07 / 10 / 10 - Jean-Paul, Tom
=XF= Laundry Room - Residences - Chemeketa Military Base
This is a laundry room. They are not coin operated, which is AMAZING, but the dispenser for different kinds of soaps and fabric softeners is. That sucks. There is wireless, a TV, and a lounge area in addition to a folding table. Yup. That's sure a laundry room.
As his washer finishes slushing through the last of its rinse and drain and then clicks off, Jean-Paul pushes from his seat in the lounge. He leaves behind a spiral-bound notebook as well as an edge-worn, corner-folded paperwork that is left open with the spine cracked. One might, just maybe, get the feeling that he has read that book before. He transfers his clothes from washer to dryer, and stands before the dryer as he peels off a dryer sheet to fling in.
Tom pauses on the threshhold of the laundry room when a flicker of his attention reveals it to be occupied, but he goes on in after a heartbeat or so, carting a large hamper in with him. His laundry consists of a stack of identical black T-shirts and an even split of identical jeans and identical shorts. He says, "Hey," as he moves to claim an empty washing machine.
Shoulders straightening, chin lifting, Jean-Paul looks back toward Tom. With a certain amount of care, he presses the door of the dryer closed. "Hey," he says. He starts the dryer.
Transferring big handfuls of black cloth from his basket into the washing machine, Tom glances over at him. After a pause's delay, he looks back to the task at hand and says, "You ever just decide to buy new shirts instead of washing the old shirts?"
"Sometimes I buy new shirts even when I wash the old ones," Jean-Paul says, gaze falling toward Tom's handfuls on his way back to the sitting area. He allows a hint of something skeptical to enter his expression. Perhaps he does not think much of Tom's fashion. Or his cleanliness. (Probably not the latter.)
"I just was going to say. It backfires. You just have more shirts to wash." Tom dumps another doubled handful of black shirts into the washer and moves on to dump his jeans. Even the shirt he is wearing is another prime example of the breed of shirt: plain, black, short-sleeved tee.
"Do you buy them in bulk?" Jean-Paul asks as he gathers in pen, notebook, and book.
"Do they sell shirts in bulk? It's actually kind of hard to find shirts that don't have writing on them." Tom finishes adding clothes to the washing machine and starts an exacting measurement of his detergent from his bottle into his cap. He pauses again, glancing over at Jean-Paul as he gathers up his stuff.
"I imagine you could find a way to buy them." Failing to tuck his pen into the coil of the wire spiral, Jean-Paul drops it, and he has to set his stuff down to find it. Where is it? Somewhere obnoxious, like under something, and out of sight. Stupid pen.
Tom starts his wash, adding his carefully apportioned detergent, and shuts the lid. It bangs a little more loudly than he means it to, and he scowls at it; then he turns, and hitches into a lean against the washer. "You know, since my stuff is in now, I could go away, and you could stay."
"You could," Jean-Paul agrees as he checks under the coffee table. No. A faint tension in his voice, he says, "And, alternately, /I/ could go away and /you/ could stay since the dryer will take longer anyway."
Folding his arms over his chest, Tom deepens his scowl without saying anything for a moment, watching Jean-Paul quest after his vanished property. He glances between washer and dryer, and doesn't stop scowling.
Jean-Paul tries under the couch he had been sitting in. This is also a no. Table, couch -- chair? Okay, he checks the chair, where he finds the pen tucked away in a shadow. He picks it up, brushes off a bit of linty-dust, and hooks it on the spine of his notebook. He says nothing.
"We could /both/ leave," Tom comes out with eventually. "Because I didn't bring anything to do."
Jean-Paul laughs at that in a snort of breath. Dragging his fingers down over his eyes and along the side of his face, he says, "Yes, we could."
Tom pushes off from the washing machine. His arms, folded across his chest, tighten there with the hunch of his shoulders. He tips his glance up at Jean-Paul and then away again. Aawkwardly.
Leaving behind his laundry basket for later pickup of dried clothing, Jean-Paul heads for the door with notebook, pen, and book.
Marginally closer to the door what with his starting point by the machine, Tom holds it open for Jean-Paul since they are both ditching the laundry room, obviously in totally coincidentally opposing directions.
Jerking his head in a bare acknowledging nod, Jean-Paul silently says his farewell and then heads off to wait out his laundry.
Tom says "Later" on a note of vague grumblement (totally a word) to Jean-Paul's departing back, and then tromps off himself.
Laundry cuddles.