Work Text:
Peter sat on the ground, mumbling names of rocks to himself as he sorted them into their respective piles. He had been doing so for hours, and was now sorting them into subcategories. In his eyes, the original categories were just too broad. What was one to do if they found a granite of a different size or shade? Put them in the same pile? Of course not, that simply wouldn't do! So, Peter had come up with subset upon subset of rock categories, sorting each into their respective one. He knew that it didn't really matter; all rocks of the same kind ended up going to the same place anyway, despite being different. However, that wasn't going to stop him from organizing them as best as he could.
He continued his sorting for a while before hearing the door squeak and swing open. As he glanced up, he saw his boss staring at him, looking uncomfortable. "Alright Peter, get out," his boss said before swiftly turning around. He didn't want to talk to Peter any more than he already had today. He had gotten caught by the guy earlier that morning and was stuck hearing about his lizard for a solid thirty minutes. Don't get him wrong, kid was great at his job, but he was a total oddball.
"Oh, okay, I'm sorry, I'll go, I'm...oh, he's gone," Peter cut himself off, almost raising a hand to wave at a body that was no longer there. He really should stop doing that, it's not like his boss stayed and talked to him often.
He left the building and, noticing the night sky filled with stars, started his trek home. He guessed that he had gotten carried away with sorting; he was typically supposed to leave work before sundown. Most times, though, he didn't, and he ended up working a few hours longer than he got paid for.
Not that Peter knew that, of course.
He paused on his way home to purchase a cricket or two for his lizard, aptly named Lizard. It was a part of his routine, one that he did not often deviate from. He was never one to stand out, or do anything remotely courageous. It didn't appeal to him. The only thing that really did was routine, and the sense of normalcy he felt whenever he purchased his crickets on the way back to his humble abode.
Eventually, Peter walked into his home yet again, growing tired after his long day. It had been a rather exciting one, actually; today he had gotten not one, not two, but three rose quartz pieces! It had been a good day in his book, finding that many. It was rare he ever got more than one.
He greeted his lovely lizard with a small grin on his face. "Hey there, Lizard," he spoke, despite knowing Lizard wouldn't reply, "I brought you some fresh crickets today." He placed them gently into the small container, watching as Lizard blinked at him slowly before striding over to the cricket. Peter smiled as Lizard began to eat, now content knowing she was well fed.
Now that Lizard was fed, he figured he should probably eat something as well. He found something small and easy before quickly preparing it, only to sit down and eat it in silence. He picked at it for a while. He didn't really enjoy what he was eating to be perfectly honest, but it was what he always ate. And after all, Peter was nothing if not a lover of routine.
Soon after eating his meal, he shuffled over to the table that resided in the center of his small home, gazing at the blue mug that sat on top of it. He glanced quickly at his many canvases, all of them incomplete. In one, he couldn't get the handle of the blue mug quite right; in another, the shading of the shadow the mug cast wasn't perfect. The vast majority of them didn't even have paint on them, they were simply sketched and never touched again. From Peter's perspective, these sketches were good, perfect, even. However he couldn't bring himself to paint them for fear of messing them up in some way.
In the few that were painted, Peter saw mistakes. In every single one, there seemed to be something wrong. To an average person, they all looked fine; a bit boring, sure, but fine nonetheless. To Peter, however, each small discrepancy meant the entire work had to go. He couldn't move on until each painting was perfect.
And so, he began to paint yet again. He really wanted to get this right before the Choosing Ceremony in a few days. He knew nothing would happen at said ceremony, not to Peter, but he still felt it would be nice to finish it and show it to Lizard. He bet that she'd enjoy it.
He put on his smock that he had purchased a while back, and squeezed a little bit of paint onto his palette. He moved hesitantly, not wanting to ruin a perfectly good canvas with a wrong move. Normally, he sketched it first, but he was trying to not be as rigid in his ways. Maybe going all in with paint would be the answer; maybe this one would be the perfect one.
