've seen a ghost.
“We know what day it is. We're here for you,” Moblit passes the entryway.
“We brought biscuits. Let’s have that tea that you only kept for him. It ain’t gonna drink itself,” Nanaba follows.
“And he’s not here to complain about us having tea ‘the wrong way’,” Mike enters last, holding a jar of amber-colored honey.
Hange sobs in their friends’ arms.
“For once I wanted him to bitch about my filthy house.”