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For a household that consists of two men and two cats, they generate a frankly baffling amount of laundry.
It’s an endless cycle of running shorts and socks with holes in the toes, black t-shirts covered in cat fur, mismatched pairs of armbands, boxers, the jeans that make Andrew’s ass very palmable– those, Neil takes care to lay flat, unrolling the cuffed ends and tucking in tongues of pockets until the dark denim is smooth again.
Though it’s a chore, Neil doesn’t really mind. Growing up, he and his mother were lucky to make it to a laundromat once every month or so. They’d fill a plastic bag with clothes, anything too wrinkled or soiled to go another day without a wash, and slip into a nondescript coin-op alongside the first cracks of dawn. Neil would scrounge for quarters between seat cushions while morning television crackled through shitty speakers.
On a good day, his mother might hum as she exchanged loads from the washer to the dryer. If the song had lyrics, Neil never learned them. He finds himself humming along to its wordless tune as he matches pairs of socks.
He’s moved on to a load of towels, still warm and clinging to the scent of their dryer sheets, when Andrew wanders into the bedroom with his coffee. The song persists, looping in Neil’s head to the mindless rhythm of folding.
Sir, ever opportunistic, leaps up onto the bed and loafs atop the slowly growing pile. Andrew makes a half-hearted tsking sound, snapping thick fingers. Sir ignores him.
Neil hides his amusement, smothering a smile and the tail end of the song into the fabric of his t-shirt.
“What are you doing,” Andrew says.
It’s not a question. There is no upward tilt at the end of the phrase, no twitch in his brow. Neil catalogues these tells– or the lack of them– and comes to the conclusion that he’s done something wrong, but Andrew is too stubborn to outright say so.
He’s still thinking this through when Andrew takes up an empty spot on the bed and nudges his foot into Neil’s side. An impatient punctuation to his not-question. A period, or a semicolon– Andrew likes to read, and knows how to use those properly. He does it again, and again, until it becomes an ellipsis as the silence stretches. Neil captures the offending foot in his hands, cracking Andrew’s toes and rubbing the arch with his thumb.
“I’m folding laundry,” he says, conceding to his confusion.
Andrew grunts agreement, then juts his chin at the towel currently sprawled over their bedspread. Its once neon-orange has faded to a sort of ruddy peach, the hint of a white fox paw in the center fuzzing out at the edges. Bleach stains are spattered on the corners. It’s a little shrunken from too many washes and one particularly memorable beach day.
Neil is intensely fond of it.
As if sensing this, Andrew treads around his next words with care he normally doesn’t entertain.
“What is that doing in with those?”
He points to the stack of towels upon which Sir has made her bed. They were a housewarming gift from Nicky, sage green and very fluffy.
It feels like a trick question, but Andrew doesn’t play games like this. Neil tucks his bottom lip between his teeth. He can admit that it bothers him he doesn’t know what Andrew is getting at, for the first time in a very long time.
“It’s… a towel? So it goes with the other towels.”
“Neil,” Andrew says very evenly. “You’re putting a plastic spoon in the silverware drawer.”
Neil blinks at him. Andrew huffs and takes hold of Neil’s shirt collar, tugging until their faces are level.
“It’s a sex towel.”
Individually, the words have meaning. Neil parses through them one at a time, trying to find where they fit together to create a larger whole. He glances down at Andrew’s fingers curled in his shirt, stretching the already thin fabric. Looking up means meeting Andrew’s eyes straight-on, making his stomach swoop at all the flecks of gold and green picked out among honey brown.
He shakes off his distraction and tries to make sense of what Andrew has said.
“You think this towel is sexy?”
Now Andrew physically groans. Despite the subject matter, it’s not a sound born from arousal. He shoves Neil back until he stumbles over his own feet, inviting King to swipe a paw out from her hiding place under the bed.
