Chapter Text
Stede was doing his best. He really was. When his father had announced that he would be marrying his business partner's daughter, Stede had replied with a simple stuttered, 'I can't.' When angrily pressed for a reasonable explanation, he'd managed to choke out the words he'd hardly dared think to himself.
"I'm gay."
His father had cycled through the stages of grief in quick succession. Denial, as he firmly told Stede that no, of course he wasn't. Homosexuality was for lower-class vagrants and empty-headed liberals, not upright citizens like their old-money family. Stede tried to argue with logic and reason and statistics, and finally, in a fit of desperation, resorted to pulling up his browsing history - an indisputable catalogue of Stede's perversion.
His father had turned a terrifying shade of purple as he transitioned into fury. There was shouting. There was name-calling and shaming and insults and slurs thrown like chainshot. Threats paved the way into bargaining, which faded into a show of depression as Stede, to his own surprise and certainly to the surprise of his father, stood his ground. How would he face his business partner again, his father groaned. The wedding was already planned and paid for, set to happen in mere weeks. Not that anyone had bothered to tell Stede before now.
In the end, his father finally accepted the inevitable, and disowned Stede.
Stede wrote a quick email to Mary apologizing for jilting her and explaining the situation, and went on his merry way, not particularly feeling like he'd lost anything. He knew he was privileged beyond rationale - his father hadn't hesitated to point it out through his life, hadn't hesitated to point how Stede hadn't earned a single one of the fine things he was surrounded by - but the constraints of the life his father laid out for him had chafed like an ill-fitting suit. He threw it off with a petty sort of glee, bare and ready to begin like anew. So to speak, of course.
With sheer luck, he managed to find a job at a library, and after an uncomfortable week on Mary's boyfriend's sofa (Mary had been wildly gracious about the entire debacle, and more than a little relieved herself, given the boyfriend, and had set out to help him the best she could), he found a flyer on a community bulletin board advertising a room available in a flat. He phoned the number, and was moved in with his meagre two suitcases within the week.
He was doing it! He was learning, and living on his own damn terms! It was horrifically embarrassing to discover just how much he lacked in life skills, but again, he was trying his best, and tried not to burden his new flatmates with his asinine questions. He was a grown man. He could do this.
Which is how he found himself standing in the laundromat, staring at the machine, utterly lost.
He prodded the machine with his foot, trying to breathe through his frustration. He could do this, he knew he could, if he could just focus and reason through it. But would it kill them to post some instructions? Why did they just assume people knew? Some people were inexperienced. Some people were incompetent. Some people were stupid. Stede was, he thought, perhaps all three.
Who was he kidding? Why had he thought he was capable of any of this? He was bloody helpless. Lily-livered spoiled little rich boy. He couldn't do it, and he was exhausted from trying. He could feel the weight and dull panic of the last three weeks crashing down on him, of all that he'd done and thrown away, pressing long-held tears from his eyes.
"Okay there, mate?" A voice asked, and Stede startled, cringing.
"Oh, um, yes, of course, thank you. I was just, ah..." He hastily wiped the tears away, swallowing back the lump in his throat as he grappled for some reasonable explanation of why he might be crying in a laundromat at 11am on a Tuesday. Sighing, he quickly realized there wasn't one. Stede resigned himself to public ridicule – it wasn't like it was the first time.
He turned to face the stranger, and oh, that wasn't fair. Trust Stede to humiliate himself in front of one of the most attractive men he'd ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on. He took in the long loose curls, raven black and looking sinfully soft. The thick beard, more tightly curled. Strong arms, scattered with tattoos and wrapped in a black cropped t-shirt. "Um," he managed intelligently.
"Don't worry about it man, shit happens," the man said. "Sometimes you think you've got everything handled and then the machine eats your quarter, and bam! It's a fucking catastrophe, the last fucking straw.”
“God, it certainly feels like it, doesn't it?” Stede laughed shakily.
“Need some more change?” The man rummaged in his pockets, pulling out an assortment of coins.
Stede hastily shook his head. “No, no, thank you, but it's alright. I'm alright, I'm just... not really sure what I'm doing.” He dropped his gaze, waiting for the sneer, waiting for the derision. Poor Baby Bonnet, useless as ever.
“With the laundry, or like, in general?”
When Stede raised his eyes, he found the stranger looking at him with only curiosity. “Well, in general, honestly, but it's the damn laundry that's, as you said, the last straw.”
“Pretty much the same as the in-unit sort,” the man shrugged, reaching past Stede to fiddle with the dials. Stede decided not to admit he'd never used a washing machine at all. What little dignity he'd possessed was already in tatters, there was no need to fray it further. He tracked the man's movements, trying to memorize the settings he was using.
At the man's cue, Stede scooped the contents of his suitcase into the machine.
The man's eyes widened as he pulled a garment from the top. "Holy fuck, mate, is this silk?"
"Oh! It's, um, a rather exquisite cashmere actually," Stede stammered. He prayed he wouldn't rummage through the clothes much more, heat rising to his face. There was underwear in this load. "Do - do you fancy a fine fabric?" He asked mildly.
The man rubbed the sweater between his fingers almost reverently. "Think maybe I do," he murmured. He blinked, blushing, seeming to realize what he was doing. "I'll stop pawing at your laundry, sorry, that's fucking weird." He shook his head. "But shit, man, don't you have to handwash stuff like this?"
Stede was horrified to find himself tearing up again at the prospect of another monumental-sounding task.
"Or we can just try it on delicate and hope for the best?" The man suggested quickly, twisting a knob on the machine again. "But don't hate me if it gets wrecked."
