CROWN

ANTON ELLISON — cis-man (he/him), 31, spanish teacher

as penned by fia for roswell-rp

about • playlist • musings • connections 

“ well , who wants to be all grown up ?? taxes , bills , having to bathe without little rubber duckies .. all the fun gets squeezed out of life and honestly , i’m not for it . i still cling onto being a little kid as much as i can , “ and that much was evident , given his ‘ study ‘ which was merely an elaborate title for the spare bedroom that had been earmarked for his endless nerdy memorabilia . the rest of the home , designed by juniper , was adorned with neutrals , foliage illuminating the darkened spaces ; so long as his toys ( or , in jaden’s opinion , his collectibles ) were safely tucked away and out of sight , he had been allowed to keep the majority of them — mint in box , of course . 

there was an innocence to his and anton’s union , the kind of friendship found up tree branches or grazing knees in the mud — they may have found each other in their adulthood , bypassing those boyish behaviours that made most lifelong bonds , but they didn’t seem to be suffering because of it . slicing their palms and determining themselves ‘ blood brothers ‘ was duly swapped with sitting in a detergent-stinking laundromat , picking through socks and differentiating who’s were who’s — it was made even more difficult in the knowledge that jaden’s collection was mostly made up of odd pairs . 

✻ ✻ ✻

Jaden’s voice is a habitual comfort. While still a stone’s throw from evoking the wonderful, whacky swirls and sparks of vibrant colour a well-loved, well-worn song paints before Anton’s eyes, it isn’t far off. More often than not, Anton’s found himself wondering what kind of shapes his best friend’s voice would take. Multicoloured, multi-patterned rubber duckies sound about right. 

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with havin’ a buddy in your bath, man,” Anton mutters. He’s leant his head back against the wall behind them, eyes having slipped shut to better appreciate Jaden’s rambling. There’s an easy, relaxed smile on his lips, and he slips out a hum in the undertones of a contented sigh. 

Chiba chuckled. “Sorry mate, seems like you’ve been hit by the laundromat pranker,” he said, moving forward to accept the sneaker. “Yes, definitely theirs, they sneak,” he grinned at his own joke, “one of these in with every wash they can find that isn’t well protected, or leave it in there for the first one to use it. I’m pretty sure they’re the owner’s son, but I don’t wish to judge. Is your laundry alright?”

✻ ✻ ✻

The unexpected pun pulls an amused scoff out of Anton, one that lifts the corners of his lips as he nods his appreciation.  “Sneaky washer sneakers,” he tacks on in a mumble. Chiba’s conclusion makes sense, and Anton can’t quite blame the alleged culprit: It must be pretty dull to spend day in, day out with the perpetual jostle of humming, tumbling machines. Even he– supposed example to the minds he’s responsible for moulding –would fall into the jesting temptation.

“Nah, it’s all good,” Anton assures, patting the space beside the circular door where his laundry is slapping against in circles. “I was honestly more concerned ‘bout the machine, y’know? Didn’t want it breaking on me.”

A washing machine was something that Astrid always regretted not having bought yet, but something she also always forgot to get until it was time to make her way to the laundromat. When she was leaving, she’d probably tell herself to remember to look for one with a good price, then forget about it when she got swamped at work. She was deep in thought about her patterns and how predictable her life had become, when the guy beside her took a shoe of the washing machine, earning a confused expression, furrowed brows, and a nervous giggle from Astrid. “What the hell?” She looked around, waiting for a response. “Was that not there when you put your clothes in?”

✻ ✻ ✻

Anton isn’t in a situation too dissimilar from Astrid’s: It may have been two weeks already, but he’s yet to purchase a washer and dryer for his new place, over in Aurora. Although one might argue it’s to be pinned on his tendency to forget some of life’s vital comforts, he might gently return that it has more to do with how nice it is to step out of the apartment, to mingle with others for the sake of feeling life unfolding around him.

“Nah,” Anton chuckles along. He shrugs, helpless in the face of such a mystery, “I don’t think it was in there before I put my load in, either.”

