eden de los santos .
alfie stark .

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he wasn't even looking at me and he found me

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@gardens0feden
eden de los santos .
alfie stark .
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 Ziggy wanted to talk, Alfie was still here.
Great. So Ziggy did make it weird, and now this guy was offering him an out. Wonderful.
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.
"Y’know, when I was a kid, my brothers and I stuck an egg in that machine to see how long it’d take for someone to get it when they bought something." The silence was starting to creep in again as Ziggy thought, something flickering across his face. A realization? Then, almost absently: "...I don't actually know if anyone ever did."
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.”
And with that, Alfie leaned back again like it was the most casual suggestion in the world, letting Ziggy breathe—no pressure, no fuss.
who: charlie boy (@charliexhughes)
where: charlie’s crib
Alfie wasn’t one for being overly punctual, but when there was good food and bragging rights on the line? He wasn’t about to fuck around.
He pulled up outside Charlie’s place, stepping out of his battered old car with a six-pack under one arm and a cocky smirk already locked in place. If he was gonna put this Man City lad’s cooking skills to the test, he’d at least bring a contribution—even if it was just beer.
Knocking twice on the door, he leaned against the frame, calling out. “Oi, chef! Hope you ain’t gassed yourself up for nothin’, ‘cause I came hungry.”
A beat.
“Also hope you’re emotionally prepared to get slaughtered in FIFA. Can’t have you makin’ excuses about bein’ too full to play properly.”
He grinned, waiting for the door to swing open, fully prepared to start some shit the second he stepped inside.
who: open (@palmviewstarters)
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.”
his grin widened, half-shit-eating, half-serious. “what d’you reckon? ten minutes? fifteen? or straight to lawless savagery?”
tobie could try avoiding laundry day for as long as possible, but eventually they were in dire need of clean work clothes and socks – socks, especially. they had almost swung by the store and just bought them instead, but the idea seemed more ridiculous than just washing the massive load at the laundromat. so, with pure will and determination, tobie filled up two laundry baskets worth of dirty clothes and forced himself into the exhausting world of clean linen and detergent. it wasn’t too crowded, which was a good sign that they’d ( maybe ) be able to get all of this finished quickly. he drug his baskets to the nearest machine and started loading it up.
he almost missed the question the stranger next to him was asking, glancing over with a thoughtful expression. that was an easy answer for him – “ten minutes is way too kind. i’d give about five minutes and then start moving clothes,” he answered with a shrug. why should he have to wait ten whole minutes for someone to come move their stuff ? like they say, you snooze… you end up with your shit sitting in a chair. “if you even have to ask, you’ve already waited long enough. move it.” there was a smile playing at the corner of his lips, and he started the last washer before leaning against it. he looked at over at the man and teased, “so, are you gonna move their clothes or keep waiting like a sucker ?”
Alfie glanced over, taking in Tobie’s matter-of-fact answer with a lazy grin.
“Five minutes, yeah?” he repeated, amused. “See, I like that. No mercy. No hesitation. Proper laundromat savagery.”
He tilted his head toward the dryer in question, arms crossed, like he was weighing the decision. “Mate, I been sat ‘ere, debating whether I’m a dickhead for chuckin’ someone’s laundry out, and you just came in and crushed that moral dilemma in two fuckin’ seconds.”
Then came the challenge. Alfie could hear the teasing in Tobie’s voice—so, are you gonna move their clothes or keep waiting like a sucker?
Alfie huffed out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “Oi, now you’re callin’ me out. That’s cold.”
But there was no real hesitation.
With zero remorse, he kicked a plastic basket closer with his foot, yanked open the dryer door, and started dumping the forgotten laundry inside.
“Boom. Crime committed.” He clapped his hands together, completely unbothered. “If I get shanked by some old woman over this, least I’ll die knowin’ I went out fightin’ for my right to clean socks.”
He leaned back against the machine, grinning at Tobie. “So what’s your deal, then? You one of them ‘put off laundry ‘til you got no choice’ types, or do you actually keep up with it like some well-adjusted adult?”
Alfie had been fully ready to keep taking the piss, to keep pressing Ziggy just to see how much he’d squirm, but the moment he caught the shift in tone—the way that cocky, teasing front cracked just a little—he knew this wasn’t that kind of conversation anymore.
