Black Velvet (84) (Patreon)

"Is Huxley like, permanently stuck in a time warp?"

Tobias' dryer has decided that drying clothes really isn't it's calling, after all.  Of course, it fails to announce its change of life goals until after my hot-chocolate-stained clothes are sopping wet from the washing machine.  This leads to Tobias and I standing in Huxley's very dated 24-hour laundromat — squinting under flickering, blue-toned fluorescents.

"I told you," Tobias sighs, trading quarters for the clink of grey plastic laundry tokens, "that you could borrow an outfit for work."

I'm carrying my wet laundry in a black trash bag, like some sort of grimy, unwelcome Santa that parents take extra precautions in blocking their chimney for.  I'm also equipped in Tobias' pajamas, and the bottoms are not only tightened at the waist but cuffed twice at the pant legs, which only adds to the travesty that is my life.

"You're joking."  I scowl at Tobias, then motion fervently to my very emasculating fashion statement,  "you think my evil little sixth graders need more ammo?"

"I'm not criticizing your fashion taste. I'm criticizing my genetics.  To them, I'm like — tall." Tobias snorts. I glare. "Kind of.  Once they realize I'm not, game over."

"I'm sure they've seen an adult male for comparison, Oliver." Tobias snatches my bag, easily reaches over me, and deposits its contents in the sage-green dryer above my head.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Tobias rustles about, feeding the machine tokens,

"There's no setting for delicates," he glances down at me, his tired, dark eyes narrowed playfully — and warmth stirs in my chest, "will your cardigan be okay?"

"...It's business casual."

"Sure."

I consider shoving him, nose wrinkled in dismay, but instead, I snatch the wet garbage bag from his hand and plop onto the wooden bench. Then I swing forward, startled out of my faux-bitterness,

"Wait." I frown, unintentionally thrusting the wet-garbage bag against my chest as I search clothes that aren't mine and don't have pockets. My gaze shifts to the wallet that peeks from Tobias' jeans. "You paid. You drove me here and — I totally just let you pay for my laundry."

"It was two dollars." Tobias' lifted brow functions as much as his exhausted expression of irritation will allow. He rolls his eyes, starts the dryer, and turns to me with his arms crossed. "How often do you drive out to me?"

"Well." I shrug. I absently wipe the damp spot on my chest with two fingers, then lean back onto my palms. "Fair."

"Alright." Tobias sits next to me and spreads his legs just enough to place the line of his thigh against mine. "Even, then."

Silence stretches, and in it, he looks like he could fall asleep.

"Hm." I stare at the ceiling, then at the uneven grout between the tiles on the floor, searching for conversation. "Now that you mention it... Should I have you pay me a gas allowance?"

Tobias suddenly looks awake, and his tongue swipes over his bottom lip, brows raised as he regards me with false annoyance,

"... Allowance?"

"I'm considering the cost. I'll get back to you."

"... Must be a busy little hustler."

"I am." I tap the blunt edge of my nails against the scuffed wood and hum, our dryer the only one in use, echoing in a lonely beat in the empty laundromat. I glance at a flickering, neon outline that says, "Coin-Op," and another — dead sign that reads, "The Never Ending Cycle."

"A neon laundry pun." I nod, waving a hand in assessment, "a perfect mix of dad jokes, a healthy fear of nightlife, and a 1950s color palette. I'm getting a feel of the Huxley charisma."

Tobias looks at his hands that dangle between his knees and smiles as if I've said something genuinely heart-warming, and haven't just found the nearest observation to fill the sleepy air and keep us from a laundromat nap.

"... You just say whatever comes to mind, don't you?" He shakes his head, "it's like talking is a sport for you."

I blink, considering his expression, then what he's actually said,

"Is that an insult?" I squint, tennis shoe bumping against his, "because talking and socializing are two ends of a spectrum, and like, I'm only good at one.  So I get it."

"You're good at both." Tobias' smile softens into something entirely pleasing to see. I watch a beauty mark fold into the line of it, lost, much like I am. I push my palms into my knees, leaning forward.

"What's funny?" I pester, head tilting. I rock my shoulder into his upper arm, and he looks down at me, gaze warm and evaluating, "... You're smiling, but like — it feels like you're also covertly picking on me. It's disorientating."

"Disorientating?  I complimented you."

"Yes, I know.  On talking." I nod. "I'm worried for your mental stability."

"You're holding a wet trash bag and making grand observations about a laundromat.  Who are you worried for?"

"You looked like you were about to enter the stage of life called the great hibernation.  I'm keeping you awake.  I have very little else to do for the next," I glance towards the dryer, "Uh. How many minutes are left?"

Tobias chuckles, another roll of his eyes following the sound,

"Fifty-four minutes."