“It’s a piece of shit,” Andrew elaborates. He plucks the towel up in his fist. “You’re not using the good conditioner just to dry off with this rag. Thus, sex towel.”
He shakes the ratty towel for emphasis. The frayed ends of it flutter uselessly before he drops it back to the bed. Like finding a missing puzzle piece behind the couch, Neil suddenly sees the whole picture.
They’ve had this discussion before, only in different languages. He translates them now with clarity, at once feeling embarrassed and fond at Andrew’s many attempts to beat around the bush for the sake of Neil’s pride.
It’s running shoes worn down to the soles. Toothbrushes with obliterated bristles. T-shirts with too many holes and pillows gone yellow and spotted with age. It’s Andrew shoving a box of sneakers sent by one of their team’s sponsors into Neil’s arms, claiming they’re a size too big for him. Dentist appointments that end with shiny, plastic toothbrushes in shiny, plastic packaging, that somehow end up on Neil’s side of the bathroom counter. Little luxuries, each one.
If Neil had any more pride, he might be offended. Was it his fault he’d grown up squeezing the last of all possible use out of his meager possessions? It had taken years to shake old habits, along with a healthy dose of humility every time one of the Foxes looked at Neil like he was something to feel sorry for.
But, this is Andrew. Twelve homes in twelve years. A garbage bag of stuff he could call his own, all of it labeled A.J. Doe in a child’s careful handwriting. Shitty gas station lighters he keeps even after they’ve run out of juice. A worn leather jacket, made soft where he pinches the hem between his fingers in muscle memory of holding a cigarette.
They are both born from blood and coffee stains, misery and morning news on old speakers. Shoes too big and too small.
“I think I get it,” Neil says softly.
Andrew nods once, grunting again, this time in satisfaction. He sips his coffee, surely gone lukewarm while Neil’s brain struggled to catch up. His effort to hide the wrinkling of his nose in distaste is cute, but unsuccessful.
“Make a new cup,” Neil suggests.
Andrew narrows his eyes, torn between defiance at being told what to do or nullifying the point he’s just made. “The pods are, like, four dollars each.”
Kevin’s housewarming gift was a fancy espresso machine. A chrome monstrosity on their tasteful, granite countertops. Neither of them will admit they like it.
Neil grins. “Make me one, too. Have a little luxury, hm?”
Andrew snorts into his cold coffee. He rises up slowly, stretching out his shoulders as Neil reaches for the discarded towel, folding it once over his arm. It really is a piece of shit. He still remembers the day a Palmetto State cheerleader shoved it into his arms while attempting to breeze past a ‘school spirit’ table outside the court. He hadn’t thought much of it then, but the towel snuck its way into his laundry rotation with ease, and– much like every other wonderful thing that came into Neil’s life from PSU– stuck around.
Neil rubs the ends of it with the tips of his fingers where he still has feeling. A sex towel. He pictures Andrew’s flushed cheeks and ears and bright eyes. The wisps of his fine hair sprawled messily over the faded orange, wiping his chest and stomach clean before rolling back into Neil’s arms, sticky and happy.
Yeah, he can roll with this. Just because something is beat up doesn’t mean it can’t have some good use. Andrew is the one who taught him that, after all.
“Are you having a breakdown?” Andrew asks dryly as he re-enters the room, two mugs in hand. He takes a noisy, slurping sip from his own and presses the other into Neil’s free hand.
Neil opts to kiss the taste of it out of Andrew’s mouth instead. The espresso is needlessly expensive, shot through with flavors Neil couldn’t identify with a gun aimed at his head. Andrew has smothered it in layers of fancy cream they buy from the local farmer’s market and half a bag of sugar. It’s pure decadence with every swipe of their tongues.
“Wanna test this out?” Neil mumbles, giving the old towel a little shake.
Andrew rolls his eyes. His cheeks are pink. He drags Neil back in for an answer.
Their coffee goes cold, again, but they can afford it. After all, they’ve earned a little luxury.