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.”
He raised an eyebrow, grinning. “So, y’know. Take that into account.”
Ah, fuck. There he went again. Couldn’t keep a conversation smooth, couldn’t keep from steering it straight into the jagged edges. He hadn’t meant to make it a thing. Hadn’t meant to lay it out there, raw and fraying, like some kind of sob story meant for character development. It was just a laundromat. Just two guys stuck in the same place by coincidence. Alfie owed him nothing-- not his time, not his sympathy, not even the space to acknowledge what he’d said. Ziggy had been fully prepared to wave it off, let the words dissolve into nothing, make some mention of the movie theater or a dumb joke about the weirdly intense vending machine in the corner.
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.
"Just… something you gotta do. Right? What we all gotta do." There. That should be enough. That should be the end of it. A shrug, a dismissal, an easy out. But still, his fingers curled just a little tighter around the fabric of his sleeves.
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 Ziggy wanted to talk, Alfie was still here.
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.”
He flicked a glance back at Ziggy, grinning again, just slightly. “What about you, then? You come back ‘cause you wanted to, or did Palmview just drag you back by the scruff?”
"Hm? Sorry, did you say something?" Ziggy snorted, his head pillowed by folded arms as he watched Alfie, feigning obliviousness with the kind of ease that only made it more obvious.
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."
His voice trailed off, a little quieter now, like he wasn’t sure what else to say. Like saying it out loud made it more real.
Alfie had been fully ready to keep taking the piss, to keep pressing Ziggy just to see how much he’d squirm, but the moment he caught the shift in tone—the way that cocky, teasing front cracked just a little—he knew this wasn’t that kind of conversation anymore.
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.”
He raised an eyebrow, grinning. “So, y’know. Take that into account.”
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?”
Then, as if the thought had just struck him, he narrowed his eyes playfully. “And while we’re at it—what’s with the inspectin’ me like I’m a dodgy antique?” He grinned. “You tryna work out if I’m real, or you just enjoyin’ the view?”
"I’ve got a radar for this kind of thing, actually. Picked up on all those subtle, imperceptible quirks of yours," Ziggy snorted, watching as Alfie’s accent seemed to deepen the more he focused on it, like it was leaning into being perceived. Okay, yeah-- maybe he’d been looking a little too long. But could you blame him? Don’t answer that. What mattered was that he’d been caught, and since he hadn’t exactly been trying to not get caught, he might as well own it. His grin was lopsided, lazy, fingers drumming idly along the high plane of his cheekbone.
"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.)
Instead, he tilted his head, voice dipping into something lazy, curious. "Why the transplant? Of all the places you could move to, you picked Palmview?"
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.”
He flicked a glance back at Ziggy, grinning again, just slightly. “What about you, then? You come back ‘cause you wanted to, or did Palmview just drag you back by the scruff?”
Alfie let out a sharp laugh, genuinely amused at Charlie’s enthusiasm. “Oi, mate, swear down—I thought I was the only poor bastard reppin’ the homeland out ‘ere. Been walkin’ round feelin’ like some endangered species.”
At the mention of football, his grin only widened. “Do I play footy? Do I play footy? Bruv, don’t insult me like that. Course I do.” He knocked his fist against his chest, feigning offense. “West Ham, born and bred. Ain’t a proper Londoner if you don’t have a mild-to-severe obsession with the beautiful game.”
He shook his head, still grinning. “Swear, though, you’re right about ‘em bein’ too nice. Had some old lady call me ‘honey’ at the shops the other day—thought she was takin’ the piss.” His expression turned mock-serious. “Turns out, nah. That’s just how they talk. No malice, no hidden agenda, just pure, unfiltered kindness. It’s unsettling.”
As he finished dumping out the last of the abandoned laundry, he clapped the lid shut and leaned back against the machine, giving Charlie a once-over. “Yeah, nah, that load was abandoned ages ago. I’m claimin’ squatters’ rights.”
When Charlie mentioned bar fights, Alfie grinned knowingly. “Bruv, same. Half the time, ain’t even about anything important. Could be somethin’ dumb as some geezer lookin’ at you funny. You see it happen, and suddenly, you’re part of it.” He shrugged, unbothered. “Character-building, innit?”
Then came the real moment of bonding. Alfie barely had time to react before Charlie dapped him up like they’d known each other for years, and honestly? It felt right.