Mei’s expression is thoughtful for a moment, considering what he had to say on the matter of using these machines for her shoes. “What they don’t know can’t kill them, right?” she mused, head tilting to the left. “The internet always tells you to wash your sneakers in a machine, but what do I know? Sadly I don’t have my own to test that theory…” If she did, she’d one hundred percent be there instead trying it out.

✻ ✻ ✻

Kid’s funny, Anton notes. He finds that eager, innocent grin coaxing a chuckle out of him, and he shrugs a shoulder as he hands the sneaker back to its rightful owner. “Hey, I ain’t no snitch, so.”

for: @colorbop·· location: somewhere with a line idk

“For fucks sake, man…” Ben had no idea how it had happened, but for the third time that day, someone had cut in front of him in line. All he’d wanted to do was grab a coffee and pick up a few groceries, but apparently it seemed the populous of Roswell wanted to wind him up while he was doing so —- never a good idea. “Are you serious?!” The words were only muttered on his breath, but the person they were aimed at did glance back a moment, they knew exactly what they’d done. He turned on the spot a moment, facing away from them, shaking his head and casting a glance to the person behind him. “Is it one of those days or is it me?”

✻ ✻ ✻

It’s the day before his biweekly visit to his grandma’s place. This week, she’d suggested they cook keema and rice; Anton had insisted on picking up the ingredients himself, to save her the trouble. 

Supermarkets, he finds, are liminal places. And far from such a concept at the same time. Which, in turn, he supposes now— taking the occasional half step forward as the checkout line progresses —would make them all the more liminal. It’s paradoxical at best.

Although Anton has little time to ponder any more, and he blinks out of his hazy bubble when the man in front pops it, tone needle-thin, words just as prickly.

did she have her own washer and dryer at home? absolutely. but did that stop noa from needing the reinforcements of the battered and bruised machines at lunar laundromat? no it did not. caspian had pushed the limits of his wardrobe to a point that her own appliances no longer cut it, and she would do just about anything out of desperation. the brunette was used to the machines thudding and thumping with every tumble of its contents, and while she was definitely guilty of leaving things in pockets before shoving them into those magical cleaning cavities, this time she was sure she wasn’t the culprit.

face buried in her phone to try and answer as many work emails as possible, noa didn’t even look up at the sound of the question. her clothes were already nearing the end of their drying cycle, her washing machine already occupied by someone else when she felt a nudge on her shoulder. lifting both brows and then her gaze, she was met face-to-face with one of her son’s shoes. “what in the hell?” it took a moment before she found anton’s eyes, a confused smile appearing on her features before she released a chuckle. “it seems as though i forgot something while i was switching things over. consider it a gift from my toddler?”

✻ ✻ ✻

Right when it seems as though Anton’s left with no choice other than that of abandoning the mystery sneaker, a voice pipes up. He turns to the woman in question, then spots the culprit himself and chuckles, figuring, of course: It’s a kid’s shoe. Makes sense. 

Suraj hung their outfit away and walked out through the kitchen, making their way to the front as they picked up their order. They smiled and sat down opposite of Anton, putting two cups of coffee down and a bag of three donuts. “Hey, sorry, I was cleaning the fridge and I got a bit carried away, but I am bringing you a sorry coffee and some donuts,” they said, gesturing at both. “Do you want sugar or cream?” they asked. ( @colorbop· )

✻ ✻ ✻

A warm welcome to Roswell had come in the form of Suraj Das; Anton always looks forward to their snack breaks, lunch breaks, anything that involves hanging out and talking film. It reignites a passion once dormant, left as embers in the depth of the high school teacher’s chest until a friendly smile had come along to fan it back into a happy little flame.

Anton’s eyes warm with that flame as he spots his friend approaching. He greets them with a smile. “You good, you good. I get it. Ain’t gonna say no to a donut, though.”

