Except Because I Love You (Original Fic)
title: Except Because I Love You
fandom: none
rating: PG
summary: Preparing for a party and preparing for the worst are two very different things. Peter is going to learn that the hard way.
Peter does not swear at himself, because that is not very polite. He does, however, grit his teeth in frustration. A scheduled trip to the carpet store has turned disastrous as he discovers that their old rug is out of stock and a decision is in order.
Four minutes later, he decides there is little that pattern, shape or even size can do to help him. Those things are adjustable - easy to trim or ginore. If need be, he realizes, the maid will help him change the rest of the room. What Peter must look for is color. Not just any color. It must be bold, but without the lure of contrast. The background must render all other colors mere sideshows, but only serve to keep the eye moving about the bedroom.
Glancing out the aisle’s opening, Peter eyes every stand and tall plastic rack with the scrutiny that tonight's guests will probably never employ. The white, sterile decor of this store emboldens every stitch and every border of every rug on every rack. Peter struggles just to decide where one stops and another starts, let alone which he finds irresistible enough to bring home.
When it strikes him that he may be forced to choose based entirely on practicality, without any consideration for style, he must grab onto the beam beside him and breathe.
He had thought himself adjusted before.
**** **** **** ****
After perusing for more than an hour, Peter stops at the most subdued shade of red he can find, because Daniel only eats tomato soup as of late - one of the few things a weak immune system tolerates. Even with drugs, he loses every drop almost as soon as it's begun to digest, and that is why Peter picks this carpet, so lush with designs that the spots where bleach has fought to do its work and old fluids of the body stained will become tricks of the eye. They will transform into easily trampled blemishes that guests can wish away. All concern for Daniel’s condition will be removed tonight. He and Peter agreed it will be better that way.
So the red carpet with strange birds in flight and gaudy flourishes of fauna is rolled up and taped, the high nosed man behind the counter eyeing Peter as he pays with his gold card.
The employees who load it into Peter’s PT Cruiser cast glances at one another, expressionless conversations that he does not want to translate.
Crawling into the driver's seat and turning on the AC, he shoves the receipt down into the bowels of the glove compartment. It’s twins and cousins crinkle in protest, making room for one more bill of shame.
**** **** **** ****
His arrival home is later than expected.
At the winery their old friend Marcus startled Peter with a greeting, demanding news or stories he could use at his own gathering tonight. It would be the first in Marcus's new house after all.
Peter shakes his head, not recalling a single thing he told the other man. Though he supposes he recited the updates - the same old hope attached to new cures and recommendations - he could hardly remember exactly which details he chose to reveal. Hanging his coat up in the closet off their entryway, Peter mutters “Call Marcus” aloud to himself. It feels very much like a poor substitute for the enthusiasm he should be feeling from the reunion.
He calls for Daniel as he walks the newly polished floors to the kitchen and his voice echos back ominously off the oak-paneled walls.
The revelation of the responding silence avoids him until the crock pot is plugged in and the soup begins re-heating. Lifting his head to the racks of spices and the stainless steel fridge, he tries again.
The third time he calls for Daniel the silence is broken when he drops the lid. It rolls on the floor as he leaves the kitchen.
Once more entering the hall, Peter's gaze follows the expanse of the staircase's banister. As though he's eaten a bad dish of Daniel's famous Mexican cassirole, his chest begins to ache, burn. Nothing comes from his mouth when he opens it this time.
The staircase maintains its mocking silence.
Dropping the spoon from where it hangs loosely in his hand, Peter’s ears defy the resulting clatter in favor of the trump of his own feet up the stairs. Their patterned beat is a calming pace, but their frantic dash at the top reminds him this still happening.
When he finally reaches Daniel on the heavily blanketed bed, the party has become a far off delusion - nothing so important as to bother him now.
The rug though, the rug and soup fill his mind’s eye as he dials those three damn familiar numbers; his hand shakes around the shiny cordless receiver. He knows what his fingers deny: today was the last day he’d visit that carpet store.
fandom: none
rating: PG
summary: Preparing for a party and preparing for the worst are two very different things. Peter is going to learn that the hard way.