“Nah, see, this is fate,” Alfie declared, shaking his head in mock reverence. “Two proper lads, lost in the wilderness of American suburbia. This is some divine intervention shit.”
At the offer of home-cooked food, Alfie immediately pulled out his phone. “You had me at cookin’, mate. I’m sufferin’ out ‘ere, livin’ off takeaway and whatever’s cheapest.” He quickly passed his phone to Charlie to put his info in.
“Dead serious, though—if you say you can cook, I better see some proper flavours, none of that bland shit. ‘Cause I swear, I had one bite of some ‘British-style fish and chips’ out ‘ere, and I nearly called the embassy to report a crime.”
"Exactly! If I have to repeat meself more than three times.. I can see the panic in their faces trying to understand me." He shakes his head with a fond smile on his lips, if anything it was entertaining to confuse people. "Mate, I tried playin' with some of the lads and I think they were scared of me.. genuinely." Charlie's hands lifted up in defense, "Listen, I'm in stockholm syndrome here, I bring up football and they stumble over themselves to prove to me they know I don't mean their version of football." He hums, "Man City boy meself, but.. think that's obvious." He took a small breath, "And when the Americans come up and tell me they're rooting for Man U.. Oh my blood boils, mate. You imagine if someone said that shit in a bar back home? On sight.'' Charlie's fingers stretch out, releasing tension as if it were happening now. "I ain't too polite, so I have to put on a smile and try to understand that they don't have weird intentions by being nice." He couldn't fight the laugh that escaped his lips at character-building, "I think it's just our right of passage, man." Charlie slid his own phone out of his pocket, passing it over to Alfie with a smile, "I think my mentor in France would kill me if I don't season correctly. Mate, I've travelled to just about everywhere learning about food. Stop by Mango Bay Restaurant at some point, I'm a chef there." He shivered at the imitation of their meals from home, "Nah, I won't touch that shit with a ten foot pole. You name somethin' from home you miss, and I've got you."
Alfie snorted, shaking his head. “Bruv, you’re tellin’ me. The amount of times I’ve said somethin’ and watched an American’s soul leave their body ‘cause they had no clue what just came out my mouth? Tragic.”
He leaned forward, arms folded, smirking as Charlie lamented the horrors of trying to play football with the locals. “Mate, they were scared of ya ‘cause you actually know what you’re doin’,” he said, laughing. “They hear us say ‘footy’ and think we’re just bein’ quirky. Then you go two-foot someone in a tackle, and suddenly, you’re a villain.”
At the mention of Man U fans, Alfie let out a low, unimpressed groan, running a hand down his face. “Nah, see—that’s where I draw the fuckin’ line. Some geezer out ‘ere in a Man U top, actin’ like he’s givin’ me some groundbreakin’ revelation.” He put on a deliberately mock-American voice, tone exaggerated. “‘Oh, bro, I love soccer! Big Manchester fan!’” He grimaced. “Yeah? Which one, dickhead? ‘Cause there’s two.”
Charlie’s laugh was contagious, and Alfie shook his head, still grinning as he took the phone. “Oi, stop it, you’re tellin’ me you’ve actually trained in proper kitchens? Thought I was just signin’ up for some lad knockin’ up a Sunday roast.” He quickly punched his number in, then froze mid-text when Charlie mentioned Mango Bay.
“Wait—hold up. You work at Mango Bay?” His eyebrows shot up. “That posh place? Shit, mate, you should’ve led with that.”
He leaned back, clearly impressed. “Alright, Charlie, now I actually gotta put you to the test. ‘Cause I miss a full English like you wouldn’t believe. Bangers, black pudding, the lot. And nothin’ out ‘ere even comes close.”
Alfie passed Charlie’s phone back, grinning. “Tell you what—I’ll stop by, and if it’s good, I’ll even pretend you lot at City actually play proper football.” He winked. “No promises, though.”
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.
“Name’s Alfie, by the way,” he added over his shoulder, smirking slightly. “Figured since you’re witness to my crimes, might as well get acquainted.”
Alfie didn’t pause in his crime, and Ziggy had to admit, there was something admirable about that level of shamelessness. Not a hint of hesitation-- just pure, unrepentant laundromat lawlessness.
“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.
