and the taste of it, honey, is bitter

She carries herself like someone who already knows the answers to most questions-- like she’s heard them all before and found them boring, without anything to challenge the glint in her eye. There’s something polished about her, facets shined to a blinding perfection, but Ziggy’s met too many people like that to assume the shine isn’t armor. It’s not a question of whether she’s hiding something. It’s a question of whether she cares if he sees it.

But that’s not what she asked him, is it?

Her question was about him. About what he does. About whether thi conversation was something intentional, something part of his process, or just another passing thing to remember weeks from now, incidental and nothing.

"That would be telling." The words come quiet, curved at the edges, his fingers dragging slow around the rim of his glass. The matcha is still untouched, bright green against the dim light of the café, but he makes no move to sip it. Instead, he tilts his head, letting the moment breathe, letting the silence settle thick between them before he breaks it again.

Alfie had seen a lot of strange shit in his life, but watching Ziggy short-circuit in real time might’ve just cracked the top ten. He didn’t say anything at first—just leaned against the machine a bit more, arms folded, one brow cocked as he waited the lad out. No rush. He wasn’t in a hurry, and judging by the way Ziggy looked like he was contemplating falling into the Earth’s crust, he figured silence was the better option than piling on.

Then, finally, the poor bloke sputtered out a half-coherent apology and tried to pivot into vending machine egg lore like nothing had happened. Alfie blinked once. Twice.

And then he started laughing.

Not a loud, booming one—but a soft, almost disbelieving snort that turned into a proper grin as he shook his head, scrubbing a hand down his jaw.

“You alright there, mate? Look like you just saw God and forgot your lines.” His voice was warm, teasing, but not unkind. He nudged Ziggy lightly with the side of his arm. “Take a breath. S’nothin’ serious. Just laundry and ghost eggs, apparently.”

He glanced toward the vending machine with mock skepticism, like it might be harboring some ancient poultry curse. “That egg still in there, you reckon? Could be a legend now. Local folklore.”

He looked back at Ziggy then, his grin softening just slightly. “Hey. You don’t gotta explain yourself, yeah? Everyone’s carryin’ somethin’. Least you’re not pretendin’ everything’s sunshine and fuckin’ roses. That’s rare, far as I’m concerned.”

He held Ziggy’s gaze for a beat longer, then gestured lazily at the washing machine. “Anyway. Once these finish, I say we go in on one of those sugar coma cookies from the corner shop. Least we’ll have earned it after bravin’ this hellhole.”

There’s no accusation, no digging for answers, no so, what’s your deal, then? Just a casual kindness that catches Ziggy completely off guard. And suddenly, that is the thing scrambling his brain, that realization hitting harder than anything else: Alfie was nice.

Ziggy blinks, hand rubbing absently at his cheek, feeling the warmth creeping in where Alfie’s gaze holds him still. And shit, is it just him, or is it way too hot in here? They should really crack open a window. Or knock down a wall. Or throw the whole laundromat in the ocean, because Jesus Christ, breathe, man. He doesn’t know if he’s overheating because Alfie was being kind--....or because Alfie was, in a deeply inconvenient way, also kind of devastatingly hot.

He swallows. Feels it catch in his throat, like even that is betraying him. And when he finally manages to talk, the words tumble out way too fast, and he immediately wants to reach out and stuff them back in his mouth before he has to hear himself. "Yeah... yeah, no, I’m fine. Totally fine." He drags a hand through his hair, hoping the motion will physically reset him. A pause, then, with a forced, nervous laugh, "Really hope that thing’s not still in there, though. That’d be…I feel like that'd be a felony at this point. Some kind of biological warfare." He gestures vaguely, grasping at anything to latch onto. "I'm too pretty to deal with consequences."

There’s a beat of silence where he wonders if Alfie is going to call him on how much he’s spiraling. Instead, the other man just leans back, effortless as ever, throwing out an easy out-- corner shop cookies, no pressure. And that’s what does it. The casual pivot. The breathing room. Fuck.

Alfie  didn’t  look  away,  didn’t  let  the  moment  slip  past  like  it  wasn’t  there.  He  caught  the  way  Ziggy  tensed  up,  the  way  he  crossed  his  arms  like  it  might  physically  hold  something  back.

But  more  than  anything,  he  caught  the  way  Ziggy  tried to  brush  it  off.

It’s  just  comfy  in  here,  man.

Alfie’s  lips  ticked  up  slightly,  like  he  might  buy  that—except  he  absolutely  didn’t.