His hand moved the paint brush so it was just hovering over the canvas, ready to make a first stroke of color on the brilliantly white background. He was determined to finish this time!
However...what if he messed it up? What if he ruined his painting with the first stroke? What if he...
Peter put down the paint, grabbed his pencil, and began to sketch.
The man couldn't help it, not really; he was a notorious creature of habit. Anything new scared him to the core, and he was more than happy to remain in his mundane routine. Whether or not he was aware of said routine, well, that remains unknown. Despite that, however, the repetition of tasks gave him purpose. It gave him a sense of normalcy someone like him needed. He was no one special. And he never would be. He was simply Peter, Peter Sqloint, a young man whose one true purpose was to wake up, go to work, buy a cricket or two, go home, and repeat. He was a nobody. A simple man who wanted nothing more than what he had.
He continued sketching, creating a table, a background, and a mug as he had done so many times before. It looked good. Sure, he had erased some of his lines a few times, but now he had a solid sketch. It was a blessing in disguise that he sketched his art first, he supposed. If he hadn't, he would have destroyed his canvas, just like the other ones! He smiled at his work, feeling happy that he didn't make the poor decision of painting without a sketch.
Peter reached for the paint yet again, unable to put it off anymore. He had no more lines to create, unless they were with color. He looked at the canvas. Then the paint. Then the canvas. Then the paint. Then the canvas.
He could finish this one tomorrow.
He placed the paint down for a final time, and quickly got up. His smock was hung on the side of the easel, the pencil and eraser were placed on the table to be used at a later date, and the paint that was put on the palette was left to dry in the night.
Peter gently took Lizard out of her cage, patting her back softly with his finger. She blinked at him slowly, before proceeding to silently stare at him for the next few minutes. He smiled as she did so, finding happiness in her neutral stare. He continued to pat her until she attempted to escape from his hand. He took that as a sign she was ready to return to her container, perhaps to sit on her log. He once more walked over to the container for his reptilian friend, and placed her inside. She immediately clung to her log that resided within the space, which reminded Peter that he needed to find a bigger place for her to stay once he could.
"Goodnight, Lizard," Peter whispered, despite the fact that he was in his own home, alone, and talking to a lizard. "I'll see you in the morning. I'll give you your other cricket then." The lizard didn't move or respond, giving no indication that she heard or understood him. She never did. Yet, Peter continued to say goodnight to her and to talk to her. Maybe it was for his own gratification? Maybe it was because he had been doing it for so long. He wasn't really sure. Either way, he couldn't stop now. At this point, it was yet another part of his unchanging schedule of events.
Not long after that, Peter retired to bed. He remained awake for a while, staring at the ceiling and thinking about what rocks he could possibly sort tomorrow before falling asleep peacefully. He dreamt of nothing; his sleep was deep and without problems, without nightmares of any kind. It was a sleep of a man without a worry in the world. A man who was stuck happily in a cycle of tasks, only to repeat them all again the next day. A man who was simple, in both needs and wants and a man who knew exactly what was going to happen to him tomorrow, the next day, and the day after that.
Far away, in a place Peter could never even dream of, Exandroth observed him. He watched as Peter went through the same motions, every day, without fail. He saw how little he was willing to fight back, accepting defeat before anyone could even tell him he was wrong. How he was so unsure of every move that he made, practically begging to be shown the way by a guiding light. This boy, Peter as he was called, was pathetic. He was an unhappy, helpless, feeble, worthless little weakling. He was nothing, at least nothing more than a waster of the life he had been so graciously given. He was no one. Merely another string of a disease that plagued the universe, yet another human that would never amount to anything, and would simply rot away in loneliness and discontent. He was a marionette, one that needed to be strung up and pulled along by its many strings. One that was in dire need of a master puppeteer.
Exandroth observed Peter, and he knew.
"Yes, this one will do quite nicely."