He tipped his head slightly, giving Alfie a slow, assessing once-over, before humming under his breath as he let the accent sink in. “Hm… English?”
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?”
Then, as if the thought had just struck him, he narrowed his eyes playfully. “And while we’re at it—what’s with the inspectin’ me like I’m a dodgy antique?” He grinned. “You tryna work out if I’m real, or you just enjoyin’ the view?”
eden blinked. then blinked again.
“… hold on, hold on,” she said, leaning forward like she needed to process that information in real-time. “you’re telling me that ferrari, the car company, has their employees out here lurking through people’s instagram posts like undercover feds? and if you post, what—like, the wrong angle of their car, they sue you?”
she exhaled a slow, dramatic breath, shaking her head. “see, this is why i drive a perfectly normal, slightly dented, totally unimpressive car. no lawsuits. no weird social media surveillance. no secret corporate hit squads coming after me because i parked slightly too close to a taco bell.”
crossing her arms, she gave the woman a look, eyes narrowing in exaggerated scrutiny. “so what you’re saying is, you’ve done the research. you know too much.” she tapped her temple like they had just unlocked some deep government conspiracy. “should i be worried? is ferrari watching us right now?”
the blonde only nodded , confirming the other's suspicion . “ 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐘 what i said , yes . and it's not even about the car , it's about your life . they need their clients to be the perfect 𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 of their brand . you've no idea the lengths these brands will go to make sure nobody taints their perfect name . ” there were lots and lots of discussions about it , how ethical or 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐖𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆 it could be , but that was not the point of the conversation . “ i mean , the best car for you will always be the one you have ‘cause it takes where you 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐆𝐎 . ” whether it was a truck , suv or sportscar wasn’t all that important . “ in a way , yes . my father's been selling cars since way before i was born so i sort of just grew up 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆 these things . it was my first job , actually . of course he didn't sell anything even close to supercars at the time but , once you start learning about it , you kind of learn about 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐓 . ” she chuckled , shaking her head at the question . “ no , neither of us owns one so they don't really care . unless you're looking to buy , then they 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐘 are . ”
eden huffed a quiet laugh, resting her hip against the counter as she listened, arms loosely crossed. vivi was right—brands wanted a flawless image, a perfect little package they could slap their name on without a second thought. which meant people like eden? people who weren’t exactly walking PR dreams? they weren’t first picks.
not that she cared.
“yeah, well,” she mused, tapping her fingers idly against the countertop, “guess it’s a good thing i don’t have to worry about keeping up a brand, huh?” her lips curved slightly, something dry but self-aware in the way she said it. “unless palmview suddenly decides to start sponsoring people for questionable life choices—in which case, i want top billing.”
she tilted her head slightly at vivi’s mention of her dad. there was something about the way she talked about it—casual, but full of knowing. it was the kind of thing that came from growing up around something so much it just became second nature.
“first job, huh?” eden’s gaze flickered to her. “so does that mean you actually like cars, or was it one of those ‘born into the business, no choice in the matter’ kind of things?” she smirked a little. “because if you start talking about engines and horsepower, i’ll nod like i understand, but i promise you, i do not.”
eden let out a deep, theatrical sigh, placing a hand over her chest like she’d just been deeply wounded. “wow. wow. you’re really gonna come for me like that? me? after everything we’ve been through?” she shook her head, grabbing a second bag of the churro popcorn and tossing it into her cart with purpose. “for the record, if someone did coat cardboard in cinnamon and sugar, i’d at least give it a chance before passing judgment. that’s called having an open mind, dalia. look it up.”
she turned on her heel dramatically, pushing her cart forward as if she was deeply offended—but she didn’t actually go anywhere. instead, she side-eyed dalia with a knowing smirk.
