Work Text:
Dream was starting to really settle into humanity.
He'd risen with Hob this morning; he'd boiled water for tea without starting an electrical fire (a mistake he'd only made once before), and toasted bread without burning it (a mistake he'd most recently made yesterday, but it was hardly his fault when he'd been distracted by the sleepy way Hob smiled at him first thing in the morning). There was still a lot to learn, but he was getting the hang of things.
And now, he was going to do laundry.
Hob was away at work for the day, and Dream wanted to something nice to surprise him. He'd watched Hob load and unload the washer enough times that he felt confident he could replicate the process. And the machine did most of the work, anyways. None of the backbreaking work of a washboard or the limb threatening work of a mangle—he'd been party to some of the nightmares that emerged from invention of that infernal device.
The modern washing machine was a breeze in comparison. All he needed to do was load it, add detergent, and push a button. He didn't even have to worry about shrinking anything in the dryer, since it was a perfect day to put the wash out to dry on the line. Hob would come home to perfectly clean, crisp smelling clothes that were precisely the size they started.
Dream began by gathering up the clothes for the wash. Neither he nor Hob was overly skilled at actually putting things in the hamper, so he went around their bedroom and bathroom piling things into a basket—jeans draped over the chair in the corner, shirts forming creases on the floor, socks that had actually made it to the hamper, and the scarlet jumper Dream had helped Hob pick out on the weekend. The colour reminded him of opium poppies, and it made the warmth in Hob's eyes and skin sing. The sooner it was washed, the sooner he could convince Hob to wear it.
When his basket was full and the flat noticeably tidier, Dream gently piled the clothes into the washer, sprinkled in a scoop of powder detergent, and shut the door firmly. He was careful to check that the machine's settings had not been disturbed from the last time Hob did the washing, before finally hitting start and then wandering back to the bedroom to straighten up some of the remaining mess.
He could hear the machine churning along as he worked, the sloshing of water and mechanical whirring providing background noise in the otherwise quiet flat. After a few minutes of tidying, the room was in good enough shape that Dream felt he had earned a break, and he settled against the headboard of the freshly made bed to read (Hob was in the habit of bringing home stacks of romance paperbacks for him from the library).
It felt like almost no time had passed when he was stirred from his focus on the description of some physiologically dubious but emotionally impactful lovemaking by the musical alarm of the end-of-cycle signal. He set aside his book and made his way into the kitchen to gather the clean laundry to bring out to the balcony.
When he first opened the washer, he was greeted with the soft scent of lavender and clean clothes, and he smiled to himself at the pleasant aroma.
And then he saw the clothes.
The darker clothes—the jeans, the black trousers, the soft charcoal hoodie that Dream liked to borrow—they looked just fine. Hob's new jumper looked just as vibrant as it had when they picked it out in the shop. But everything else, everything that had gone in the washer a shade of white or cream or pastel blue, was now pink. Some baby pink, some bordering on a soft coral, some with a definite violet cast, but all undeniably pink.
Dream snatched the red jumper out of the basin as if that would somehow reverse the damage. The bright colour was looking decidedly less lovely now, but he still went and laid it out to dry flat on a towel, switching out the white one he'd prepared with a dark navy one with perhaps sharper movements than the task required.
All the time, he was thinking about what was to be done with the other clothes. The smartest thing to do would probably be to text Hob for advice—a man didn't live more than six centuries without learning a thing or two about stain removal, especially with his history. But he'd wanted to surprise Hob with something nice, not another job. He didn't want him feeling like he was always babysitting Dream; he should be able to do something as simple as wash a load of laundry on his own.
He would just wash them all again.
Not the jumper, of course. But he had plenty of time before Hob came home to run the machine again. Probably a couple times. He briefly considered using the bottle of bleach under the sink—but even Hob had expressed difficulties with bleach stains, and he didn't need to add another problem on top of this one.
So, he went back to the machine, dumped in another scoop of soap, and set the machine to work again. This time, instead of wandering to another room, he sat on the floor directly in front of the washer, staring in at the sudsy water with his knees up and his arms wrapped around his shins.
The cycle passed much slower this way, but eventually, the signal sounded. The electronic melody felt mocking where before it was cheerful—he would be lucky if the sound didn't become a permanent headache trigger after today.
And the clothes were still pink, so back in they went. Third time's the charm, he thought, but Dream didn't hold out much hope for this round either. This time, he slumped back against the kitchen cabinets to wait, staring at the ceiling or his feet more than the washer.
When the alarm sounded again, he felt pain throb in his temples. That confirms that, then. He pulled the clothes from the washer—he was definitely letting his desperation delude him, but he thought they almost looked a half-shade lighter. At this rate, he'd only have to re-wash them a few dozen more times to get them clean.
Neither his head nor Hob's water bill would enjoy that, so he finally conceded defeat for the moment and went to hang everything to dry. Maybe a freak storm would blow through and carry everything off before he had to explain himself to Hob—who would be home soon, one way or another.
With the laundry hung up, he fussed about making a pot of tea for Hob's return, thinking to bribe his way out of some disappointment, and tried to settle back into his novel to distract himself while he waited. No such luck, of course. Every mention of the heroine's blushing cheeks and petal-pink lips reminded him of the Oxford shirts and tennis socks on the clothesline. He chewed at his lips, glancing from the page to the front door and back again, reading the line several times over.
When he finally heard Hob's keys clatter in the lock, his heartrate spiked. It was silly to be getting so worked up—while he was hardly a saint, Hob had been nothing but patient and kind with him over all of his missteps as he adjusted to being human. Even the electrical fire. There wasn't even risk of serious bodily harm this time. But still his heart pounded as the door clicked shut behind Hob.
"Hiya, love," Hob said, dropping his bag and keys by the door before coming over to press a kiss to the crown of Dream's head. "How's your day been— Oh! You washed my new jumper! How sweet."
Hob's face was sickeningly fond, and it was that that broke him.
"I ruined your clothes."
"You— what?"
"I ruined them. I tried to do something kind for you, and instead I wrecked your things like some kind of bumbling child."
Dream was scowling, his eyes burning dangerously.
"Hey, hey, no. I'm sure you didn't wreck anything. I don't even smell smoke." Hob's smile was kind, far kinder than he deserved.
"Come. I'll show you."
Dream marched out to the balcony, with Hob on his heel. Once there, he gestured at the rosy line of clothes.
"See? I wrecked them. I can buy you new ones—or, I will, once I find work, but I—"
"Dream, love, you didn't wreck anything. C'mere."
Hob held his arms open for a hug, and reluctant though he was, Dream went to him, sliding his arms around his waist and tucking his face into his shoulder.
"They're just clothes, Dream. And even if they were wrecked—which they're not, since I happen to look excellent in pink—I wouldn't be mad at you for making a mistake that nearly every human that's ever learned to do laundry has made." He stroked a hand over Dream's hair, squeezing him tighter for a moment before pulling back to make eye contact. "Okay?"
"...Okay."
That gooey, fond look again.
"Okay. Let's go see about some dinner, then."
The next morning, Dream rose with Hob. He boiled water for tea (no fires), he toasted bread (only a little burnt on the edges), and he kissed Hob goodbye as he headed to work in his new red jumper, with a perfectly coordinating pink shirt underneath.
He was starting to really settle into humanity.