Who: Peter Vincent What: Peter sees a chance and... is unable to take it. Frustration ensues. Where: Peter and Andrew's apartment When: Tuesday, December 18th 2012 Warnings: Foul language, throwing of wish-baubles, more foul language, and then boozing. and all the feels. :( OMG I'M SORRY I WRITE SUCH LONG THINGS. Status: Narrative, open to Andrew Wells
Peter sat on the end of the bed, staring at the bauble. It just lay there, completely inert, getting glitter on the bedspread. He had heard a lot about the wish baubles in the time he'd been in Lawrence. The concept was so thoroughly ridiculous that he wouldn't have believed it, had he not seen the results of some of the wishes and, to be honest, this was Lawrence. Stranger things had happened. But he had not really thought much about them beyond that. It hadn't really occurred to him that he might get one himself.
That morning, Andrew had risen earlier than Peter, as was the usual for them. And while the movement always jostled Peter slightly awake, he normally drifted off again, soothed back to sleep by the quiet sounds of Andrew's morning routine - showering, dressing, coming over to kiss Peter before he left for work. Except this time, this morning, the shifting of the bed was accompanied by a sudden high pitched squeal that startled Peter into waking up fully. There had been two glittery Christmas baubles, bobbing around each other midair over the bed, singing the most ridiculously, jingly, cheerfully obnoxious song in perfect tandem before falling silent and drifting down to the bed.
Andrew had proceeded to poke and prod at the baubles in fascination, distracted to the point where he was nearly late for work. Then, after rushing to get ready, he was again distracted by the bauble. And then he really WAS late for work. While Peter was lounging across the bed, idly poking at his bauble, he heard Andrew wishing he could just teleport, because that would make getting to work so much easier. The bauble next to Peter's had promptly disappeared as though it had never been there at all, and Peter had to stifle a laugh as Andrew tore out of the apartment. He wondered how long it would take Andrew to realize what he'd done.
Not long later he'd gotten a very excited phonecall from his boyfriend about his newfound ability to teleport.
Peter himself took longer to even attempt a wish. The entire day, he was deep in thought. He was almost late to work himself, and even after getting there, he couldn't get himself to focus on work. He kept thinking about that wish-bauble, waiting for him back at home. A wish, a single wish, for whatever he wanted.
So what did he really want?
He'd been asked that before. By Lexi, by Ginger, by other friends, about what he wanted in his life. Peter was such a confused mess of painful memories and personal issues, terrible habits and self-destructive coping methods... There was any number of things that he wished he could change. He wanted to stop hurting. He wanted to not be such a miserable mess. He wanted to be strong enough to take care of the people he cared about rather than being another thing they had to worry about.
He'd been a complete wreck of a human being for nearly his entire life. And every time he got something that he thought might make it, he managed to ruin it somehow. But now... things were different now. He was determined to really make the effort, to be the better man he'd promised Andrew he would be.
Oh, it had started months ago, when a scared teenager had tricked his way into Peter's penthouse and desperately insisted that he was NOT crazy. Charley hadn't known then - possibly never would - know just how deep that had hit him, how much of himself he had seen in Charley's eyes that day. That one single moment when Charley slammed his fist on the bar, the way he had pleaded for Peter to help him, to believe him... it hit far too close to home. And Peter had ended up fucking following him into a nest full of vampires on that alone.
That day had triggered it, had made him finally stop pretending to himself that he could just keep on being that same self-serving douche bag. It showed him that he could actually be a good man if he just tried. Then he'd been brought here, and it was like a completely fresh start. No one knew him here, he was on the same standing as everyone else who showed up in Lawrence. This was his chance.
And then Andrew arrived in Lawrence.
Peter hadn't realized it when they first met. But he wasn't stupid, and even as much as he tried to shake it off, as little as he understood it, he knew there was something different. Now here they were, a little over two months into the best relationship Peter could ever remember having. If Charley had been his trigger, and Lawrence his chance, then Andrew had become his motivation. Andrew was like a beacon for Peter. He made him feel focused, and stable, and loved.
Peter wanted to think he did the same for Andrew, but lately, he sure didn't feel like he did. Jonathan showing up had changed everything. Andrew had become so withdrawn since then, so visibly gripped with pain and guilt and self-loathing, and it seemed like nothing Peter did could make it any less so. And then two weeks ago, when the demons had invaded Lawrence, and Andrew had been killed... Peter should have been there for him. Maybe it wouldn't have changed the outcome, but Andrew had died alone, and Peter could have at least saved him from that.