“and please,” she scoffed, waving a hand. “i was concerned about your diet back then too. but you refused to listen to me because, and i quote—” she cleared her throat and deepened her voice in a terrible dalia impression, “‘if i die young, at least i’ll die with flavor’.” she shot her a look, raising an eyebrow. “sound familiar?”
she wasn’t letting the coffee as a meal replacement comment slide either. “and don’t even get me started on the coffee thing—” she paused, narrowing her eyes, before grabbing a box of granola bars from the shelf and slamming them down into dalia’s cart with zero hesitation. “bam. nutrition.”
eden crossed her arms, tilting her head in mock challenge. “i dare you to take them out. see what happens. go on.”
but even through the teasing, the banter, the back-and-forth that felt like slipping into a time machine straight to miami, there was something warm in her chest. something settled. like for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t just catching up with dalia—she was just with her.
like no time had passed at all.
she chuckled, her gaze flickering to the granola bars in her cart before shooting eden a playful side-eye. "wow, you really are on a mission today, huh? i’ll admit, granola bars might be a step in the right direction," she said, raising an eyebrow as she ran her finger along the edge of the box, "but you know as well as i do that tossing them in my cart doesn’t suddenly make me a health guru." she leaned in a little, lowering her voice just enough to let it carry a familiar, teasing edge. "besides, i’m pretty sure these aren’t going to counteract the deep-rooted trauma of those gas station slushies. remember that time we almost got caught sneaking them into the theater, and you almost knocked over the entire slushy machine trying to pull a fast one? good times." her tone softened as she shifted her weight, looking down at the granola bars with a slight smile. it was easy to slip back into this with eden — slipping back into the rhythm of old memories, into the shared moments of their younger, wilder selves. back in miami, when everything was still wide open, before life had a way of getting... complicated. "i know you’re just trying to look out for me," she continued, more quietly now, the humor fading from her voice as she glanced up, her dark eyes meeting eden’s, "but i’m good. trust me." there was a beat of silence, a comfortable pause, as dalia leaned against the cart. her gaze softened slightly as she watched eden, the playfulness returning, but there was something warmer now. something genuine, as if this moment, this connection, meant more than she was willing to admit. "you know," she said, her voice a little quieter, "it’s weird... being here. this place, palmview, it feels like everything's changed. but somehow, with you? it feels like nothing's changed at all. like i’m still just that girl who used to swipe your snacks when you weren’t looking." her lips twitched in a smile as she added, almost in a whisper, "maybe we should get a couple of those slushies... you know, for old time’s sake."
as soon as dalia started talking about the slushie incident, she let out a quiet groan, shaking her head. “jesus. you’re never gonna let that go, huh?”
she could still see it, clear as day—her younger self, high on adrenaline and bad decisions, trying to sneak two massive gas station slushies into the theater under a hoodie that was way too small for the job. one wrong move, one slip of the wrist, and the entire machine damn near tipped over. if it weren’t for dalia yanking her arm and dragging her out of there, they probably would’ve been banned for life.
she exhaled a laugh, tossing the granola bars into dalia’s cart anyway. “you say these won’t make you a health guru, but baby steps. next thing you know, you’ll be meal prepping and drinking green juice.” she shot dalia a teasing look before her smirk softened into something quieter. more familiar.
eden wasn’t great at talking about feelings—never had been. but she didn’t need to say much, because dalia knew. always had. and when she said she was good, eden just studied her for a second, like she was trying to decide if she believed her.
she wanted to. she really did.
but then dalia said it—that thing that hit eden right in the chest.
it feels like nothing’s changed at all.
“alright,” she murmured, a little smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “but if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. biggest size possible, ridiculous flavors, and i swear to god if they don’t have the blue one, we’re rioting.”
she nudged dalia’s cart forward, her smirk widening. “old times’ sake, huh? alright, mi reina—let’s raise some hell.”
alfie blinked at the phone screen, then up at them, then back at the screen again, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was looking at. then—he laughed. loud, unfiltered, completely unimpressed.
“nah, nah, you’re takin’ the piss,” he drawled, shaking his head, his thick south london accent coming through like second nature. “bruv, you’re out here actin’ like i committed some federal offence ‘cause i sent a text past my bedtime. what’s next, you gonna put me on a naughty step? confiscate my phone like some primary school teacher? jog on.”
he snatched the phone back with zero remorse, scrolling lazily through whatever heinous text he’d apparently sent, smirking as he did. “look, if i had the ‘courage’ to type it, then i clearly stand by it. ain’t my fault if you ain’t built to handle my late-night genius.” he turned the screen towards them, eyebrow cocked. “matter of fact, lemme read this tragic offence out loud, since you’re actin’ like i texted the queen some war crimes.”
he cleared his throat dramatically, adopting a dead-serious tone. “‘oi, hear me out… what if dinosaurs had regional accents? like, imagine a velociraptor soundin’ like it’s from glasgow.’”
he grinned, unrepentant. “nah, see, that’s quality content. you should be grateful i’m even sharing my thoughts, mate.” he leaned back, crossing his arms. “but if you wanna be dramatic about it, fine. i’ll just start sendin’ my best material elsewhere. someone who appreciates a bit of late-night philosophical genius.”