"Fifty-four minutes." I hum, disappointed, "did you expect that I wouldn't be making laundromat observations in a laundromat?  What else am I supposed to do?"

Tobias takes my hand. It's unexpected. It's more unexpected when he uses my pant leg to dry it with pursed lips, and then slides his fingers between mine.

"Stop touching that trash bag." He huffs. I narrow my eyes, then pull him forward in an attempt to guide our joined hands toward the damp plastic.

He shoulders me,

"Knock it off, or I'll stuff you in it."

"Rude.  Should I make more laundromat observations instead?" I hum. "That color green is a good green."

"As opposed to what?"

"... A different green."

Tobias laughs again. I laugh too because I'm tired.  Perhaps we're just delirious — or the sound of his happiness is contagious.

".... Have you ever been here before?" I wonder, absentmindedly, after several minutes of easy silence have passed. "Like, does your dryer decide to take a vacation often, or was it my magic touch?"

"Mm.  Once." He stretches his legs with a loud exhale. "It was a lot quieter of a trip, though."

"Oh, I bet you loved that."

Tobias frowns at that. I watch him hesitate — then hesitate again, his frown twitching into a wry smile, one that's lost the comfort of before.

"... Not really."

I feel my teeth hit my tongue and squeeze his hand. It sounds like an admission. I feel like — Tobias often says something vulnerable, blanketed under the pretense of very simple words. I bounce my free fingers off the back of his wrist.

"... was it too quiet?"

Tobias leans his shoulders against the really ugly column that's smack-dab in the middle of the laundry mat, and right next to the bench.

"Is it too quiet?"

This turns him towards me, so I turn towards him, our knees knocking.

"Yeah.  Can be."  My heart lurches.  He scrubs his free hand over his face and up through his hair.  "... Not a big deal."

My brows gather.  I tap my feet, hand on his clammy from shared body heat and the dryer's warmth.  I can't help but think that it isn't not a big deal.

I can't seem to forgive myself for not realizing this all might be — a very big deal.

"Jameson,"  I bite my lip when Tobias looks at me, and wonder if I should bite my tongue instead, "do you miss it?"

"I only said it was quiet here.  Not that I miss Jameson."

"Jameson had your baseball team,"  I start again, after a beat too long,  "Nic and his — well, you guys had mutual friends."  I pause at the set of Tobias' jaw and wonder if I'm encroaching on a sensitive subject,  "Well."

"They were just guys from the team that we partied with."

"I know, but.  You had party friends, then, and church, and Randy's — and like, everyone, and everyone knows everyone.  So it makes sense."

"What does?  Baseball is over, and Randy's is over."  Tobias says this dismissively and tips his head back to watch my clothes spin through the glass door of the dryer, his dark eyes unfazed,  "Finally.  That's how I feel about it.  It's finally over."

"Finally,"  I repeat.

"Yeah."  He bounces our joined hands against the bench reassuringly,  "I slipped.  I'm not homesick or something.  I want this."

I nod.  I nod again, but my eyebrows are bunched, and I can't feign understanding — or pretend that I think it's the truth.

"Okay.  But.  It's just that, if it's too quiet,"  I turn further towards him and shake my head,  "That's okay."

"Like, I know you want this.  And.  I'm not saying you're homesick.  I'm just saying that — you're in Huxley.  Alone in a house, with school, and you've got a newish job,"

I pick the fabric of my shirt, the tumbling dryer loud to me,

"It's not like baking is my one true calling, but," I blaze on, careless,  "It was really hard for me to leave The Sweet Spot.  Like.  I keep comparing this new job to it, and sometimes, I think that's why I sort of hate it some days.  It's really different, and I'm not sure it's what I want — yet.  It's just a step in a different direction.  I had to make that step."

Tobias is silent,

"Jameson's not right for you, but you can still — you can like Huxley, or be unsure about it, and it can still be your first step.  It's okay if you're homesick.  Or unsure.  Or — just a little of both."

Tobias watches me.  I let him think.  He does, his expression softening, tired of searching for words and contemplative — and finally just lifts a shoulder and says,

"Don't you have to miss something to be homesick?"  He slides a thumb over the pulse of my wrist and stares at it.  "I don't miss the house — my mom.  Or Richard.“

”I know.”

“… I don’t miss Jameson.  I just don’t.”  He inhales, eyes averting,  “But I don't really know what I want from Huxley, either."

Oh.

"... Me neither."  I press my thumb into his wrist.  "But I didn't know what I wanted from life last year, or the year before that.  And now I'm just here, with you, um.  Drying my clothes in a weird, green laundromat.  And like,"  I laugh, cheeks hot,  "holding your hand.  So things work out, I think."

Tobias' expression shifts again, this time, at ease — and his regard sweeps over my face, to the tips of my ears, and he smiles.