“Right,  yeah.  Dead  comfy,  that.”  He  knocked  his  knuckles  against  the  side  of  the  wire  laundry  cart,  grinning  like  an  absolute  dickhead.  “What  is  it,  the  rigid  metal  bars?  The  lack  of  personal  space?  Proper  luxury  accommodations.”

He  let  the  joke  sit  just  long  enough  before  his  expression  eased  up  a  little,  the  teasing  still  there,  but  softer  now.

Because  Ziggy  wasn’t  just  deflecting.  He  was  spiraling.  Trying  to  climb  back  up  out  of  whatever  hole  he’d  just  accidentally  dug  for  himself.

Alfie  knew  that  move  too  well.

Didn’t  mean  he  was  gonna  let  him  get  away  with  it.

When  Ziggy  finally  landed  on  that  last  throwaway  line—just  something  you  gotta  do,  right?—Alfie  huffed  a  quiet  breath,  rolling  his  jaw.

“Yeah,  mate.  I  guess.”

He  didn’t  press  it,  didn’t  dig  deeper,  but  there  was  something  in  the  way  he  said  it—something  honest,  unpolished.

‘Cause  yeah.  That  was  exactly  it,  wasn’t  it?

Sometimes  you  just  had  to  do  shit.  Even  when  you  weren’t  sure  you  wanted  to.  Even  when  it  sat  like  a  weight  in  your  chest,  heavy  as  fuck  and  impossible  to  shift.

Alfie  let  a  few  beats  pass,  eyes  flicking  over  Ziggy’s  posture—the  way  his  fingers  curled  tight  around  his  sleeves,  like  he  was  trying  to  anchor  himself.

Then,  finally,  he  exhaled  through  his  nose,  grinning  again,  but  this  time  there  was  a  little  more  warmth  to  it.

“Dunno  ‘bout  you,  mate,  but  I’m  thinkin’  next  laundry  day  calls  for  less  life-altering  revelations  and  more  questionable  vending  machine  snacks.”

He  tilted  his  head  toward  the  aggressively  humming  vending  machine  in  the  corner.  “Ain’t  gonna  say  I  trust  the  look  of  that  thing,  but  we  both  might  need  a  fuckin’  reset  after  this  one.”

A  casual  out,  if  Ziggy  wanted  it.  An  easy  pivot  back  to bullshit.

But  Alfie  still  didn’t  look  away.

If he could sink deeper into the wire lattice of this laundry cart, just melt into the cold, dirty laundromat floor, he would. In fact, maybe he should. Should he leave? Just... abandon his laundry to whoever walked in next, let some stranger inherit his boxers and start over at the nearest Walmart? Because clearly, he could never come back here again-- if he did, he might see Alfie, and then they'd both have to stand there and remember when Ziggy got a little high and decided now was the time to unload about his sick mom and how heavy everything felt and wow, holy shit, was he spiraling? It felt like he was spiraling.

How long had he been sitting here in dead silence? A second? Hopefully just a second. Not a minute. Definitely not a full minute. Oh, God. Had it been an hour?

He blinked, the silence crashing in around him, and realized he had no idea if he'd moved at all in the last few seconds. When he looked up, Alfie was still watching him, gaze steady, like he was waiting. Like maybe Ziggy did look a little paler than before. Okay. No. No, he didn't black out. He was just... doing that thing again. Letting himself get lost in his own head.

Ziggy shook his head, cleared his throat—just for something to break the tension, because Jesus, it was suffocating. "Uh... sorry, I think I... y'know. What?" He paused, brain scrambling, then latched onto the one thing he could remember Alfie saying. He turned toward the vending machine, scratching at his cheek like maybe that would make him look a little less like he was actively malfunctioning.

closed starter: utp!! (@beauregard-less/@ziggywho) || location: sunrise cafe - early morning