“ you might as well have . but you're far too 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍 for any of that . ” and not at all his problem . truth be told , sebastian was pretty much ignoring half of what came out of the other's mouth . be it because of the accent , the unknown to him slangs or the level of 𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄 he deemed too early to deal with ( which he would claim to be at any hour of the day since it was seldom a good time to bother him with nonsense ) . “ yeah , you've the same 𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐋 of late night genius as my six - year - old , maybe that's why i'm not impressed . ” simply used to those questions being thrown at him every single day . and 𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 them . “ isn't the queen fucking dead ? the irish are still celebrating . ” he remembered the tiktoks about it . he also remembered the text well , no need to hear it again . but 𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐒 , the other still read it out loud . “ are you familiar with the concept of 𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐀 ? or have seen any other animal with regional accents ? ”
alfie squinted at sebastian, mouth slightly parted in exaggerated offense as he absorbed the insult. “oi, you just compared me to a six-year-old, mate. that’s bang out of order,” he said, shaking his head. “rude as fuck. i’m at least on the level of an eleven-year-old, thank you very much.”
his grin didn’t fade, though—it widened, clearly enjoying himself, despite sebastian’s general air of unbothered disinterest. in fact, the less impressed he seemed, the more fun alfie was having.
then came the pangea bit. and alfie? he looked positively delighted.
“alright, listen, smart arse,” he started, shifting forward, arms folded on the table, grin devilish. “first off, fuckin’ obviously i know what pangea is. what kinda thick do you take me for?” he gestured vaguely.“i know at some point all the land was smushed together like a shit jigsaw puzzle, yeah? but that ain’t the point.”
he leaned in slightly, voice dropping conspiratorially, like he was about to unveil some grand truth.
“now, see, we already know birds have regional accents, yeah? studies been done on it. songbirds in different places sing with different lil’ inflections and tones, right? that’s science.” he pointed at his own temple like he was some kind of genius. “so now you tell me, bruv—why the fuck wouldn’t dinosaurs, which evolved into birds, have accents too?”
he leaned back again, smug as hell. “you’re laughin’ now, but one day, some scientist is gonna prove me right, and i’m gonna have the last laugh. imagine a velociraptor with a scouse accent.” he did a terrible, nasally liverpool impression. “ehhh, lad, i’m gonna eat yer fuckin’ face off, like.”
then, as if he wasn’t already fully insufferable, he took a dramatic sip of his drink and gave sebastian a pointed look.
“bet you feel real dumb now, huh?”
who: open (@palmviewstarters)
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.”
his grin widened, half-shit-eating, half-serious. “what d’you reckon? ten minutes? fifteen? or straight to lawless savagery?”
Ziggy hates laundry day. Always has, always will.
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.
"You'll get eaten alive with that kinda courtesy," he mumbles, his head lifting up fully to get a good look at this guy. Damn. Jesus, Ziggy, keep your head on straight. A slender hand lifts to gesture out towards the lawless lands of laundry, a smirk curling at the corners of his lips. “Free game. Their fault for slacking.”
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.
“Name’s Alfie, by the way,” he added over his shoulder, smirking slightly. “Figured since you’re witness to my crimes, might as well get acquainted.”
Alfie snapped his head up, eyes narrowing for half a second before his expression split into a grin. “Oi, no fuckin’ way,” he said, clearly delighted, pointing at Charlie like he’d just uncovered a long-lost relative. “A proper Manc in Palmview? Thought I was the only poor bastard who got lost and ended up ‘ere.”
He hopped down from the washing machine, grinning as he shook his head. “Mate, you don’t even understand how rare it is to hear someone who actually gets it. Been stuck listenin’ to all these slow, drawn-out vowels—” he stretched the words out mockingly, doing the worst American accent imaginable— “‘how y’all doin’ today’—swear down, I’m losin’ my mind.”