Peter does not swear at himself, because that is not very polite. He does, however, grit his teeth in frustration. A scheduled trip to the carpet store has turned disastrous as he discovers that their old rug is out of stock and a decision is in order.
Four minutes later, he decides there is little that pattern, shape or even size can do to help him. Those things are adjustable - easy to trim or ginore. If need be, he realizes, the maid will help him change the rest of the room. What Peter must look for is color. Not just any color. It must be bold, but without the lure of contrast. The background must render all other colors mere sideshows, but only serve to keep the eye moving about the bedroom.
Glancing out the aisle’s opening, Peter eyes every stand and tall plastic rack with the scrutiny that tonight's guests will probably never employ. The white, sterile decor of this store emboldens every stitch and every border of every rug on every rack. Peter struggles just to decide where one stops and another starts, let alone which he finds irresistible enough to bring home.
When it strikes him that he may be forced to choose based entirely on practicality, without any consideration for style, he must grab onto the beam beside him and breathe.
He had thought himself adjusted before.
**** **** **** ****
After perusing for more than an hour, Peter stops at the most subdued shade of red he can find, because Daniel only eats tomato soup as of late - one of the few things a weak immune system tolerates. Even with drugs, he loses every drop almost as soon as it's begun to digest, and that is why Peter picks this carpet, so lush with designs that the spots where bleach has fought to do its work and old fluids of the body stained will become tricks of the eye. They will transform into easily trampled blemishes that guests can wish away. All concern for Daniel’s condition will be removed tonight. He and Peter agreed it will be better that way.
So the red carpet with strange birds in flight and gaudy flourishes of fauna is rolled up and taped, the high nosed man behind the counter eyeing Peter as he pays with his gold card.
The employees who load it into Peter’s PT Cruiser cast glances at one another, expressionless conversations that he does not want to translate.
Crawling into the driver's seat and turning on the AC, he shoves the receipt down into the bowels of the glove compartment. It’s twins and cousins crinkle in protest, making room for one more bill of shame.
**** **** **** ****
His arrival home is later than expected.
At the winery their old friend Marcus startled Peter with a greeting, demanding news or stories he could use at his own gathering tonight. It would be the first in Marcus's new house after all.
Peter shakes his head, not recalling a single thing he told the other man. Though he supposes he recited the updates - the same old hope attached to new cures and recommendations - he could hardly remember exactly which details he chose to reveal. Hanging his coat up in the closet off their entryway, Peter mutters “Call Marcus” aloud to himself. It feels very much like a poor substitute for the enthusiasm he should be feeling from the reunion.
He calls for Daniel as he walks the newly polished floors to the kitchen and his voice echos back ominously off the oak-paneled walls.
The revelation of the responding silence avoids him until the crock pot is plugged in and the soup begins re-heating. Lifting his head to the racks of spices and the stainless steel fridge, he tries again.
The third time he calls for Daniel the silence is broken when he drops the lid. It rolls on the floor as he leaves the kitchen.
Once more entering the hall, Peter's gaze follows the expanse of the staircase's banister. As though he's eaten a bad dish of Daniel's famous Mexican cassirole, his chest begins to ache, burn. Nothing comes from his mouth when he opens it this time.
The staircase maintains its mocking silence.
Dropping the spoon from where it hangs loosely in his hand, Peter’s ears defy the resulting clatter in favor of the trump of his own feet up the stairs. Their patterned beat is a calming pace, but their frantic dash at the top reminds him this still happening.
When he finally reaches Daniel on the heavily blanketed bed, the party has become a far off delusion - nothing so important as to bother him now.
The rug though, the rug and soup fill his mind’s eye as he dials those three damn familiar numbers; his hand shakes around the shiny cordless receiver. He knows what his fingers deny: today was the last day he’d visit that carpet store.