Work Text
Tapping echoed deep within the time room.
Scarab had gotten just about every single thing on his checklist crossed out, eyes narrowed at it while he reread it again and again. There was just one thing that he hadn’t gotten yet, hadn’t fulfilled, and though miniscule.. He grunted in displeasure, clicking the blue pen onto the blue clipboard held by his blue pointed hand. Blue.
There wasn’t much he could do, as annoyed as it made him, his abilities as a janitor were very limited. He had to make do with what he got, working somewhat well with the rest that filled the cabinets in the fridge, it looked right,
felt
right. Pattern and structure so specific, Scarab had spent a great amount of his time making sure it was perfect, that it matched his vision.
“Perhaps..” The beetle started, clicking his tongue as he raised the pen from the block and to his face, tapping where his mouth should be. “.. No.” That couldn’t work, it was not the same without the contents, the weight of it was important to the puzzle.
His leg was starting to ache, frustrated with
his lack of movement
. He had lost track of how long he had been here, moving each jar half an inch until it satisfied the whirring from his sleeping form; quieted down the roaring within, urging him to grab the glass jars that would not conform to his pushes, jars that either moved too little or too much, and smash it on the magenta flooring. To watch the liquid pooling, trickling in no direction specific, following how the time room would twist.
He wondered, for just a moment, how long he could watch it swirl back and forth with the inconsistent and ever moving floor. Before his theory could be tested, the stinging running up his leg yet again forced him out of it.
Scarab was not fond of the idea of taking breaks, Prismo very gladly advertising it as the greatest invention in the cosmos, but with the centuries spent together they had come to.. a compromise. When his host became too much of a problem, the wishmaster blabbering something along the lines of ‘your body warning you, n stuff’, he would retreat to the main room to “spend some quality time” with him, indulge in Prismo’s movie of the .. unspecified time.
With a small sigh, hooking the pen on the side of the clipboard, he closed the door of the fridge and made a trek to the ‘living room’.
Step after step, tile after tile, he could feel his resting host making a fuzz the longer he pressed on, attempting to focus on anything else other than the aching and agony putting his weight on it caused seemed futile, recatching his attention with each sharp shot. Grouchily Scarab shut his eyes, allowing his projection to guide him as he let his thoughts travel elsewhere.
Soft whistling of the moving halls echoed, acting as wind that reminded him of the universes he once ran through, universes which he had never appreciated, being a
sticker
removed any sensation that he once loathed, sensation he thought inconvenient. It was strange, really, missing something regardless of how he hated it. How often he would complain stepping in heavy mud or when a branch would unexpectedly swivel back to hit him, a splinter or uncomfortable textures.
He had long forgotten how it used to aggravate him, how it had felt. And while knowing that it would, Scarab found that he wouldn’t mind if the expense was merely discomfort. It was better than nothing.
Immensely better.
The shift was subtle, while deeper in he could feel the walls twisting and turning, the closer he got it settled into a softer pace, no words required for him to know what to expect when he opened his eyes. Blaring yellow attacking his senses, forcing him to squint as he walked up the stairs that lead to the main room, and though it did nothing to actually shield his eyes, he held up his arm over them. An even brighter pink called for his attention: Prismo, lounging about.
He was low, extremely low, half his head projected on the floor as his body contorted into physically impossible positions. One foot reaching the ceiling, the other hanging onto the open entrance to the outside, his arms zigzagging over walls and floors. No doubt was he struggling with his impulsive alcohol intake, which Scarab was certain he fell victim to when he had wandered off to mind his own.
Nonetheless, he walked over to the slouching wishmaster and settled down next to him, letting his legs fold across the paved floor.
“Mm-mm,” Prismo tried, his eye was shut tightly, but no doubt having sensed his assistant nearby, likely hearing him too. Scarab recognized the greeting, too many times had he been forced to watch Prismo struggle with his hangover, and while the frequency had lessened, it never left the table.
“Prismo,” He spoke his own acknowledgement.
His hand went up to his face, massaging heavy eyes in an attempt to wipe the exhaustion off, to look Scarab in the face. Grumbling, Prismo inhaled air he did not need through gritted teeth before he continued his muttering,
“Leg doing the thing again? Y’know stomping doesn’t help, right.”
“I was not
stomping,
” His eyes squinted in a glare that the Wishmaster wouldn't even catch. “And yes, my leg is doing
‘the thing’
again, as you put it. Inconvenient as I was one step away from completing my assignment for the night.”
“Mhh.. What assignment? The cleaning junk?”
“Arranging the fridge, the task you’ve been putting off.”
With a yawn, hand waving in front of his mouth – a pointless act, he turned to properly look at him.
“We have a fridge?”