nik stepped into sunrise café, the warm glow of early morning light spilling through the windows and casting long shadows on the floor. it was one of those places you didn’t expect to find in palmview. the scent of fresh pastries and brewing coffee filled the air, comforting in its familiarity, but nik wasn’t here for comfort. she moved to the counter, the soft hum of conversation from a few early risers at the tables around her barely making an impact. the barista gave her a nod, already reaching for the espresso machine without needing to ask for her order. “just the usual,” nik muttered, her fingers tapping the counter idly as she leaned against it. the café was quiet this time of day, the kind of calm before the storm that felt almost sacred. the sun was barely up, and the town hadn’t quite found its rhythm yet, which meant nik could have a moment to herself. no rush, no noise — just the feeling of the world waking up around her. she took the moment to let her eyes wander, scanning the room. a couple of people were scattered across the tables, nursing cups of coffee or reading their papers. some locals. no one she recognized. the barista slid her drink over with a faint smile, and she gave a short nod in return, picking up the warm cup. “thanks.” nik didn’t waste time. she turned to face the rest of the café, her eyes catching on a figure sitting by the window — someone she hadn’t seen in a while. the stranger was lost in a book, unaware of the world around them. there was something about them. something that pulled at her attention. “you know,” nik started, her voice low but carrying enough to be heard across the quiet room, “people usually come here to get away from everything. but that’s never really worked out for me.” her gaze stayed fixed on the figure, curious, wondering if they’d even acknowledge her. it was early, sure, but in a town like palmview, it was always the perfect time for unexpected encounters.

So, yeah, he heard her before she spoke to him. Not the words, not yet, but the weight of her presence, the shift in the air. His eyes stayed on the book in his hands, but he was already aware of her, of the way she carried herself, like she was meant to be noticed. When he finally lifted his head, he met her gaze without hesitation, taking her in the way he took in everything, thoughtfully, curiously, like he was cataloging her in real time.

"I always thought coming here was to face everything," he murmured, voice easy, unhurried, like he’d been sitting on the thought for a while. He didn’t smile, but there was something knowing in the way he looked at her. Something that said, I see you.

His  smirk  dimmed,  not  quite  disappearing,  but  softer  now.

He  didn’t  jump  in  when  Ziggy  started  talking.  Just  listened,  arms  folded  against  the  washer,  gaze  steady  but  not  prying.  Because  yeah—this?  This  wasn’t  the  kind  of  thing  people  just  said  unless  they  needed  to  get  it  out.

His  mom’s  sick.

It  wasn’t  exactly  the  same,  but  it  was  close  enough  to  hit.  That  feeling  of  being  the  one  who  had  to  step  up,  the  one  who  couldn’t  just  fuck  off  and  pretend  like  nothing  was  happening.

He  let  Ziggy  finish,  not  interrupting,  not  dismissing  it  with  a  casual  ‘ah,  that’s  rough’  like  most  people  would. Just  letting  it  sit.

Finally,  after  a  beat,  Alfie  let  out  a  low  breath,  tapping  his  fingers  against  the  metal.

“Yeah,”  he  murmured,  nodding  slightly.  “Makes  sense.”

Not  just  the  moving  thing.  All  of  it.

A  second  passed  before  he  glanced  back  over,  giving  Ziggy  a  small,  lopsided  smirk.  “And  here  I  was,  thinkin’  I  was  the  only  one  runnin’  ‘round  Palmview  with  a  load  of  family  bullshit  weighin’  me  down.”

He  tilted  his  head  slightly.  “That’s  a  lot  to  take  on,  bruv.  You  alright  with  all  that?  ‘Cause  I  know  everyone’s  **real  good  at  sayin’  shit  ‘makes  sense,’  but  that  don’t  always  mean  it  sits  right.’”

There  was  no  pity  in  his  tone,  no  attempt  at  some  deep,  emotional  moment.  Just  curiosity.  Just  understanding.

He  knocked  his  knuckles  lightly  against  the  side  of  Ziggy’s  cart,  smirking  again.  “And  before  you  tell  me  you’re  ‘breezy’  or  whatever  bullshit  you  was  tryin’  to  pull  earlier—lemme  remind  you  that  you’re  currently  talkin’  to  me  from  inside  a  fuckin’  laundry  basket.”

But Alfie didn’t let it slide. And that, more than anything, made Ziggy hesitate.

He should say whatever, man, should shake it off with that easygoing, breezy bullshit he was always so good at pretending to be. Should redirect, deflect, reframe. But instead, he looked up, met Alfie’s grin-- disarming, coaxing, like it was just a conversation. Like it wasn’t loaded.

So he shrugged, arms crossing over his chest, as if that might hold something in place. "It’s just comfy in here, man." A shitty excuse, but better than the truth. And now was definitely a bad time to notice Alfie’s shoulders. Wasn’t it? Was this that thing Dr. Oswald kept nagging him about—his habit of distraction, of redirection? And now, Isaac, what do you really think would happen if you let yourself sit with that uncomfortable feeling for longer than a few seconds? Ugh. Not going down that road right now!

He exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face, as though that might be enough to scrape off the awkwardness clinging to him. "...Listen, I, uh… didn’t mean to make this shit weird." His voice felt rough, like it had splintered somewhere deep in his throat. "It’s... y'know. Not your problem-- Not that it’s a problem or anything, just, y’know… that’s how I ended up back here." The clearing of his throat came heavier this time, trying to dislodge something more than just words. Trying to shake off the weight settling in his bones, the quiet press of his anxiety. God, he wished he had more of that fucking weed cookie that he was finally ready to admit was a fucking weed cookie.

Alfie  arched  an  eyebrow,  watching  Ziggy  stretch  and  twirl  his  damn  hair  like  he  wasn’t  just  fully  caught  in  4K  checking  him  out.

“Inspectin’  something,  yeah?”  he  repeated,  grinning  slow,  like  he  was  giving  him  a  chance  to  walk  that  back.  Ziggy  didn’t.  Interesting. Alfie  let  the  silence  sit  for  a  second,  just  long  enough  to  make  the  moment  hang  before  he  huffed  out  a  low  chuckle,  shaking  his  head.  “Nah,  go  on  then,  mate.  Don’t  be  shy  now.  What’s  the  verdict?  You  find  what  you  were  lookin’  for?”

His  smirk  was  lazily  amused,  but  his  eyes  were  sharp.  He  wasn’t  oblivious.  Didn’t  mind,  either.

Still,  he  let  it  go—for  now.

He  tilted  his  head  slightly  at  Ziggy’s  answer,  listening,  filing  it  away.  Raised  here,  but  not  really  here.  Sounded like  a  man  with  a  complicated  relationship  to  a  place.  Alfie  got  that.

Then  Ziggy  hit  him  with  the  big  question.  Why  Palmview?

Alfie  let  out  a  sharp  scoff,  rubbing  his  jaw.  “Bruv,  trust  me,  I  ask  myself  that  every  fuckin’  day.”

He  stretched  his  legs  out,  arms  folded  over  his  chest.  “Ain’t  some  grand  plan,  if  that’s  what  you’re  thinkin’.  Didn’t  spin  a  globe  and  land  on  Florida  like  some  life-changing  epiphany.”  He  smirked,  shaking  his  head.  “Nah,  it’s  a  bit  shittier  than  that.  Went  down  a  rabbit  hole,  found  out  my  deadbeat  old  man’s  out  ‘ere  somewhere.  Figured  I’d,  y’know,  track  the  prick  down. See  if  he’s  even  worth  the  trouble.”

His  expression  didn’t  change  much,  still  casual,  but  there  was  something  a  little  cooler  underneath  it.  “Ain’t got  high  hopes,  but  hey,  I  needed  a  change  of  scenery  anyway.  Might  as  well  see  it  through.”

Okay, yeah, maybe the cookie Slater gave him earlier was hitting a little weird. Or maybe it was just this, the way Alfie looked at him, sharp and knowing, like he was giving him a chance to backpedal but fully expecting him not to. And, well, Ziggy had never been great at letting things go when he should.

His eyes caught on Alfie’s, and for a second, that lazy confidence faltered. He looked away almost immediately, clearing his throat, eyes flicking to the ceiling. His foot bounced inside the wire cart, nerves creeping in where smugness had been just a second ago.

Alright, so maybe he wasn’t as smooth as he thought. He got cocky. Sue him.

But when Alfie started talking, Ziggy listened. Really listened. Because that, the tangled mess of obligation and resentment, of chasing ghosts you weren’t even sure you wanted to find, was something he understood way too well. Different circumstances, sure, but the same quiet weight.

He exhaled, scrunching his nose in thought. "...My mom's sick," he murmured, before blinking, like he hadn’t meant to say it quite like that. He cleared his throat, shaking his head. "She’s okay, though! Just... older, y'know? And my brothers are out of the country, so there's no one else here to help her while she recovers."

His eyes flicked back to Alfie, half-hoping he'd just go back to folding his laundry. It was easier to pretend he was breezy when they weren’t making direct eye contact.

"Once she’s better, I’m gonna help her move back to Japan with my dad," he continued, rolling a loose thread between his fingers. "She’s been... y’know, alone since we all moved out, and my dad doesn’t... well, maybe can’t is the better word, I dunno, but he doesn’t visit as often as he used to. Just makes sense for her to go back. Be with family. Be surrounded by our culture again."

rehearsed  expression  returned  effortlessly  ,  that  flash  of  emotion  washed  away  with  a  simple  blink.  a  place  like  this  was  filled  with  memories  ,  some  she  wished  to  relive  and  others  she  would  prefer  to  forget  but  nell  knew  that  when  she'd  made  the  decision  to  attend.  a  place  like  the  arcade  was  filled  with  distractions  though  ,  and  that's  what  she  needed  now  more  than  anything  in  hopes  to  quieten  the  growing  noise  in  subconscious.  

