Lavanderie
A Boku no Hero Academia fanfiction.
Summary: Alternate Universe where the first time Aizawa Shouta and Yamada Hizashi meet is not in the classroom, but at a laundry mat, as adults with different lives when they find each other walking on the same path.
Warning: Some cursing, Maizawa. I'll be including western references as the narrator is a westerner despite the setting being in Japan.
He met him at the laundry mat on a Tuesday night.
If his dark hoodie pulled tightly over his eyes or the juice pouch loosely hanging from his lips were any indication, Aizawa Shouta rarely dragged himself to the yellow plastic chairs at three in the morning, on a Tuesday no less.
He scratched lazily at his chin, his eyes scanning his phone. A washing machine, the color of pale and faded Pepto-Bismol, rocketed in the corner, banging against the metal next to it.
Usually, he was out patrolling. But a late morning turned into an even later night, and he couldn't bring himself to slink through the streets searching for lowlife thugs, so he settled for his second and least favorite obligation—laundry.
The mat was empty, as one expected. It was the type open 24/7 and probably used for anything other than its laundry services. The tiles were chipped and a few stolen. They were solid gray and more than likely hadn't been mopped in years, so all Aizawa could see when he looked down was a black blob.
The laundry mat was convenient—around the corner from his house—so it was only logical that he used it instead of spending the money to fix his broken unit.
But rarely did he ever come on a Tuesday. Something was different, something he couldn't place as he chewed the end of his empty juice pouch.
The washing machine gave one, final sputter, before dying and releasing a ding. Aizawa rose from his plastic seat and stalked over, stringing long sleeves around the lump so he could form a black ball.
The front door opened, indicated by the ring of a bell, but Aizawa ignored it and carried his sopping clothes to an open dryer. He caught a glimpse of him—a young man, probably his age, so wrapped up in his headphones that he probably didn't know he existed. Aizawa popped the lid open, threw his clothes in, fed the machine the money, and cranked it up to 50 minutes.
Almost an hour, he thought, I can get a good nap in.
The laundry mat was small compared to its services. There were maybe 30 washing machines, stacked on top of each other on the wall opposite of the entrance, 15 in a line. Parallel to that was the row of dryers, 14 of them, (the last one on the right was broken, and has been broken, for as long as Aizawa had been going there) so you could scoop your clothes from the washer straight into a dryer behind it. A wall of windows made the storefront and the perpendicular wall, stapled with two sets of yellow plastic chairs, three in a row, each triplet welded to the same piece of metal.
Aizawa liked to sit on the chair furthest away from the windows, closer to the last wall that was nothing but exposed brick. He slunk back to his spot so he could lean his back against the brick and stretch his legs out across the remaining chairs.
The laundry mat felt a whole lot tinier, and a whole lot louder with a washing machine and a dryer going at the same time. Aizawa glanced through his bangs at the young man again as he danced to a silent beat, organizing his next load for the washer.
How many clothes does he even have?
He couldn't imagine why someone like him would be at the laundry mat early in the morning. Aizawa looked like he crawled from the alleyway and matched along with the missing grey tiles and the putrid pink machinery. But he was a different story—long blond hair that tapped his hips and shimmered under the fluorescent lighting, his mouth quirked up in a permanent grin as his thin hips shimmied to the beat of his music. His clothes were an entirely different thing, leather jacket and leather pants, the cost of which probably exceed the amount Aizawa spent on his entire wardrobe. He looked like he could have six washers at home alone.
Aizawa looked at him for a few more moments, at the glimmer of green eyes beneath the silver frame of glasses, before he looked back at his phone. 3:45.
Guess I shouldn't worry about him stealing my clothes.
A poor excuse of a wastebasket sat beside the broken dryer at the end of the row, and he tossed his empty juice pouch at it, shrugging when it tapped off the rim. He'd get it later.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and dozed off, swirling into a mist of black. It only felt like a few minutes before a hand was on his shoulder.
He jolted awake, his mind reacting immediately on defense before he realized it was the young man, his headphones around his neck, and his mouth transformed into a sheepish grin.
"Sorry to wake you, but your laundry is done," he said, stepping back.
Aizawa checked the time. 4:37.
