#it’s late and i have work tmrw but idc!! pre relationship honeymoon suite be upon ye!!!

[itgirlwife]

protagonists don’t do laundry

summary: puck and malcolm meet for the first time.

pairing: honeymoon suite | puck/malcolm

words: 1209

notes: serves as an introduction to my self insert (who is just me, really), first person pov (i’m a reliable narrator! i swear!!!)

I am wasting away in this bedroom. And the heat and humidity only add to my misery. Loneliness is the bitter frosting on top but if I admit it is, I’ll start crying. I’ve dreamed up scenarios where I lived on my own comfortably and happily. I got what I wanted, but my chest has had a hole in it since I moved in.

The hole gets bigger with every reminder of how lonely I am. An empty bed. A quiet home. Unanswered texts. Watching movies alone in my living room. The only thing I can point a finger at is myself. I got tired of applying myself to people. My attention dwindled along with my energy. People who were interested in me started to bore me and people I grew interested in intimidated me. For the sake of my anxiety and insecurity, I stopped trying. 

I romanticized my loneliness. When silence got loud, I put on music and pretended I was in an 80s movie. I wore platform boots to go grocery shopping. I ordered food from places I wanted to take potential dates to. All these things are fun until it’s over. 

The white ditsy floral sheets, now damp with sweat, were a product of my romanticization. If my room was pretty, I’d feel pretty. It worked but I fear my room will lose its luster after a while like everything else was. Groaning, I threw the matching comforter off my body and got out of bed. It’s too hot to be standing. I begin to remove the sheets from the bed. It’s like removing makeup. Yellowing pillows, plastic covering the mattress. Pretty on the surface but dull underneath.

Balling up all the sheets and pillowcases, I make a half-assed attempt to throw them in the clothes bin. I miss I but realize the bin is overflowing. Doing laundry isn’t something I can romanticize, so I neglected it. It made me feel common, non-cinematic. Protagonists don’t do laundry but the overflowing bin ruined the “aesthetic” of my bedroom. Groaning again, I accept defeat. Today is a laundry day. Part of me doesn’t mind. I needed an excuse to dress up.

—

To my dismay, almost all of my good clothes were in the dirty clothes bin. All I had were sweats and a t-shirt. Both of which are black. Horrible combination. It’s stupid hot. My walk to the laundromat wasn’t long but it felt like I had spent hours in the sun. By the time I got to the laundromat, my back was damp with sweat and my pants became uncomfortable. I want this to be over quickly, so I shoved the sheets from the laundry bag into the washer in handfuls. Angry, annoyed, handfuls. 

Once the machine is half full, I do the same with the next washing machine, not separating anything, or turning anything inside out. Clothes fall to the tiled floors and it only makes me angrier. I pick them up just as viciously as I shove them into the machine. If I didn’t care, I’d slam the door shut but there are people here, so I care a lot. I add quarters to both machines and finally plop down on the row of plastic chairs behind me.

“You don’t separate your whites from the colors?” It’s a man’s voice. He’s sitting two seats away from me.

“No.”

“Your clothes won’t wash properly if you do that, love.”

Love. I like that for me. “Well. It hasn’t been a problem in the past. I just found out that you aren’t supposed to be filling the washer all the way up.”

He stops slouching and sits up straight, brown strands of hair come down his face with the movement. “What do you mean you just found out?”

I shrug. “I mean, like, I discovered that a month ago. I just put everything on colors.” The first time I did laundry, I was 14. The first time I did laundry almost properly, I was 20. The difference is that I read the instructions on the washer.

“Colors?” His pretty brown eyes look like they’re about to fall out of their sockets. “You’re going to kill me and I don’t even know you.”

“White is a color.” Though I think about Googling it later in case I’m wrong.

“Ok? But there’s a setting for that color. You wash them separately on the whites setting.”

“I don’t believe in segregation.” He laughs and I feel like I’m floating. He almost doesn’t seem real.

“You’ve got a pretty head on your shoulders. A funny brain in there too.” 

I nod. Not because I agree with him, but because my brain is too busy turning to liquid to speak. A dryer beeps and I’m back at the laundromat. He excuses himself and tends to his clothes. 

I feel sick and excited. My heart’s on speed. These feelings scare me, but I’ve been wanting to feel them for a long time. There’s something nostalgic about this person I’ve never met. I’ve seen him in a movie or I met him in a daydream. Raoul Duke from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Neo in the latest Matrix movie. Almost Famous. Dazed and Confused. I describe him with movies because no one like him exists. He embodies cinema. Fiction and nostalgia.

Within a minute, he’s standing in front of me with his bag of clothes. 

“Do you have a pen?” 

I shake my head no. The hamster on the wheel in my head stopped running a long time ago.

“That’s a shame,” he pulls a pen out from his back pocket and takes my arm with a ring-clad hand, “you’ll never know when a handsome stranger is gonna give you their number.” He begins to write his digits on my arm. Light enough so he isn’t poking me but hard enough so it appears on my skin. I don’t even notice when he drops my arm. I’m elsewhere. I’m in a movie.

“What’s your name?” He asks. This isn’t a movie. It’s real life.

“Puck.” He raises an eyebrow and smiles again. I want lightning to strike me. 

“Cute. My name’s on your arm so you can’t spell it incorrectly. Malcolm.” Cute. Cute. Cute. My head plays it over and over like it’s casting a spell. I look down at my arm. His name is written in all caps with an “x” next to it.

Malcolm throws the bag over his shoulder, an indicator that our interaction is ending. The hole in my chest closes but stays open an inch, knowing that he’s leaving.

“You’re going to call me, yeah? Hopefully, the next time I see you, I’m taking you on a date.”

I nod again. He smiles.

“Good. Take care, Puck.”

He leaves. I’m still sitting here like an idiot. It didn’t seem real. I look at my arm again. It’s real. The laundromat didn’t exist in those few minutes, so my wet clothes have been sitting in the washer for who knows how long.

Putting them in the basket, I noticed a pink top, pink pants, and pink socks. Everything is pink, or stained with pink dye. The colors bled and stained my clothes. I was given a warning after all.