With a small nod, he took a step back, giving her space as he fished a quarter from his pocket and slotted it into the machine. "I mean, it's just Pac-Man," he murmured, the corner of his mouth quirking up in something that was almost confidence. "I think you gotta give yourself more credit than that."

The cabinet lit up, bursting to life with its cheery little jingle, the screen flickering with neon ghosts and endless corridors. He lingered nearby, not too close, but not too far, either, to give her the space to settle in at the controls. His hand found the back of his neck, scratching absently as he debated whether to offer some kind of helpful advice or just... let her figure it out.

"Uh... if you don't like this, we could always play something else," he said after a moment, then immediately blinked, clearing his throat as warmth crept up his neck. "O-Or, like... you can. And I can, uh... y'know." He gestured vaguely at the rest of the arcade. "Didn't mean to, like, trap you into this or whatever. But if there’s a game you wanted to try, I could... I dunno. Help? If you wanted?"

Alfie  didn’t  even  look  up  from  his  crime,  tossing  a  particularly  wrinkled  shirt  into  the  basket  with  the  same  ruthless  efficiency  he’d  applied  to  the  rest  of  the  abandoned  laundry.

“Don’t  play  with  me,  bruv,”  he  said,  grinning  slightly.  “I  ain’t  scared  of  hauntings,  but  I’d  rather  not  be  cursed  by  some  pissed-off  geezer  over  his  boxer  shorts.  Got  enough  bad  luck  as  is.”

He  finally  glanced  over  just  in  time  to  watch  Ziggy  struggle  with  the  chair,  shifting  around  like  some  gangly  newborn  deer  before  ultimately  giving  up  entirely  and  climbing  into  a  damn  laundry  cart.

Alfie  blinked.  Then  huffed  out  a  low,  amused  laugh.

“Right,”  he  said,  dry  but  entertained.  “Guess  we’re  just  fully  leanin’  into  the  madness  now.”  He  flicked  his eyes  back  to  the  dryer,  but  his  smirk  lingered  as  he  shook  his  head.  “You  do  look  like  you  belong  in  there, though.  Proper  Dickensian  orphan  energy.  Bet  you’d  thrive  in  a  Victorian  workhouse.”

He  tossed  another  stray  sock  into  the  basket,  glancing  over  at  them  again.  “Ziggy,  yeah?  Fittin’  name.”  He  gave  a  lazy  nod,  tucking  that  info  away.  “And  mate,  you  was  really  ‘bout  to  do  bathtub  laundry?  That’s  tragic.  That’s  the  kinda  thing  they  put  in  them  ‘before  they  were  famous’  documentaries—‘started  from  the  bottom,  now  we  here’  type  beat.”

Alfie  paused  mid-toss,  blinking  as  Ziggy  gave  him  the  slow,  deliberate  once-over  like  he  was  some  kind  of  rare  specimen  on  display.

Then,  after  a  beat,  he  huffed  out  a  sharp  laugh,  shaking  his  head.  “Oi,  mate,  what  gave  it  away?  The  devastating  good  looks?  The  air  of  quiet  sophistication?”

He  leaned  against  the  dryer,  arms  folded,  smirking.  “Or was  it  the  fact  that  I  sound  like  I  just  stepped  off  a  bus  from  Camden?”

His  accent  was  thick,  unapologetic,  every  word  dipped  in  sharp  edges  and  easy  humor.  “Yeah,  I’m  English,  bruv.  Proper  London-born  and  raised.  Been  in  Palmview  about  a  month  now,  though,  and  so  far,  nobody  ‘ere  understands  a  single  fuckin’  word  I  say.”

He  nodded  toward  Ziggy,  eyes  flicking  over  them  curiously.  “What  about  you,  then?  You  doin’  the  usual  Florida  transplant  thing,  or  am  I  dealin’  with  a  local?”

"Sorry, what was that? I was just—" he waved a vague hand in Alfie’s direction, like that explained anything at all. "Inspecting something, is all." He stretched, long limbs reaching up in a way that made the whole thing look even more nonchalant, like this was just the most obvious thing in the world. No big deal. Moving on. His hand dropped back down, fingers finding the flop of his bangs, twirling a strand as he spoke.