"Oh." It was all he could think to say as he stepped up from the chair, stretching his arms above his head.
The man returned to his laundry, and Aizawa grabbed his black bag and made his way to his machine, scooping the heated fabric into it. He felt tired and ready for bed, but he stopped beside the trash can on his way out.
The juice pouch was gone, tossed inside the plastic sheath even though he was for sure he dropped it on the tile. He cast a glance at the man—he was humming to himself now and folding a finished load on another dryer. He thought about saying thanks, but he decided against it, slipping out the door into the cold night.
The next time he went to the laundry mat, it was a Monday night, and he had more than just a pack of clothes to wash. A long week filled with long nights made his bag feel like a thousand pounds as he heaved it on top of a dryer. It was somewhere around two, but the bags around his eyes made it feel like it was at least six in the morning.
He riffled through his bag, pulling out each article, scrutinizing each piece. Tears and rips bore into his long sleeve shirts, and he sighed at each one he uncovered. The villains had been troublesome that week, in their longer than normal fights and their obnoxious capturing time. His hair kept getting in his eyes as he worked, and finally fed up with it, he unzipped his jacket and tossed it on his bag, tying his hair out of his eyes.
Tonight was going to be a long night.
He worked on his first load of laundry, throwing it in the washing machine. When he shut the door, he caught a glimmer of blond on its glass surface; and when he turned around to grab his second load, the bell rung, and the young man slipped through the door, pinning a cellphone between his shoulder and ear. He raised a hand to Aizawa like they were friends, and he only responded with a nod.
"Nemuri, come on!" He laughed, planting his overly-stuffed bag on a dryer at the other end of the row. "Stop teasing me like that!"
A girlfriend, I guess. Aizawa thought as he started his second load. There was little he could do about the ripped shirts for now, so he shoved them to the bottom of his bag, moving his jacket onto the dryer and out of the way. The washers buzzed next to each other, humming, and he felt like he could fall asleep leaned up against them.
But his voice cleaved across the silence, and for once, Aizawa felt like his quiet time was being interrupted as the blond man let out a howl of laughter and smacked his hand on the dryer surface.
"No way! For real?" He seemed like a lively person when he wasn't calmed by music—maybe too lively for his standards. But there was something musical and animated about the way he talked, and Aizawa couldn't help but start to drift off listening to it too, so lost in the buzz of his voice that he almost missed his phone ringing. Almost.
He pulled it out of his pocket. We need backup was followed by a street address, and Aizawa cursed silently, pulling the doors open to the washing machines. Some water sloshed onto the floor before the machine puttered off, and he shoved all the wet clothes he could in his bag. He missed the fact that it went silent, that the young man had stopped talking as he threw the strap of his bag over his shoulder and stalked out quickly, pulling the yellow goggles that matched the yellow, plastic chairs from under his shirt.
Tonight was going to be a very long night.
It took him two days to realize his favorite hoodie was MIA.
He realized it after a long night of hero work, where all he wanted to do was curl up on his couch with his jacket and a juice packet; but his favored black coat wasn't on the hook by the door, or under the discarded clothes in the living room, or on the couch or tangled in his bed sheets. He swore to himself silently and settled for a blanket that night, but it wasn't the same, and wouldn't be the same until he got his jacket back.
There were very few places he went during the week, let alone with his coveted "fuck off" jacket. So, the next morning, when he woke up too early and too pissed off, he changed his clothes and walked out of his apartment with a juice pack between his lips to constitute as breakfast.
Aizawa had a general dislike for the public population during the daytime. The sun was too bright and made him squint, the sidewalks were too crowded, and people would blatantly run their shoulders or purses or briefcases into him no matter how hard he attempted to zip seamlessly between them—not to mention the offbeat stares as he slurped absentmindedly at his juice, chewing at the cap.
The logical start was the laundry mat. It was the closest to the apartment, and one of the few places he frequented with his jacket. It was empty when he pushed the door open with an elbow, the bell giving a hollow clang.
He used the same few washers and dryers, alternating only on occasion, so he made a beeline for the far side and spotted the note taped to the washing machine instantly. The paper fluttered on his approach, its pink ink bleeding into the reflection of the glass. He plucked it off, moving the plastic cap off his juice packet to one side of his mouth.