Stede took a shaky breath, weighing the risk. He knew it was ridiculous, being so concerned about a shirt, but his clothes were one of the last vestiges of his old life. And despite all the discomfort and ugliness, he was reluctant to risk losing them. They'd been one of the few things that had brought him any happiness, almost an armour of sorts. Not to mention he could hardly afford to replace them at the moment - it turned out clerking at a library wasn't the most lucrative employment, and he was determined to leave his savings for when the scaffolding he'd haphazardly set up around his life inevitably came crashing down.
"Let's try it," he said finally. He gestured to the man's lean frame. "If it shrinks, I could give it to you," he joked weakly.
The man scowled, tugging self-consciously on the high hem of his cropped shirt, and Stede rushed to explain. "I could never pull something like that off. But you do. Pull it off," he clarified, a blush rising to his face.
The man's scowl softened. "Thanks, mate. Been experimenting lately, wasn't really sure about it." He cocked his head. "You could pull it off, though."
Stede's mind immediately jumped to pulling it off of him, and he blushed even darker.
The man flashed him a grin. “Hey. Wanna do something weird?”
Ten minutes later they'd exchanged shirts, and Stede was giggling, feeling lighter than he had in God only knew how long, as the man – who'd introduced himself as Ed – convinced him into his leather jacket as well.
“See? Told you you could pull it off!” Ed said gleefully, cozy in the cashmere sweater he'd plucked from Stede's wash.
Stede leaned forward to peer at the picture Ed had snapped, blushing as he saw his bare midriff on display. “I still think it suits you better,” he laughed. As he'd expected, he looked rather like he'd shrunk his laundry, especially given how tight the shirt was across his chest. Unlike Ed, who was stunning in it. Just as he was stunning in Stede's sweater, the sight of which sent something pattering inside his chest.
“Nah, trust me mate. Here, let me text you the photo.” He held out the phone, and Stede quickly entered his number. A moment later, his own phone pinged, and Ed grinned.
A machine buzzed, signalling the end of a cycle, and Ed jumped. “Shit man, I better let you actually get your laundry started.”
He stepped back and tugged the sweater over his head. Stede's mouth went dry at the expanse of warm brown skin that was revealed. He'd turned his back when they'd switched.
“Mate?”
“Oh!” Ed was holding the sweater out to him, and Stede snapped out of it. He took the garment from him and returned it to the wash before wiggling out of the tight cropped t-shirt. He tilted his body away from the other man self-consciously.
Get a hold of yourself, he scolded himself. Ed was so far out of his league that he might as well be on another planet, and he'd caught Stede having a breakdown over laundry. There was no way he was interested. Not to mention, you don't even know if he's gay, he added for the benefit of his sanity as Ed pulled his shirt back on. One shouldn't make assumptions.
Stede tugged on the shirt he'd set aside and closed the lid of the machine, then inserted the coins. He breathed a sigh of relief when the machine gurgled and began to fill. At least he'd managed to get that much right.
Ed was tugging clothes out of a dryer and shoving them into an enormous blue tote bag.
“Goodness, that looks more practical,” Stede commented. He gestured at his suitcases. “These were an absolute nightmare on the bus.”
“Oh shit, I bet,” Ed replied, nodding. He held up the bag, shaking it with a plasticky crinkle. “Ikea bags are clutch. Moving? Ikea bag. Doing laundry? Ikea bag. Got a dead body to shift? Ikea bag.” He flashed Stede a grin and stooped to grab the last of the load. “Kidding. Though I did once use one to move my mate's dog after it got hit by a car. Fucking asshole hit and run.”
“Oh dear, did they survive?”
Ed shook his head. “Nah, died on impact. Fang was fucking devastated.”
Stede guessed that Fang was the friend and not the dog, given his capacity to be devastated in this narrative. He shook his head. “It's just as well I was never allowed pets, I don't think I could have handled their passing. Did Fang get another dog?”
“No, but I got another Ikea bag. There was no saving that one,” Ed chuckled.
“I'll be sure to remember that next time I have a body to dispose of, and use my second best Ikea bag,” Stede quipped, trying to match Ed's dark humour. “Is – is Fang his real name?”
They chatted while Stede's laundry thumped its way through the machine, Ed seemingly in no hurry to leave despite his own clothes all tucked clean in the oversized bag, until the machine buzzed.
“Oh! Moment of truth time.” Ed jumped off the machine he'd been sitting on and turned to Stede solemnly. “Did you sacrifice to the laundry gods?”
Stede winced exaggeratedly. “Oh dear, I suppose I should of thought of that when I first put it in. I imagine it's too late now. What sort of sacrifices do they like, for future reference?”
“Socks, mostly,” Ed cackled. “It's the only explanation I can figure for where the buggers get off to.”
He leaned over Stede's shoulder as Stede fished through the load. He pulled out the lavender sweater Ed had tried on and shook it out. “Ah! A survivor, no sacrifice necessary.” He quirked a grin at Ed. “I'm afraid you've been cheated out of your free sweater, though.”
Ed heaved a put upon sigh. “I'll just have to make sure to sabotage the machine next time. Would hot water instead of cold do it, you reckon?”
Stede placed a hand on his chest in mock horror, ignoring the way his heart skipped at the idea of a next time. “You wouldn't.”
“I might, I'm a pretty devious guy, mate. And it's a really soft fucking sweater.”
“Well, I'll have to endeavour to guard my machine from any misdeeds,” Stede retorted.
Ed's eyes sparkled. “Tuesday your day off?”
Stede blinked at the sudden change of topic. “Oh! Um, yes?”
“Maybe I'll see you next week, then. Take care, mate, hope you find some more straws.”
He ducked out before he could reply, and Stede watched him go with a furrowed brow.
Straws?