The smell hit Rory first, thick and saccharine-sweet, like melted plastic mixed with a sugar cube factory. It wasn’t a bad smell, not exactly, but it was an *unfamiliar* one, a chemical kind of clean that usually meant only one thing: something new, something bought without him, or worse, something changed. His keys, still clutched in his sweaty palm from the frantic sprint up three flights of stairs, felt suddenly heavy, cold. He’d barely made it through the door, kicked off his paint-splattered sneakers, and now this.
He followed the scent, a leaden dread settling in his stomach, past the entryway mirror, past Tony’s impossibly neat coat rack where his own bright yellow puffer hung a little crooked, a little too loud. The living room, usually a cheerful explosion of Rory’s half-finished canvases, scattered paint tubes, and precarious stacks of art books, seemed… different. Quieter. The light from the window, usually caught and refracted by the iridescent sheen of a drying abstract or the gleam of a metal sculpture, just kind of flattened out.
And then he saw it. Or rather, the absence of it. His eyes darted to the far corner, the corner that had, for the past two years, been a riotous, glorious mess of colour. A splash of electric blue that he’d impulsively painted one Tuesday afternoon, right next to a chaotic, swirling green mural that looked like a forgotten nebula. Over that, a series of experimental charcoal sketches, tacked up with neon washi tape, and below it, his battered wooden easel, perpetually stained with every hue imaginable. It was his corner. His loud, joyful, chaotic corner.
Now, it was… beige. A beige so aggressively neutral, so perfectly, blandly ‘calming,’ that it felt like a physical affront. It was the colour of hospital waiting rooms, of discount rental car interiors, of lukewarm oatmeal. It was the colour of *nothing*. And it swallowed his blue, his green, his tape, his charcoal. It swallowed everything.
Rory blinked, then blinked again, as if his vision was playing a cruel trick. His chest felt tight, a sudden, sharp ache blooming just under his ribs. It wasn't just the colour; it was the way the easel had been folded neatly, the paint tubes stacked in a perfectly organized clear plastic bin, the half-finished canvases turned against the wall, like naughty children facing a corner. Even the scent of turpentine, usually a comforting, familiar tang, was gone, replaced by that cloying, chemical sweet-nothingness.
He took a hesitant step forward, then another, his worn jeans making a soft swishing sound against the polished floorboards. He ran a hand over the newly painted wall, his fingers dragging across the impossibly smooth, matte surface. It was still slightly tacky. Fresh. He could almost feel the ghosts of his colours beneath, trapped, suffocated. A small, involuntary shudder ran down his spine. This wasn’t just a new coat of paint. This felt like an erasure.
“Surprise!”
Rory jumped, nearly tripping over his own feet, a yelp catching in his throat. Tony appeared from the hallway, a wide, triumphant grin stretching across his face, a smear of beige paint ironically smudged on his perfectly sculpted jawline. He was holding a nearly empty paint roller, still dripping a little, with a flourish, like a magician presenting a grand illusion. Tony, even in his paint-splattered sweats, managed to look impossibly put-together, a GQ cover model who’d just decided to dabble in home improvement. His dark hair, usually sleek, was a little ruffled, but only in the most charming, photogenic way.
“Tony! What the… what is this?” Rory managed, his voice coming out a little strangled, a little higher than he’d intended. He gestured vaguely at the beige expanse, then back at Tony, feeling suddenly childish, caught in some kind of ridiculous pantomime.
Tony’s smile didn’t falter, if anything, it widened, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He practically bounced over, dropping the roller with a soft thud into a bucket he’d thoughtfully placed on a drop cloth. He wrapped an arm around Rory’s waist, pulling him close, his hand warm against the thin fabric of Rory’s t-shirt. Rory stiffened for a second, a strange, unwelcome tension coiling in his gut, but Tony’s familiar scent, clean and faintly citrusy, started to work its usual magic, a soothing counterpoint to the paint smell.
“Don’t you love it?” Tony pressed a soft kiss to Rory’s temple, his lips brushing against a stray lock of Rory’s bright copper hair. “It’s *beige*. So calming. So sophisticated. I thought, you know, our apartment was starting to feel a little… chaotic. Like a children’s art class exploded. I wanted to make it feel more mature. More *us*.”