Whoever wrote it, wrote like a kindergartener. It was in all caps, the top half in a mixture of kanji and hiragana, and the second part in the all-caps English that made his eyes burn. The note writer was obviously a bit of a showoff.
To the litterer who wears all black and does laundry early in the morning, it read, and he grunted, his eyes weaving over the next line. You left your jacket when you ran off. Didn't want to leave it here, so I took it with me. Here's my number so you can get it back.
From what he could understand, the English was a repeat of what the Japanese said. In case I'm not Japanese, he thought, as he gnawed the juice pack. The note wasn't signed, but it was obviously the only other person in the laundry mat when he left on emergency hero work.
He should have left the damn jacket here though.
He debated with himself about whether to call him at that moment, or to wait until the afternoon, or just avoid calling him altogether and buy a new jacket—an illogical option, he finally decided. Aizawa settled on texting the number a brief message.
Saw your note. Just leave the jacket at the mat. I'll pick it up.
He waited for a few moments, staring at his dark screen, before chunking the juice pack into the trash. He went home feeling a little less bitter, but still unhappy, that he would spend another sleepless night without his jacket.
He didn't hear back from the elusive jacket snatcher all day the next day. He was starting to convince himself that the guy actually stole it and left a fake number, but he couldn't help but check his phone more often than he normally did.
He finally decided he would go to the laundry mat and see if he showed up that night. He didn't have much laundry to do, so he settled on stripping his sheets from his bed, so he could justify the trip and not come back empty-handed.
He slunk off to the dilapidated structure around 2:30 in the morning, his bundle secured under his arm. A young woman perched herself in his chair, reading a book as her washer buzzed. She didn't look up when he entered, and he didn't attempt to make eye contact as he went to his end and started washing.
The first thing he noticed was it wasn't just the normal washer-that-sounds-like-a-jackhammer sound, but it was something else, an overlying soundtrack placed over his usual complacent days. He glanced at the woman as she turned the page. It was music, but she had no headphones and looked like she had more entertaining things to do than listen to a guitar sheer across the boring haze. As he sorted his load ontop of the dryers, his eyes instinctively drifted to the source, a black box screwed high up on the brick-exposed wall.
Why the hell buy a radio when half your services don't even work?
Granted, it was a shitty radio. Most of the sounds got warbled coming from the speakers, and it looked like it had been stripped from a dump and salvaged. Least it matched the appeal of the place.
The woman and Aizawa never made any exchange. She buzzed between his chair and her clothes, finally folding them and leaving after twenty minutes of Aizawa leaning against his occupied washer and checking his phone.
The music that sputtered from the old radio was some new, popular songs with too much bass and too many mentions of drugs and parties for Aizawa to care for. He didn't hear much of it from his position, but when the woman finally left, he circled his way to his chair and plopped down, stretching out.
The radio gave a quiet cackle, and Aizawa closed his eyes.
"That's it for tonight, listeners!" the radio host announced, and his eyes slipped open, catching his own poor reflection in the windows. "I hope you enjoyed this round of music, and remember, be kind to one another, and more than anything, be happy! Tune in next week!"
"Sorry to wake you, but your laundry is done."
"Nemuri, come on!"
So the elusive jacket snatcher was a radio host. That explains why he has too many clothes. But it also didn't explain why he would keep his jacket hostage.
Aizawa kept his eyes on the windows, at the fluorescent line the lights drew in the darkness, at the occasional lone car that passed by. His washer sputtered on.
He almost disliked the laundry mat silence.
He rolled over in his newly cleaned comforter to a text that afternoon. He snoozed through the first alert but vaguely caught the second, sitting up to check the time. 1:30. His eyes drifted to the message notification.
Sorry, got busy on the weekend! Might do some laundry this evening. Mind stopping by?
He scratched his cheek for a moment before he remembered the events of that night, the radio host/jacket snatcher and his attempt to locate him. He grumbled quietly, rolling onto his side as he slowly typed out his response.
What's your definition of evening?
He waited, running his fingers through his bangs. There was a ding within seconds.
How does 4 sound?
Aizawa groaned and flopped back on the bed. He texted a quip that's fine before he slid the comforter to his cheekbones and drifted off again, gripping the phone tightly in his hands in case he missed another message.