          Upon hearing how the stranger was about to make Jack move, they chuckled not even wanting to pay any more attention other than they already had. As if Jack would ever listen to anyone. “Oy,” his eyes firmly shut closed as he was still laying on those three chairs, “Mrs. Rockwell,” of course he noticed his grandmother’s neighbor entering in, “how’s that hip of yours?” Not even waiting for her response, Jack continued. “See, Mrs. Rockwell had a hip surgery a couple of months ago. It’s hard for her to sit down on such a low chairs so she prefers standing, isn’t that so, Mrs. Rockwell?” But it was done, his sleep was broken and instead of getting the much needed rest after yesterday’s gig, Jack was about to be a zombie. Deciding to get up and take a seat, they looked at the guy. “Why do you even care who sits where? There are chairs in the back and besides, as far as I can tell, Mrs. Rockwell still knows how to speak.” Their gaze traveled to the old lady in the back who was putting her bag up on the chair, not even being slightly bothered by the exchange of the two men.

✻ ✻ ✻

“Oh, nah, nah. See, that’s where you’re wrong,” Anton shrugs, easygoing. It’s not his fault, he figures, that this person’s up their own ass insofar as to misunderstand where Anton had been coming from. Not to mention using another’s mobility issues for their own argument’s sake.

“Don’t get it twisted, it’s not that I care about you or where y’sit. It’s more, like—” Another shrug, gaze and tone as patient as they would be were Anton dealing with a five-year-old, explaining their wrongs so that they may do better in the future, “—caring about other folks. Y’know...”

aylin’s washing machine was on the fritz, yet again, they really needed someone to come out and look at it. but they didn’t have enough time or money to do that, so for the second time this month they were down at the local lundromat with cooper, they planned doing a photoshoot with him whilst they waited for their clothes to wash.

they’d just put in their first load when they heard the other’s voice, aylin turns their head, “nope! not mine. cute shoe though”. 

✻ ✻ ✻

Anton glances at the shoe, then the stranger. He shrugs, “s’all you.”

It isn’t until he sets the soggy shoe on the island in the centre of the laundromat that he notices the beady-eyed pup, mouth drawn into a natural, tiny smile. A grin of his own grows on Anton’s face, and he lifts his gaze to the dog’s owner, gesturing at Cooper with a gentle hand.

    HE TAPS HIS FINGER AGAINST HIS TEMPLE, like his head contains a universe of precious, infinite knowledge within it ( many people would beg to differ, but this unassuming stranger doesn’t need to know that ) and says, “oh, this noggin’s gonna take me places,” with a thick texan drawl, grins stupidly at the man as if there’s an inside joke there somewhere. “i had this idea once, for glow-in-the-dark toilet paper. you know, ‘cause sometimes you need to take a shit in the middle of the night after havin’ a bad taco or two and you don’t wanna turn the lights on ‘cause it’s too bright, but then it’s too dark. well…” he huffs, shaking his head. “wouldn’t you know it! turns out some schmuck’s had the same idea and is already sellin’ the damn thing!” he laughs, the boisterous sound catching the attention of some annoyed customers. “same thing happened with doggie goggles. or doggles, as i like to call ‘em. we used to get horrible sandstorms back in texas, see. and this one time, i was walkin’ my uncle’s dog, bianca — fuckin’ stupid name for a mutt, if you ask me — poor thing, i had carry her all the way home, sand in both our eyes. least i got a pair of shades handy with me. bianca didn’t.”

✻ ✻ ✻

Fool’s gold, that’s what the brown-haired stranger’s confidence is making Anton think of. It tickles him— especially the fact that he’s yet to catch on to claim ownership of his dripping sneaker —as much as it makes Anton bristle with apprehension. Privilege’s audacity is difficult to ignore when one lives with a lack thereof: The privilege, that is. Anton doesn’t want to imagine what folks would do were he in the other’s shoe (that bare foot must be getting cold soon, Anton thinks), stoned out of his mind and making a meal of it in public.

The longer he listens, the higher Anton’s brows creep up his forehead; he ends up leaning against the centre-island, arms folded casually, nodding along. He offers a sympathetic groan at the sudden turn in Hal’s first story, only to snort at the derision towards a not-too bad doggy name, in his humble opinion.