More *us*? Rory’s mind reeled. *Us* was the clashing colours, the joyful mess, the way his canvas leaned against Tony’s meticulously arranged bookshelf, a silent, playful defiance. *Us* was the argument they’d had last week about whether glitter was an acceptable medium (Rory said yes, Tony said no, unless it was ‘tastefully contained’). *Us* was the fact that his vibrant chaos was a direct foil to Tony’s elegant order. That was the whole point, wasn't it? The push and pull, the unexpected harmony of two very different people.
“It’s… beige,” Rory repeated, trying to sound thoughtful, analytical, anything but gut-punched. He pulled slightly away from Tony’s embrace, needing to put a tiny bit of space between them, even if just an inch. He could feel the warmth of Tony’s palm still pressed against his hip, a familiar anchor, but it felt weird now, like a polite handshake after a bad joke.
Tony frowned, a tiny crease forming between his perfect eyebrows. “You don’t like it? But beige is the new neutral, Rory! It’s what all the design blogs are saying. It’s elegant. It opens up the space. Makes it feel less… cluttered.” He waved a hand vaguely at the now pristine corner, as if pointing out an obvious improvement. “And your art supplies? All perfectly organized now! No more tripping over drying canvases.”
Rory bit the inside of his cheek, the metallic tang of blood filling his mouth. Cluttered. Chaotic. Messy. These were Tony’s favorite words for Rory’s things, for Rory’s process, for Rory himself, sometimes. Not said with malice, never with malice, but with that quiet, almost clinical suggestion for ‘improvement.’ Always delivered with that easy, charming smile that made it impossible to argue, because who could argue with someone who looked like *that* and was only trying to help?
“I just… I liked the blue,” Rory mumbled, kicking lightly at a loose floorboard. He could feel a blush creeping up his neck, a hot, uncomfortable flush that always seemed to betray his true feelings. He hated feeling like this – small, petulant, ungrateful. Tony had clearly worked hard, spent money, all for him, for *them*. To say he hated it felt like a betrayal.
Tony’s frown deepened, but he quickly smoothed it out, replacing it with a look of gentle concern, the kind he reserved for stray kittens or a malfunctioning espresso machine. He reached out, cupping Rory’s face in his hands, his thumbs tracing the line of Rory’s cheekbones. His touch was always so careful, so tender, and it made Rory’s stomach clench in a way that had nothing to do with beige paint and everything to do with the confusing swirl of affection and resentment battling inside him. Tony’s eyes, the color of warm roasted coffee, searched Rory’s face, earnest and unblinking.
“Sweetheart,” Tony began, his voice soft, a low rumble that always made Rory’s knees feel a little weak. “I know you love your… vibrant colours. But sometimes, a clean slate, a fresh start, it’s good, isn’t it? It’s not erasing anything, Rory. It’s just giving your art a more sophisticated canvas to stand against. Think of it as a gallery wall. Galleries are always neutral, right? So the art can shine.” He paused, then leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Rory’s forehead. “And I thought of you, you know. I thought of how happy you’d be to have such a calm, beautiful space to create in. A space that feels… adult.”
Adult. There it was again. The subtle implication that Rory’s way of existing—bright, messy, impulsive—was somehow less than. Less than mature. Less than adult. He swallowed, the bitter taste of something unsaid coating his tongue. He wanted to scream. He wanted to demand to know why Tony would just *do* this, without even a conversation. He wanted to explain that his art corner wasn’t just a place to make art; it was a physical manifestation of his brain, his heart, his entire messy, wonderful personality. It was him.
But the words stuck. They always did. Tony had a way of making Rory’s protests feel utterly unreasonable, like a toddler demanding an ice cream sundae for breakfast. Tony was so confident, so rational, so completely *sure* of his good intentions. And Rory? Rory was just… feelings. A swirling vortex of emotions that often made him stumble, stammer, and eventually, just shut down. His heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic little bird trapped in a cage, trying to get out.
He imagined Tony’s calm, patient smile, the slight tilt of his head as he would explain, yet again, why Rory was overreacting. He pictured Tony’s hands, so capable and steady, reaching for him, pulling him into a hug that would be meant to soothe but would only make Rory feel more suffocated. He knew the script. He’d played this scene before. And every time, Tony won, not because he was right, but because Rory simply couldn’t find the words, couldn’t articulate the deep, almost existential hurt that came with these ‘improvements.’