Alfie glanced toward the abandoned dryer, then back at Charlie, considering. “An hour, you reckon? Christ. That’s beyond ‘polite waitin’ time,’ that’s full-on abandonment. Like, at that point, you don’t even want ‘em back.”
He stretched his arms over his head, then cracked his neck, like he was preparing for battle. “Right. Lawless savagery it is, then.”
Without hesitation, he grabbed the nearest laundry basket, yanked open the dryer, and started dumping someone else’s clothes into it with zero remorse.
“Listen, if they kick off, I’ll just play dumb—‘oh, mate, didn’t realise, thought the laundromat had some kinda donation system.’” He grinned, glancing back at Charlie. “And if they wanna scrap over it, well—I’ve had worse fights over stupider shit.”
Once the last shirt was tossed into the basket, Alfie dusted off his hands and leaned against the dryer. “Anyway—since we’re clearly united in the struggle of not bein’ from ‘ere, name’s Alfie,” he said, offering a nod. “What about you, mate?”
"I thought I was the only one here! You have no idea how relieved I am." Charlie bounced on his feet, "Please tell me you play footy. Mate, I'm going through so much home sickness right now, this was some divine shit right here." Chuckling at the impression, he shook his head, "I get weirded out when people are that nice.. And then they look at me like I'm a little puppy when I open my mouth and they hear me talk" He watched as the other threw the clothes in a basket, taking the time to check on his own clothes. "I don't even think they're here. If they are they should've realized ages ago that their loads been done." Charlie's smile spread, "Been there. The amount of bar fights back home.. half I couldn't even tell ya why." At the introduction, Charlie nodded back, "Pleasure, Alfie. I'm Charlie." He dapped him up like they'd known each other their entire lives, "Listen, mate, gimme your info cause I'm cookin' for you. It's music to my ears."
Alfie let out a sharp laugh, genuinely amused at Charlie’s enthusiasm. “Oi, mate, swear down—I thought I was the only poor bastard reppin’ the homeland out ‘ere. Been walkin’ round feelin’ like some endangered species.”
At the mention of football, his grin only widened. “Do I play footy? Do I play footy? Bruv, don’t insult me like that. Course I do.” He knocked his fist against his chest, feigning offense. “West Ham, born and bred. Ain’t a proper Londoner if you don’t have a mild-to-severe obsession with the beautiful game.”
He shook his head, still grinning. “Swear, though, you’re right about ‘em bein’ too nice. Had some old lady call me ‘honey’ at the shops the other day—thought she was takin’ the piss.” His expression turned mock-serious. “Turns out, nah. That’s just how they talk. No malice, no hidden agenda, just pure, unfiltered kindness. It’s unsettling.”
As he finished dumping out the last of the abandoned laundry, he clapped the lid shut and leaned back against the machine, giving Charlie a once-over. “Yeah, nah, that load was abandoned ages ago. I’m claimin’ squatters’ rights.”
When Charlie mentioned bar fights, Alfie grinned knowingly. “Bruv, same. Half the time, ain’t even about anything important. Could be somethin’ dumb as some geezer lookin’ at you funny. You see it happen, and suddenly, you’re part of it.” He shrugged, unbothered. “Character-building, innit?”
Then came the real moment of bonding. Alfie barely had time to react before Charlie dapped him up like they’d known each other for years, and honestly? It felt right.
“Nah, see, this is fate,” Alfie declared, shaking his head in mock reverence. “Two proper lads, lost in the wilderness of American suburbia. This is some divine intervention shit.”
At the offer of home-cooked food, Alfie immediately pulled out his phone. “You had me at cookin’, mate. I’m sufferin’ out ‘ere, livin’ off takeaway and whatever’s cheapest.” He quickly passed his phone to Charlie to put his info in.
“Dead serious, though—if you say you can cook, I better see some proper flavours, none of that bland shit. ‘Cause I swear, I had one bite of some ‘British-style fish and chips’ out ‘ere, and I nearly called the embassy to report a crime.”
who: open (@palmviewstarters)
where: ocean’s edge mini golf
it wasn’t that eden was bad at mini golf. it was just that she was, objectively, terrible.
but that didn’t stop her from showing up at ocean’s edge mini golf like she was about to compete in the masters, a bright pink golf ball in one hand and a questionably unnecessary amount of confidence in the other. she adjusted her stance, lined up her shot on the first hole, and—
clunk.
the ball immediately veered off-course, bouncing off the little wooden barrier, rolling onto the fake grass like it was making a break for freedom. eden just stood there for a second, lips pressing together, before she turned to whoever was unfortunate enough to be with her right now.