Peter kept turning all this over in his head all day, carefully considering every possibility. He wanted to be a better person. And he wanted Andrew to be happy again. Peter knew that if he tried to wish his parents had never died, or that Andrew had never killed Jonathan, it would change too much. One small moment changed would affect everything about who they were, the kind of men they were now. Terrible or not, painful or not, those moments had shaped the people they were today. He didn't know what sort of a person he would have been if his parents had lived, but he was sure that the hard-talking, anxiety-ridden, alcoholic magician he was today would never have existed.
Wishing would be a cheap way out, an easy fix. Peter knew about easy fixes. He had relied on them most of his life. And if he was going to change, if he was going to be this better man, he couldn't take the easy way out. Because he wouldn't be him anymore... he would be some other guy, some other Peter who had never known all these years of hurting. The man he was today would be dead by his own hand, giving up on himself. He had survived this long. Andrew had too. He refused to cheapen their lives, their efforts to rise above their respective crimes and flaws, by wishing them away so carelessly.
But he could at least try to make things a bit more bearable.
Peter sighed, glancing over at the clock. Andrew would be home from work soon. He frowned down at the sparkly little bauble, and stated as clearly and carefully as he could, "I wish for the life and history of Andrew Wells to not be shown in any works of fiction available to the public."
Peter waited.
The bauble lay there, seeming to stare back at him, unmoved.
He frowned again, and thought for a moment. The Trio, summoning demons, invisibility rays, stabbing Jonathan, Hello there, gentle viewers!, Italy squad... He could still remember it. And the bauble was still there, hadn't disappeared like Andrew's had.
Peter's scowl deepened. "I wish for the life and history of Andrew Wells to not be shown in any works of fiction available to the public," he repeated, growling a bit.
The bauble still did not disappear.
Glaring down at it, Peter slid off the bed and stood. "I wish for Andrew to not be fictional!" he said, but even as he said it, he could feel his heart sinking into his gut, feel his shoulders weighted down with disappointment. And still, the bauble stayed put.
And suddenly Peter was so completely furious he was shaking. He took the bauble, crying out in rage as he hurled it against the wall as hard as he could. It bounced off and landed on the floor, completely unharmed, which only enraged Peter more. All this time, he kept trying so hard to keep to his promise, to be better, to deserve the life that he had been given time and time again while people he loved died. And now he had finally thought he had a chance to really do something, to help the person who had given him everything and asked for so little in return... and he was denied this one simple thing.
"WHY. WON'T. YOU. FUCKING. WORK?!" Peter seethed at the bauble, throwing it against the wall, stomping on it, throwing down a box full of heavy books on top of it... trying to find some way to smash the goddamn bauble, with it's sparkles and it's cheery colors and stupid jingly song. Nothing left so much as a mark.
"IF I ASK FOR FUCKING ALL THE MONEY I COULD FUCKING WANT, WOULD YOU FUCKING WELL WORK THEN?" He spat viciously.
The bauble disappeared.
For a moment, Peter could only stand there panting, staring at the spot where the bauble had been, and it was so silent and still in the room for a beat. Then...
"That was not my FUCKING WISH, YOU FUCKING USELESS HUNK OF TRASH!"
But it was too late. The wish-bauble was gone, and with it, the best chance he'd had to try and make things better for Andrew. And nothing left for him to be furious with but himself. He'd fucked up. Again.
Still trembling from anger, Peter stomped out of the bedroom and over to their tiny kitchen area. He knew Andrew would be home soon. He knew that the alcohol really wouldn't make anything better. But his nerves were shot as it was and he was just so completely exhausted, he caved. Just like he always caved. He gulped down the Midori, not taking the time to savor the taste the way he normally did, then poured another glass and downed that one too. He started to pour a third.
He had maybe a fingers-width in the tumbler and the bottle was empty. He stared at it for a second, and then just dropped it, not caring about the clatter of glass against tile as the bottle fell onto it's side. He swallowed down that last mouthful of liquor and then fell heavily into one of the kitchen chairs, the glass hitting the tabletop. He covered his eyes with one hand, shielding his eyes against the lights and trying to calm his breathing.
Just another disappointment he'd have to just fucking deal with.