“So, what I’m gettin’ is,” Anton chimes in, his expression as playful as his tone, “you from Texas, and you could be killin’ it in that show, what’s it—” He clicks his fingers a few times to prompt the name into his head. When it hits, he points straight at Hal— “Shark Tank! Yeah, yeah... Killin’ it, but only if you a lil’ quicker to get to the pitch, right?”

since stumbling across each other in feel good records , locking eyes over the rows upon rows of vinyls and losing themselves in an hour-long conversation on the idiosyncrasies of punk genre off-shoots , anton and jj had been near inseparable . taking their puppies out together , being their plus-one to shows and , now , the muscle behind a begrudging laundromat run . when cloth diapers were cycled through day-in , day-out , it often proved more economical to save up stray dollars — those lost behind couch cushions and in back pockets — to utilise the larger , industrial sized drums at lunar . 

glancing up from his comic — a back issue of gambit — jaden’s brow twitched and he leaned forward to investigate the hanging , sodden sneaker . “ well it’s not mine !! “ protested the male , gesturing to his own collection of soiled baby clothes and graphic t-shirts whirring beside his head , “ why is it frowned upon to write your name in sharpie on the labels of your clothes . y’know , like you used to do at school ?? if somebody lost a sweater in gym class it was easy to give it back to the right person . just pull out the label and hand it back to little jimmy , “ oh , how times were simpler back then , when his hair was dyed black and to his shoulders , nose adorned with a septum ring . 

✻ ✻ ✻

The overwhelming urge to sit the sneaker atop Jaden’s head almost, almost overpowers him. The shoe wobbles a little in midair, rocking under the slow pull of Anton’s hand as it seems to float out of its own volition towards that bulbous head of impressive hair. He stops, draws it back, surrenders an inaudible sigh and abandons the sneaker on the island in the centre of the humming, rattling, sleepy space, where folks fold their clothes and set aside their bags and baskets to wait. 

Anton slips back into the chair beside Jaden’s, shoulders touching, and lifts a leg to sit his ankle on his other knee. He drums his fingers along his thigh, watching the swirls of colours spinning around in each of the machines— some soggy and twinkling with soapy suds, others throttled by the dryers.

“Go off, man,” he agrees through an easy chuckle, “only... I guess it’s a thing that you’re s’posed to be responsible for your shit once you’re all grown up.”

     THE STEADY HUM OF INDUSTRIAL-GRADE WASHING MACHINES COULD PUT HIM TO SLEEP. it already had, a couple of times, much to the owner’s chagrin, but a paying customer is a paying customer, and unfortunately, the paying customer bears the last name of someone they dare not cross, no matter how much he might smell like grass - and not the freshly cut kind, either.

he blinks at the man from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the metal gang chair, takes a second to register the question he announces across the room, then draws his attention to the single shoe he’s holding like a gladiator bringing home the spoils of war. what an odd thing to ask at a laundromat, hal thinks, and he chuckles. the sound of his own laughter further amuses him, and he actually guffaws. “fuck, that’s funny, dude…” he says once he’s settled down somewhat, wiping tears from the corner of his eyes. the chairs creak under his weight as he shifts to bring his feet down, one foot suspiciously shoeless. he does not seem to notice this. “you should sell it online. nice-lookin’ shoe, too, bet you’d make a pretty dollar outta that.”

✻ ✻ ✻

Detergents and softeners float up and swirl into an assonant dance of clashing perfumes, but it does little to overpower the sharpness of that familiar, tangy stink. In fact, that tangy stink is overpowering the laundromat’s usual scents, and Anton soon finds himself observing its source. 

His brows crease when the chuckling crests into a bellyaching cackle; as amused as he might have been were he hanging with a friend, there’s something boastful about the guy’s state. It spells out a warning.

Still, Anton’s will bends a little too often to mischief’s temptation; the fact that the owner of the shoe is the one to obliviously suggest that he pawn it off is a little too ironic a moment to let up. Anton hoists the sneaker up so that he can let go of the laces and catch it from the bottom before it lands.