"I'm both. And neither, I guess," he mused, his voice dipping into something quieter, more absentminded. "I was raised here, but... I haven't been here in years." His gaze flicked back to Alfie, catching that grin head-on, and, God help him, he found himself grinning back. Weird. Why was it so much easier to just talk to this guy? To joke, to lean into something easy and effortless? He sure as hell didn’t have this kind of smoothness when talking to literally anyone else. He was still cringing over the awkward joke he’d made to his barista this morning.

(Was it concerning that the only thing he ate today was a cookie Slater gave him? He should probably unpack that. Later.)

Alfie  grinned,  wide  and  wolfish,  as  he  took  in  Ziggy’s  response,  clearly  pleased  to  have  found  someone  who  wasn’t  about  to  lecture  him  on  “doing  the  right  thing”  or  “being  patient.”

“Now  that’s  what  I  like  to  hear,”  he  said,  leaning  back  against  the  washer  with  an  easy  slouch.  “Finally,  someone  with  a  proper  grasp  of  laundromat  survival  tactics.”

He  tilted  his  head  toward  the  offending  dryer,  still  full  of  someone  else’s  long-forgotten  clothes.  “See,  I  was  thinkin’  the  same—free  game.  You  snooze,  you  lose.  But  figured  I’d  gauge  the  room  first,  y’know—see  if  anyone  was  gonna  call  me  a  menace  before  I  committed  to  the  crime.”

He  paused,  giving  Ziggy  a  once-over,  and  let  out  a  low chuckle,  half  amused,  half…  something  else.  “You  look  like  you’ve  had  a  proper  shite  day,  mate.  That  laundry givin’  you  a  fight  or  just  existential  dread?”

With  zero  hesitation,  Alfie  kicked  out  the  leg  of  a  nearby  plastic  chair,  gesturing  at  it.  “Go  on  then,  sit  your  miserable  arse  down  while  I  handle  the  laundromat  injustice.”

And,  without  any  further  debate,  he  turned  back  to  the  dryer,  popped  it  open,  and  started  tossing  the  abandoned  clothes  into  a  basket  like  it  was  second  nature.

“Man, this would’ve been an insane time to tell you that was Old Man McGirk’s laundry and that he haunts the place,” Ziggy snorted, settling into the plastic chair indicated. Or, at least trying to. His legs felt too long for it, like a spider trying to sit politely at a dinner table, so he shifted one way, then the other, before finally huffing and getting back up altogether. He moved to grab a nearby laundry cart and wheeled it over, hopping inside and curling against the wire lattice. The one upside to being built like a malnourished Victorian child-- he fit.

“Ziggy,” he murmured, cheek smushed against his fist as he watched Alfie work. “Victim of the sin of being spoiled by in-unit laundry. Almost did the whole schtick in the bathtub just to avoid coming down here, but my roommate would’ve thrown me off a cliff for it.” Okay, maybe not actually. Georgia was fine. But he was pretty sure she would’ve at least threatened him with the whole cliff thing.

where:  lochness  laundry

alfie  hated  doing  laundry.  hated  it.

not  ‘cause  he  didn’t  like  clean  clothes—obviously,  he  did—but  because  the  entire  process  was  boring  as  shit. waiting  around,  watching  a  machine  spin  his  shirts  in  circles  for  an  hour?  nah.  torture.

but  here  he  was,  sitting  on  top  of  one  of  the  industrial washers  at  lochness  laundry,  legs  swinging  lazily  as  he  scrolled  through  his  phone,  waiting  for  his  clothes  to  finish.  a  half-empty  bottle  of  coke  rested  beside  him,  condensation  pooling  against  the  metal.

it  had  only  been  a  month  since  he  landed  in  palmview, but  he  already  had  a  routine—one  that  mostly  involved  work,  a  lot  of  people-watching,  and  finding  new  ways  to  kill  time  in  a  place  that  felt  too  warm,  too  slow,  but  weirdly  hard  to  leave.

he  glanced  around,  lazily  observing  the  laundromat’s  usual  crowd.  an  older  woman  aggressively  folding  towels.  a  teenager  blasting  music  through  busted  headphones.  a  couple  arguing  quietly  near  the  dryers.  standard  shit.

his  own  clothes  were  still  tumbling  around  in  one  of  the  machines,  so  he  had  nothing  better  to  do  than  wait,  fidget,  and  find  some  poor  soul  to  chat  shit  with.

spotting  the  closest  person  near  him,  alfie  grinned,  tilting  his  head.

