Marco had been just one room over, ignoring muffled voices as he tried to sort Lennon's laundry and his own, and get it into the washing machine before things got too crazy with cleaning. He'd missed the memo on the meeting. He'd just collected the clothes in both rooms and gotten to work, as best he could. Which, it turned out, wasn't the best. He'd thrown all of their clothes into the washer, including the nice jackets they'd worn the night before, and had even started the thing before stopping to wonder if he was supposed to separate the clothes. Then he'd dug into the already wet and soapy clothing, stopped the wash, and had tried to sort. He'd only made himself frustrated.
Leaving the utility room, he'd gone to the kitchen, expecting to find someone, but found no one. He frowned, then checked where he'd maybe heard voices come from, expecting to find no one. He peeked into the living room, and jumped when he instead found everyone.
"Uh," he started, nervous that he'd interrupted something important. "Sorry, to, um... Yeah, this looks like it was important. Sorry, but does anyone know if the assholes who run this place want us to sort the, uh, the whites from the rest of the laundry?" he asked, holding up a sopping wet tank top that he'd, for some reason, decided to drag along with him.