“Well, you definitely ain’t wrong about that,” Ryan said with a soft chuckle as her head nodded in agreement. A color like that was far from her usual sense of style— all of her shoes, and clothing, being nothing more than neutral colors Articles of clothing she could put together in a variety of ways without having to worry about clashing. It made her travels a whole lot easier when she didn’t have to worry about what she was wearing. “I hope whoever it belongs to realizes their missin’ a shoe. It’s too pretty to be forgotten.”

Sparing the shoe once last glance, Ryan brought her attention back to the person in front of her. Her hand taking hold of the one being extended towards her and giving it a light shake. “Ryan,” she supplied back with sweet smile before dropping her hold. “Nice to meet you, Anton. You from around here?” She questioned, if only to keep the conversation going. 

✻ ✻ ✻

Anton shrugs, “they don’t come’n’ get it back, I’ll bet the Roswell aliens’ll grab it.” 

When his mother, Dunia, had warned Anton that there was a... prevalent main theme in Roswellian culture, Anton hadn’t thought much of it, other than the initial sprinkle of curiosity he’d felt upon packing up his car and taking on the twenty (20) hour drive down from ‘Cisco. 

The town had felt, at first, like a Westworld-esque tourist trap, its residents actors with lines challenging visitors to uncover some elaborate Sci-Fi plot; Anton had enjoyed every second of exploration. Roswell had the perfect blend of kitschy souvenirs and tongue-in-cheek self awareness that makes him chuckle every time he thinks about the revolving conspiracy theories. Then again, it’s all fun and games until some cows get sucked up into a flying saucer.

            Jack was laying on three chairs, trying to catch on some sleep. If you didn’t think it’s possible to sleep in the laundromat, Jack Huxley was here to prove you wrong. However, today they couldn’t sleep. Perhaps it was because he went to bed around 7pm last night due to the major lack of sleep during the previous two days. “It’s the first gift from the Mad Hatter.” Not usually the one to talk to anybody if he didn’t have to, Jack replied to the man who was holding a sneaker in his hand. And yes, it was funny to witness it, but also, it could have easily been a gift from an alien believer.. it’s Roswell after all. “Either you’ve discovered entrance to the Wonderland or some of those goddamn alien believers is once again trying to prove that aliens do exists,” they chuckled.

✻ ✻ ✻

Sparing the odd uninterested glance his way, Anton’s inquiry slips by sans acknowledgement. Save for the curious bout of oddly strung together thoughts a sleep-deprived looking stranger offers up. Something about their tone rubs Anton the wrong way, and he shifts from foot to foot— the only telltale sign of his discomfort: His features remain impassive, expression casual, attentive. He sets the abandoned sneaker atop one of the machines and watches it jostle under the vibrations for a moment.

“Wonderland, huh?” Anton exhales, giving the other a once-over.

The person who’d spoken up is taking up the three chairs closest to the entryway. Anton’s mom had taught him manners first and foremost, and he finds the display of lacking just that hard to swallow. Especially when the bell dings and the laundromat door squeaks open to let a shuffling elderly woman in, hefty bag dangling heavily from arms she has braced against her chest. She’s clearly far more in need of one chair than the stranger is of all three.

The voice sort of blended into the background as Mei sat comfortably on a chair, foot bobbing up and down to the 80′s music she was listening to. It was when she spotted the Converse sneaker in the hand of the person who had spoken that she perked up, raising a hand almost like she was in class. “It’s mine!” she admitted, sliding her headphones down around her neck. “Completely forgot I put that in there.” But that posed the question, where had its counterpart gone? She had surely put them both into one of the machines.

The high-pitched whistle of synth and snare drums crackles around the other’s headphones in sparks of hot pink and mint blue, making Anton blink for a second. He hoists his gaze up to meet Mei’s. She looks a little sheepish; Anton’s quick to assure her with an easy shrug. 

“S’ all good, s’all good. I’unno how chill the folks who run the place are gonna be if they find shoes in their machines, though.” He wears a small, warm smile as he hands the sneaker back over, still dangling from its laces in his light grip, “I heard they can break ‘em. Possibly— I’m not a-hundred percent certain.”