#i'm just procrastinating on the baby blanket I'm working on for my future niece or nephew

[bates--boy]

Fever

You know, it would be easier to blame this disorganization on a busy schedule and the fact that Peter was almost never home these days, but the truth of the matter was -- dear god, the procrastination bug had hit him hard.

Though Peter had most of his belongings set up in his new place, he’s been dwelling here for, what? Five months? Five months, and the boxes and crates of trinkets and decorations still lingered down the hall and half his living room, a jungle gym that Y-Fronts and Raspixx (and occasionally Jack, the fat, lazy bastard) took advantage of to hide and play in.

Well, better late than ever, right? So, Peter twisted his hair into a bun and hitched up the sleeves of his hoodie. He played some music and opened some windows, setting up the nesting mood. He opened the boxes and crates one at a time, laying the contents out on the floor and coffee table and scurrying about to find the perfect spaces for them. 

The flags of Sweden, Finland, and Sealand lined up on a perfectly-sized space of wall, and the guitar sitting in its stand under them. His record player table and the racks of records sitting under one of the windows. He lined the windowsill with commemorative coins of his first princess, his faded desk flag, and his medals earned in the wars, one he was dragged into when he was barely knee-high, and one he foolishly flung himself into for a last-ditch and misguided attempt to win his brother’s unneeded love. Another windowsill he placed a reflective cylinder with stars and suns carved into its material, so the sunlight can cast those suns and stars all over the living room at the right angle. 

In the kitchen, his vintage and unusable, but still cute as hell, tea kettle found a place next to the working, modern tea kettle on the counter, and fake flowers that still needed dusting in the metal contraption. He tacked posters of the greatest along the walls in tasteful places throughout his home, Jimi Hendrix, Notorious B.I.G., Kurt Cobain, Tupac, ABBA, Beyonce, Utada Hikaru, and John Lundvik all gazing at him like the regal ghosts in old fashioned family portraits. 

And so it went, Peter digging his way through boxes and crates until only two remained. He knelt to the bright blue crate and popped it open. Maybe it was the dust that flew into his face, or the scent that wafted into his nose, but when he opened it, nostalgia clenched at his heart. 

A bear, its white fur tinged gray from age. This one his fathers had gifted him when he first arrived in Sweden. Big, a little flattened from years of cuddling in his sleep and squeezed during thunderstorms. The custom bow around his neck, using the colors and design of the Sealand flag, was still big and wide under his chin. Well, he wouldn’t fit properly in the living room, so Peter carried him to his bedroom, only to find that there was too little space already. Where, then? He looked around his living space, trying to figure it out. He couldn’t just stuff the bear into a closet after just getting him out the box, it didn’t sit right with him…

He turned and stopped, slapping his forehead. “Oh, right!” he exclaimed, heading to the door of the whole-ass goddamn empty room he forgot existed.

He entered, whistling in the wide, empty space. He crossed over to the window bench, much like the one in his own bedroom, the possibilities this room had swirling in his fatigued head. He had been meaning to get a couple arcade games in here, assemble an old Dance Dance Revolution setup and the Pac Mans, maybe a Foosball table and air hockey table. Oh! Or a music studio, so he can return to his music like in his old glorious high school days. Or, if he wanted to be more practical, he could set up that aerial silks rig in here and make it his training room so he would not have to keep assembling and taking down the pole and support bars every practice period.

Peter sat the bear on the window and stood back, smiling and crossing his arms, feeling like he’s meeting an old friend when he stared into those glass brown eyes and watching the lifeless thing slump over. He imagined making this bench like the bed he used to sleep on when he was younger, even before his fathers rescued him from isolation. Like his old bed in the fort, he imagined his scratchy, cotton candy pink blanket, long gone to the time that flew by and snatched it away, draping on the bear and pillows piled on it. Maybe he’d set up a knee-high bookshelf next to it like the one he used to have in his old bedroom on the fort, the one filled with picture books like The Adventures of Winnie-the-Pooh and The Little House, or all the Tales of Beatrix Potter.

Or...Or…

It caught him like a fever, sudden and unexpected, though was it really unexpected? It was just a long-held dream, inspired by the love of his adoptive family, resurfacing as he made a slow, unsteady spin in the spot he stood in. Where he once saw the arcade games, he saw a chest, a unique one made by his and his fathers’ and uncles’ hands, overflowing with toys. Where he saw that hockey table, he saw a crib, and instead of the silks he’d purchased, he saw a mobile hanging with miniature airplanes or bunnies and flowers or cats and dogs. With his ownership of this flat, he was allowed to have these plain white walls painted with pastel colors, or a scene from Where the Wild Things Are. He could commission Heike! Or Wy! 

A diaper changing station near the corner…

A closet full of the best clothes his money can buy…

Nightlights! Plenty of them, to scare away all the monsters...

Peter nearly tripped on his own unsteady footing, stumbling as the buzz swallowed him whole. He moved the bear to sit and placed it on his lap, hugging it to himself. This came so easy to other people, but for him, the thoughts had his breathing just as unsteady and weak as his legs. He gazed around the room, not seeing the emptiness, but the warmth and love and shelter it will help him provide. It was painful, it was an ache, it was a scream, a shout, a cry of joy. 

Peter’s gaze fell to a point just in front of him, where the sweetest thing to ever grace this planet toddled to him, all plumpness and rosy cheeks and dimples and sticky chins, reached their hands up to him.

Up! Up, Da-da!

And when he reached out, only to find air, it left him shuddering. He returned his hand to the bear, squeezing, staring into the absence, the potential for love, with tears trailing down his face.

“Oh…” he murmured. Then, the compulsion overcame the stun, and he pulled out his phone from his hoodie’s front pocket.

Google: Foster care request in Sweden.