[gardens0feden]

eden de los santos .

alfie stark .

[gardens0feden]

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.

[ziggywho]

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."

[gardens0feden]

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.

[gardens0feden]

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.

[gardens0feden]

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?”

[tobieornotobie]

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 ?”

[gardens0feden]

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?”

[gardens0feden]

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.”

[ziggywho]

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.

[gardens0feden]

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.

[gardens0feden]

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?”

[ziggywho]

"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.

[gardens0feden]

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.”

[gardens0feden]

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?”

[ziggywho]

"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?"

[gardens0feden]

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?”

[gardens0feden]

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.”

[anchorsfm]

"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."

[gardens0feden]

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.”

[gardens0feden]

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.”

[ziggywho]

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?”

[gardens0feden]

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?”

[gardens0feden]

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?”

[mcktub]

    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   .   ”

[gardens0feden]

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.”

[gardens0feden]

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.

[steelxheartx]

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."

[gardens0feden]

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.”

[gardens0feden]

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.”

[mcktub]

    “   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   ?   ”

[gardens0feden]

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?”

[gardens0feden]

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?”

[ziggywho]

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.”

[gardens0feden]

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.”

[gardens0feden]

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?”

[anchorsfm]

"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."

[gardens0feden]

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.”

[gardens0feden]

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.”

[sunshinesfm]

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.  "

[gardens0feden]

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.”

[gardens0feden]

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?”

[gardens0feden]

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?”

[gardens0feden]

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?”