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“No, this won’t do at all….”
Nyen wished spontaneous combustion upon himself at Luther’s disgusted scowl. One would think that evicting an unwanted guest and providing dinner in one go would be cause for reward, but no. Nyen’s swagger into the kitchen, brown sack slung over his back, was invisible to Luther who only saw the bloodied, muddied, residue the catman was caked in.
“Throw your clothes in the wash right now.”
That order in itself was fine. Expected even, if a little more curt than normal. It was the succeeding command, tacked on just as he was trudging down the hall, that tucked his metaphorical tail between his legs.
“And while you’re at it, could you take care of the laundry already in there?”
Luther’s recoil from him in the kitchen, the thankless waving him off— instant replays kept haunting Nyen as he stood in the laundry room.
Luther is stressed is all, he sighed, and there was nothing he could do about that. After all, Nyon’s mechanically inclined hands were better at fixing prized vacuums. Nyen scratched the back of his neck, so better to just follow orders. Starting with, he supposed, soaking his own clothes before dirtying up anyone else’s, and he threw his damp shirt over his head—
ack
something got in his mouth. Into the utility sink it went, warm tap on, and his pants were next.
As the sink filled he popped open the dryer to secure a new pair and… a tank top? He side-eyed the slow rising water. It was chilly, he shrugged, better suited a sweater. Besides it was the most comfortable, fit him the best, and Luther
had
given it to him. Yeah, it was worth waiting for.
The tank top was tossed atop the front-loading washer where it was smothered by the rest of the to-be-folded laundry. Before he attacked the beast, he stopped the water and readied up different baskets: One, oddly gnawed, for Randal and his pet; one old and beaten for he and Nyon; one heart covered for things he never saw Kitty or Nana in; and one plain white for his master. That one in particular he took extra care in sliding next to the ironing board. Atop of which, piece by piece, he steamed out all unwanted wrinkles from his master’s shirts, pants, even underwear.
It did take up the most time— why not enjoy the chance he had to shove his face into the soft, clean fabric and revel in its rustic scent? Ah, wait, he broke out of his drooling fantasy to look over at the mess in the sink. The smartest play would be to hold off for after he had a shower.
Until then, he’d toss his wrung out clothes in the washer and give him and Nyon’s basket some attention. Not out of the kindness of his heart, obviously, but because Luther preferred their appearance to be tidy, and Nyon never folded his clothes properly. He’d end up with disastrously wrinkled shirts; random fold lines, ugly pilling piling up. Exhibit A, Nyen scorned the blue sweater in his hands, why keep something that would be threads given, what, two more washes? Was that any way to face your master in the morning? Certainly didn’t give Nyen something to look forward to when released from his bunk. He wouldn’t be caught dead in something so unfashionable.
It helped that their styles were distinct; there was no need for sewing their names into their underwear. Not he would mind if a mix-up happened. He held up a darker graphic-T of his: Skeletal hand boarded by gothic roses. Something like this would suit Nyon if he paired it with some grey skinny jeans. Nyen wiggled out just the pair he was thinking of, and laid the ensemble atop the heap to better judge it from a step back, fist to his chin.
Not bad. Add a chain, black shoes, and a red bomber jacket on top, and, yeah, Nyon would be more than ready for a night on the town…. In a funny way of course!
Nyen ripped the outfit off the pile, and chucked it crumpled into his side of the basket. Out of sight, image hopefully out of mind. In spite of how hot his face felt— Oh god, was he red?
His knees cracked as he dropped to check his reflection in the washer’s door. Sadly too dark to see any color besides the smeared muck across his face.
Eugh, no wonder Luther sent him away, he’d better wash this off in the sink. To heave himself up, his hand slapped the top of the washer, onto a corner of fabric. White, but not a button up, couldn’t be Randal’s. He gave it a yank and was met with a white t-shirt, plain if not for the ‘wave’ graphic. Nyen’s mouth curled with a dark chuckle.
Luther would appreciate saving water, no? Sebastian wouldn’t mind if Nyen, say, balled up this shirt and wiped it across his unwashed, bloodied, face, leaving behind a browning crimson streak. To make it even, and to make sure Nyen got everything off, he’d pat himself down with all of Sebastian’s shirts!
Devious laughter, at first muffled, grew with every thread-stretching pull and scrub.
The clown should be honored. With a clean face, Nyen got the remaining folding done in half the time, with all the glee he had missed out on before.
At the room’s threshold he paused to survey his work. Everything in neat piles within baskets bound for their regular destinations. His and Nyon's in one, Randal’s atop Sebastian’s half-assed mass, and Luther’s still warm atop the ironing board. He nodded to himself and straightened his newly dried sweater.
Now for a nice Queen Victoria lamp nap before dinner.