“… okay, so, hear me out,” she started, already ready with an excuse. “i swear i hit that right. there’s gotta be, like, a slight tilt in the ground or something. faulty course design. maybe even a conspiracy.” she squinted at the turf like it personally betrayed her.
she sighed dramatically, setting her club against her shoulder as she trudged over to retrieve her rogue golf ball. “anyway, your turn, but just know—if you get a hole-in-one right now, i will assume you bribed someone.”
hadley had been learning to be good at golf. never was really the best at it. mostly because she kind of got bored before even completing the entire activity. she would much rather be at the mall, but being active wasn't always so bad. " you sure about that? i mean ... at least it didn't end up going in an entirely different direction or something. then again, you're talking to someone who just comes along, even if i don't entirely know what i'm doing. " she laughs softly before walking up to the distance away from where her hole was and aligning her ball up with the spot she tried to hit it into. tapping it ever so lightly to where it had just barely made it.. " see, told you! definitely none of that is being done here. "
eden propped herself up on her putter, watching hadley line up her shot with the kind of lazy amusement that came from knowing neither of them were taking this seriously. mini golf was not a sport—it was an excuse to talk shit and occasionally hit a ball in the right direction. but she’d humor it. for now.
when hadley’s ball barely trickled into the hole, eden let out a low whistle, slow-clapping with the least amount of enthusiasm possible. “wow. incredible. truly a masterclass in precision,” she said, smirk tugging at her lips. “you’re right, absolutely none of that tragic amateur energy here.”
she turned her attention to her own ball, lining up her shot with a theatrical level of focus before flicking a glance back at hadley. “but real talk, are you actually trying to get better at this, or are we just here because it makes us look like we’re doing something productive before we go find real entertainment?”
she took her shot, and—for about two seconds, it looked promising. then the ball ricocheted off the side of the course, bounced over the fake little rock obstacle, and rolled into the completely wrong lane. eden let out a slow exhale, dragging a hand down her face.
“…okay. so that never happened.” she turned back to hadley with a perfectly straight face. “you’re legally obligated to forget you just saw that.”
who: open (@palmviewstarters)
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.”
his grin widened, half-shit-eating, half-serious. “what d’you reckon? ten minutes? fifteen? or straight to lawless savagery?”
Alfie snapped his head up, eyes narrowing for half a second before his expression split into a grin. “Oi, no fuckin’ way,” he said, clearly delighted, pointing at Charlie like he’d just uncovered a long-lost relative. “A proper Manc in Palmview? Thought I was the only poor bastard who got lost and ended up ‘ere.”
He hopped down from the washing machine, grinning as he shook his head. “Mate, you don’t even understand how rare it is to hear someone who actually gets it. Been stuck listenin’ to all these slow, drawn-out vowels—” he stretched the words out mockingly, doing the worst American accent imaginable— “‘how y’all doin’ today’—swear down, I’m losin’ my mind.”
Alfie glanced toward the abandoned dryer, then back at Charlie, considering. “An hour, you reckon? Christ. That’s beyond ‘polite waitin’ time,’ that’s full-on abandonment. Like, at that point, you don’t even want ‘em back.”
He stretched his arms over his head, then cracked his neck, like he was preparing for battle. “Right. Lawless savagery it is, then.”
Without hesitation, he grabbed the nearest laundry basket, yanked open the dryer, and started dumping someone else’s clothes into it with zero remorse.
“Listen, if they kick off, I’ll just play dumb—‘oh, mate, didn’t realise, thought the laundromat had some kinda donation system.’” He grinned, glancing back at Charlie. “And if they wanna scrap over it, well—I’ve had worse fights over stupider shit.”
Once the last shirt was tossed into the basket, Alfie dusted off his hands and leaned against the dryer. “Anyway—since we’re clearly united in the struggle of not bein’ from ‘ere, name’s Alfie,” he said, offering a nod. “What about you, mate?”
who: open (@palmviewstarters)
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.”
his grin widened, half-shit-eating, half-serious. “what d’you reckon? ten minutes? fifteen? or straight to lawless savagery?”