“I… I guess,” Rory managed, his gaze fixed on a small, almost imperceptible bump in the beige paint, where a drop of green must have been stubbornly clinging, now entombed forever. “It is… clean.” It was the weakest compliment, the most pathetic surrender, but it was all he could muster. He felt a dull ache behind his eyes, a phantom burning that threatened to spill over into actual tears, which would be just about the most childish thing he could do right now.
Tony beamed, sensing victory. He squeezed Rory tighter, then pulled back, beaming down at him. “See? I knew you’d come around. And look, I even took care of the canvases! All neatly stacked. No more clutter.” He pointed to the bin. “We can sort through them later. Maybe frame some of the really good ones. The abstract, less… busy ones.”
Rory forced a smile, a brittle, unconvincing thing that felt more like a grimace. He felt a weird, disconnected sensation, like he was watching himself from outside his own body. He was nodding, making agreeable noises, letting Tony pull him towards the kitchen for dinner, Tony’s hand warm and firm in his. He could smell the pasta sauce Tony had been simmering, rich and garlicky. It smelled like comfort. It smelled like home. But the home suddenly felt a little less like his. A little less colourful. A little more… beige.
He trailed behind Tony, his shoulders slumping just a fraction. He felt the weight of unspoken words, of swallowed protest, a heavy knot in his chest. Tony was talking about their dinner plans, about a new documentary he wanted them to watch, about how much better the apartment felt now, so open and spacious. Rory just nodded, smiled, and listened, the beige walls closing in around him, a fresh canvas waiting to be filled with something, anything, to make it feel like him again. But the paint was so thick. And Tony’s love, so overwhelming in its insistent gentleness, was even thicker. He just hoped he hadn’t buried himself completely beneath it.
His hand, still in Tony's, felt tiny. He focused on the hum of the refrigerator, the distant rumble of a bus, anything to avoid looking at the beige, anything to avoid the uncomfortable, itching feeling that something vital had been bleached out of his world, and he hadn't said a single thing to stop it. He could hear his own heartbeat, a frantic little drum solo against the overwhelming quiet of the newly 'calming' space. It would be fine. It would be fine. He just needed to breathe. And maybe find some really, *really* bright paint, later. When Tony wasn't looking.
He imagined Tony’s face if he were to bring out his most vibrant, messy, glitter-infused paints, just daring him to complain. A flash of mischievous rebellion sparked in Rory’s gut, quickly extinguished by the overwhelming sweetness of Tony’s affection as he squeezed his hand, pulling him closer to the warmth of the stove. Maybe a small, quiet, colourful protest, then. Something tiny. Something easily hidden. He was an artist, after all. He knew how to hide things in plain sight.
The thought brought a tiny, real smile to his face, a private defiance. It was a flimsy comfort, but it was something. Something to hold onto against the tide of beige.
He looked at Tony, who was now stirring the sauce, humming softly, completely oblivious to the internal battlefield Rory had just navigated. Tony looked so happy, so proud of his work, so utterly content. And Rory, for all his internal turmoil, couldn’t help but feel a flicker of affection, the kind that made his chest ache in a different, softer way. This was Tony’s way of loving him, of caring for their space. It was just… misguided. Very, very misguided. And very, very beige.
He squeezed Tony’s hand back, a silent acknowledgment of the effort, even if the result was a soul-crushing expanse of nothingness. He would figure it out. He always did. He was Rory, the artist who saw colour in everything, even in the most sterile of canvases. He just had to find a way to make Tony see it too. Or at least, make him tolerate it. It was going to be an uphill battle, fought with glitter, neon, and perhaps, a strategically placed blob of iridescent paint on a freshly painted wall. A small, almost invisible act of artistic insurgency. He could do that. He had to.
The beige had just become his new challenge. His new canvas. And Tony, his unsuspecting muse. Rory’s internal groan was almost audible, but he pushed it down, pasting on his best ‘appreciative boyfriend’ smile. Tony deserved that, at least. For now. The toaster, humming softly on the kitchen counter, felt like the only other truly reliable source of warmth and comfort in a suddenly colour-deprived world.