“oi,  quick  question,”  he  started,  his  accent  unmistakable.  “is  there  a  rule  ‘bout  how  long  you  gotta  wait  before  stealin’  someone’s  dryer  if  they  ain’t come  back  for  their  clothes?  ‘cause  i  ain’t  tryin’  to  start  a  laundromat  war,  but  i’m  this  close—”  he  held  up  two  fingers,  barely  apart—  “to  chuckin’  some  geezer’s  socks  on  the  floor  so  i  don’t  have  to  be  ‘ere  all  night.”

Having only been back for barely enough time to knock his knees on the carpet of his apartment, he hates to admit he’s gotten used to the luxury of an in-home unit. Now, here he is, crammed in a laundromat that smells like fabric softener and someone's burnt popcorn, wrestling a week's worth of clothes into a machine that probably saw its prime two decades ago.

Sock over shorts over crumpled t-shirt-- he shoves everything in with only a vague attempt at color sorting, his expression as grumpy as it is exhausted. Though, when wasn’t Ziggy grumpy? With a slam of the machine door, Ziggy punches in some setting at random and lets it go, his head thunking onto the metal with a dull clunk. Maybe, if he was lucky, the whirring would rattle his brain loose-- shake something out, relax him for once. At the sound of a voice nearby, though, he lifts his head off the door and glances up at the unfamiliar face. Well. That wasn't too shocking hese days. He'd been gone so long, everyone was an unfamiliar face. Even the familiar ones.

It had been worse since coming back to Palmview. Every day stretched longer than the last, time slowing to a suffocating crawl. The edges of tomorrow blurred into forever. Was he stuck here? Again? Forever? And ever? And ever? And ever? Doomed to be alone. Doomed to be in his own personal purgatory. Doomed to return to the cell he thought he’d broken out of, only to sink back into the sand and join the bones buried beneath it.

Jesus. He needed a cigarette.

He barely gets it between his teeth, flicks his lighter, takes one damn drag, when a voice cuts through the suffocating haze in his head. “Jesus Christ,” he wheezes, jolting so hard the smoke burns in his throat. He coughs, waving his hand in front of his face, as if that’ll do anything to clear the cartoon stormcloud of misery and doom he’s been cultivating over his head. He looks up to catch sight of that grin, Emma's signature grin, and his scowl twitches. But some part of him is, God help him, relieved to see her.

curiosity  was  considered  a  flaw  in  nell's  eyes  ,  and  she'd  internally  kicked  herself  for  getting  so  engrossed  in  someone  else's  game.  she  could  blame  the  flashing  lights  and  sound  effects  ,  but  really  she  was  simply  nosey  and  attempting  to  expand  on  her  skills  by  observing  others.  a  hand  lifted  to  wave  in  dismissal  of  his  apology  ,  no  offence  was  taken  and  she  was  usually  a  somewhat  understanding  individual.  "  it's  okay  ,  no  need  to  say  sorry.  "  she  gives  a  reassuring  smile  ,  the  moment  already  gone  over  her  head.  nell  notices  his  reaction and  confusion  paints  porcelain  expression  ,  glancing  behind  her  in  case  something  or  someone  else  caught  his  attention.  "  is  there  something  on  my  face  ?  how  embarrassing...  "  cheeks  colour  a  deeper  shade  of  red  ,  delicate  digits  cautiously  touching  supple  skin  in  search  for  something. 

Like now.

His gaze lifts just in time to catch the way her face shifts, the flicker of something-- sadness, maybe? Regret? before she smooths it away like a smudge on glass. It lingers in his mind, though, nagging at him, crawling under his skin. She looked sad, Ziggy. Something made hr sad.

He rubs the back of his neck, trying to shake the feeling, trying to listen to the part of him that says to let it drop. That it’s not his business. That he should keep his mouth shut, because what the hell does he know about her life, anyway?

But the other part, the part that’s been burned before, the part that never quite learns its lesson, keeps nudging him forward.

With a quiet sigh, he forces himself to turn toward her, to actually look. And... Jesus. Maybe he should bolt. Because standing here, actually taking her in, feels like stepping into something way out of his league. She was so pretty. But instead of running, he swallows hard, braces himself, and gestures, awkward, hesitant, toward the arcade cabinet.

His fingers twitch like they want to follow, to chase the ghost of her touch before it disappears completely. Instead, they slip into his bag on instinct, fishing out a pen and a crumpled post-it, the edges soft from living too long at the bottom. He scrawls something across it— his hand moving before his brain can catch up, before doubt can make him stop. It’s stupid. Maybe humiliating.

But still.

