Artblock

Peter ran a hand through his long, thick hair, fingers tugging at it hard enough that were it another’s hand in different circumstances, he’d find it pleasurable. As it was now, all it did was transfer smudges of graphite— grayish marks to match the splotches of white. 

He’d need to wash his hair later. 

Peter’s other hand tightened around his pencil hard enough for the wood of it to creak ominously, but he tossed it aside instead. It clattered off his desk and onto the floor, never to be seen again, probably. Blue eyes remained fixed on the paper, on the— gods, he wouldn’t even call it a design. A travesty, maybe? Boring? An embarrassment? Something a bun would wear before setting themselves on fire? Yeah, probably that. 

A groan left Peter’s throat in a gusting exhale, and he pushed himself away from his desk. “I’m gonna go for a walk,” he announced to his empty shop. Usually at a time like this, he’d take a nap— find all his old plushies and curl up in a grumpy pile on his bed. But energy buzzed along the edges of his muscles, urging him to do something. Without his usual outlets, it would buzz there until it drove him halfway mad. 

So Peter tugged on his coat, put the CLOSED FOR LUNCH sign in the door, and exited Cottontail Couture. The afternoon air hit him in a chilly wave, and Peter briefly closed his eyes, taking a deep inhale through his nose. The smells of the inner city weren’t pleasant, exactly, but the outside air was at least different enough to help settle Peter’s thoughts. He took off in a random direction, and let his feet guide him wherever they wanted to go. He spared the buns he happened to know a smile, maybe a few passing pleasantries, but thankfully no one tried to take up too much of his time. 

Inner Burrowgatory passed by him in a watercolor of vices, which grew quieter when he turned onto a residential street. He smiled, and rolled his shoulders. This was nice, actually— he liked a good party as much as the next bun, but he was a slothful sinner at heart. The peace and quiet allowed some of the tension in his neck to fade away like smoke in a breeze, and he let it, though his legs wanted to continue on, for a reason that Peter didn’t quite understand. Still, his pace slowed into something more leisurely, and he stretched his arms over his head with a sigh. The street wasn’t as crowded here too, sloping vaguely downward as the tunnel it was built in did the same. It narrowed as it went, too, the apartment buildings growing smaller, more spaced out with shops, houses—

“A park,” Peter murmured, stopping short at an intersection. To the right, a beautiful park was tucked in between two much taller buildings. A few buns were walking their imps, but otherwise it was pretty empty. He wasn’t looking at them, though.

No, he was looking at the tall trees lining the walking paths, deep brown bark standing at a beautiful contrast to the vivid oranges and reds along their boughs. 

It was fall. 

Peter hadn’t forgotten, not exactly— hard to do that, with the chill in the air. But he spent most of his time in inner Burrowgatory, and it wasn’t exactly like autumn leaves were in great supply there. He grinned, and kicked over a pile of leaves, and it scattered to the wind in a flurry of crimson gold. Peter breathed out a laugh, and let himself fall backwards into another pile nearby.

There was another flurry of dead leaves, punctuated by the satisfying crunch beneath him. Peter stared at the branches above— gods, it was beautiful. Dark browns against waves of red and yellow, like watercolors, occasionally spiraling down to join the canvas below.

Peter abruptly sat up, fingers digging into fallen foliage and cool soil. A grin slowly broke out on his face, and he scrambled for his phone to take notes.

He wouldn’t be coming back lacking inspiration again.