He was still grumbling about the jacket snatcher's poor choice of time when he sulked to the mat. More people than he's ever seen before swarmed the washer and dryer units, and he hated it.
An unattended baby screeched from the noises as his mother chomped at her gum and scrolled through her phone. An old man grunted and talked to himself as he put dry clothes in the dryer first by mistake, then pounding on the machine when it ate his money. A woman sat on the broken dryer at the end, while her boyfriend buzzed between the washer and her, and Aizawa cringed every time he pecked her lips and she giggled nervously.
Too many people, too much chaos—it made him cherish his early moments alone.
He eyed his chair for a few moments, but it was too close to the mother and the wailing baby, so he pinned himself close to the only exit, counting under his breath and hoping this sudden wave of sensory overload would crash before it reached him and overtook him, before it choked him and drowned him—
The bell rung, and he caught the door before it smacked into him, staring at the blond man behind the glass, their hands touching at the same place. He gave a sheepish grin, looked around, and waved Aizawa outside.
He had never been more thankful to leave.
The jacket snatcher was about an inch taller than him, his green eyes now distanced behind a pair of shades. Despite the steadily warm climate settling over Japan, he was still in his all leather outfit and pinned his long hair from his face. Aizawa noticed his jacket, slung casually over his shoulder.
"Sorry about being slow getting back to you," he started, but Aizawa kept his eyes fixated on the soft black fabric intertwined in his fingers. "I get pretty busy on the weekends and all-"
"Because you're a radio host," Aizawa said, moving his eyes to his face to catch his shocked expression before it dissolved into a quirked eyebrow.
"I didn't take you as a person who listened to the radio," he joked.
Aizawa jerked a finger back at the entrance to the laundry mat. "I don't. For some god unknown reason, they just installed a radio in there. I heard you."
The jacket snatcher nodded his head thoughtfully. There was another vibe to him, a calmer vibe when he wasn't jamming to music or screaming into a phone. This was the radio host persona, the swindler with the smooth voice and upbeat attitude.
"Fair enough." He jerked out a hand. "I don't think I ever introduced myself. I'm Yamada Hizashi." He retracted his hand when Aizawa gave it a glance, instead holding out his jacket. Aizawa snatched it up and instantly felt safe.
"Aizawa Shouta…" He ran his fingers over the sleeves before slipping it on, glancing at him briefly. "And thanks."
"No problem."
They stood in an awkward silence for a few moments; Aizawa considered turning and walking away when the blond—Yamada, he should call him—tried to strike up a conversation.
"So do you always go to the laundry mat at night?"
Aizawa exhaled slowly. "When I have time."
"You must be a night owl."
"Only time I like to be outside."
Yamada bobbed his head and grinned. "Guess I'm the exact opposite, huh? I hate staying up late—only really do it on the weekends.
"Then why did you do your laundry early in the morning when I've seen you," Aizawa asked, and the blond scratched the back of his head.
"I like to call those my crisis moments when I literally lose my mind and have to do my laundry to keep me sane." Aizawa raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He quickly waved his hands and added. "Not that I'm actually crazy or anything!"
"Right." It was really the only thing he could think of. Aizawa had always struggled to formulate his words without malice, but it just seemed a little easier now, like he wasn't jumping around some hidden societal concept of politeness. He shoved his hands in his pocket and thought for a moment, searching for something to grasp.
"So, you're not doing laundry, I guess."
Yamada looked at him questioningly for a moment, and then the light bulb turned on, and he laughed. "Yeah, I honestly forgot. I was in business mode to get here, I left my clothes at home. Besides," He nodded to the mat, "I hate when its overcrowded like that."
Aizawa spoke, "That's why I do mine early in the morning."
"That makes sense! It was peaceful those two times I tried. I'll have to try it more often."
Aizawa opened his mouth to say more, but it was obvious the conversation had whittled down to nothing. He mumbled a quiet "thanks again" before retreating to his apartment, easing the door shut behind him. He had his jacket, and that was supposed to be the end of it.
But it wasn't the end.
This is part one of two. I hope you enjoyed so far and stay tuned this week for the second update and conclusion.
Thanks for reading.
Soul Spirit