"Here—" The word comes out rough, barely more than breath. He doesn’t hand it to her. Can’t. He couldn't bear to watch her take it, but the rejection, if it came, would be worse. So instead, he presses the post-it against the nearest shelf, slipping it between the dried passionflowers, their brittle petals somehow looking less dead than they had a moment ago.

Ziggy swallows, forcing himself to meet her gaze. It nearly undoes him.

"...I'm an artist, and... Just—if you ever want to. If you ever..." His voice falters, throat tightening around the weight of the words, around the sheer vulnerability of standing here like this. He wants to say it right. Wants her to understand that this isn’t just some casual invitation, that he isn’t the type to do this often, that she— somehow, impossibly— has made him want to try.

But it’s too much, and he knows he won’t be able to force the rest out. Not today.

So instead, Ziggy nods, slow, slow, sealing something unspoken between them. And then, because it’s all he can do, he turns away, each step feeling heavier than the last.

He won’t wait here forever. He knows that.

infamous  background  music  played  aloud  ,  ringing  clear  in  her  ears  and  she  couldn't  help  but  hum  along  even  as  the  intensity  of  the  beat  sped  up  with  each  second  that  passed.  knuckles  were  white  due  to  the  tight  grip  she'd  secured  on  her  pot  of  tokens  ,  the  anticipation  of  his  win  escalating  within  herself  and  she  hadn't  realised  that  she  was  holding  a  breath  until  he  acknowledged  her  observation  and  jumped  —  to  which  she  gasped  ,  and  took  a  step  back  to  help  him  regain  his  personal  space.  

He finally turns to look at her— and promptly startles again, this time for a much dumber reason. She’s really pretty. Warmth creeps up his neck, settling in his cheeks, and he clears his throat, praying his voice doesn’t betray him.

"Um—" Crack. Right on cue. Fantastic. He pushes forward anyway, hoping she doesn’t notice. "--Yeah. There's, uh… a whole bunch of them. Ms. Pac-Man is actually, uh… the more popular one. She’s— see, there?"

“Uh… yeah. Sure— wait.” His eyes narrow, suspicion creeping in. “You’re not gonna rob me blind, are you?”

His hand lifts-- not to grab, not to offer, but something in between. A gesture. A plea. An unspoken question hovering in the space she’s left behind. Don’t pull too hard. Don’t unravel me just to see what I look like undone.

She’s already flipped the pieces of him over, studied the cracks, the fractures, the places where the glue barely holds. He’s spent so long keeping himself upright, keeping himself from tipping over, and now-- now he doesn’t know what shape he’s supposed to be anymore.

Ziggy was never someone strong. Never someone unshaken, someone who could take the heat of a game and brush off a loss as easily as laughing off a win. He was someone who counted every reason to stay in place, every reason not to move forward, not to turn back. And in that stillness, in that indecision, he’s been sinking—cement in his bones, heavy in his skin, caught between longing and fear.

His fingers curl, slow, before he drops his hand entirely.

“Am I supposed to just… figure it out?” His voice is quiet, rough, more to his palm than to her. Like if he doesn’t say it directly, maybe it won’t feel so much like a confession. Maybe it won’t sting as much.

But the way she plays with his edges, the way she weaves her fingers through his puppet strings and tugs just enough to make him aware of them-- he can feel the burn of it. Feels the way it keeps his gaze lowered, keeps him from looking up, from meeting her eyes and seeing whatever answer she’s already found.

He swallows, the taste of uncertainty thick on his tongue.

Her fingers had been warmer than his. But he runs freezing, always has. Cold in a way that isn’t just temperature, that isn’t just flesh and blood but something deeper, something settled into his bones like a permanent guest. And yet, for that brief second, he had felt real. Tangible. Not a shadow lingering at the edges of the world’s awareness, not something half-there, half-forgotten. Someone. Someone who exists, who breathes, who can be touched.

The thought unsettles him, twists at the edges of clay and stone that made up his body.

And then the flower is gone. Plucked from his grasp, twirled between her fingers like it’s weightless, like it’s nothing at all. And he watches, watches the way she tucks it behind her ear with the kind of carelessness that can only come from knowing exactly what she’s doing. As if it had always belonged there. As if it had always belonged to her.

Like the world was made for her.

His breath is slow, steady, but his fingers curl slightly at his sides, betraying the restless energy simmering just beneath his skin. The air between them is charged, something precarious balanced on the edge of possibility, and her words only push it further.

You just have to be willing.

Ziggy swallows, glancing down, then back up, meeting her gaze like he’s trying to find the answer in it. Maybe he already knows what it is. Maybe he’s just never said it out loud before.