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Mason has always been a stress baker. He can't help it. Sometimes his hands needed to move. To punch, to knead, to do something, all so the energy had somewhere to go.
Unfortunately — or perhaps fortunately, depending on how you looked at it — he only ever learned to make bread. Cakes always ended up a mess, cookies hard blobs on the pan. Somehow, though it was more complicated, he could make bread better than any other kind of pastry or dessert. He had no idea why, but he wasn't going to start questioning it now.
Currently, he's on his fourth loaf. He isn't particularly sure what he's going to do with four entire loaves of bread, but he'll cross that bridge when he gets there. With how much he likes carbs, he's sure to finish all of them in a matter of weeks, anyway.
So really, it isn't a worry.
It's easy to fall into the lull of routine. The simple task of just doing the step he needs to and nothing else. No thinking, just moving, from one step to another.
It's easy. It's exactly what he needs. Exactly what he craves, on days like this. He doesn't think. He doesn't need to think. He just needs to keep his hands moving.
That's all.
He supposes he should probably question why he wants to stop thinking. Most people don't want that, not really at least. But he does. He wants to put his brain in a jar and just follow instructions.
He wants to not have to speak, or even have to open his eyes.
So he supposes he should ask himself why, maybe do some internal self searching, but he doesn't really want to, nor does he feel the need to. It isn't as if it's hurting him. In fact, it's doing the exact opposite.
Sure, it makes him quick to love. Some sweet words from a handsome guy, the barest of physical touch, and he's gone. But, he considers his natural distrust of people to be the perfect antithesis anyway.
Really, he just wants to be cared for. Is that so bad? He just wants to not have to think or do anything hard. So what? He deserves the prince treatment, he works hard enough as is. Maybe he takes it to the extreme, but that doesn't matter. He's not hurting anyone. He's not hurting himself. It's a little weird, yeah, but he's not doing anything wrong—
Mason looks down at his hands and sighs. He's overworked the dough. Again.
He considers maybe throwing it away and starting over. It'd be easy, and mindless. Wasteful, too, but also mostly mindless. Which is technically exactly what he wants.
Oh, what a hard decision.
He throws it way, hand already reaching for his starter, whom he lovingly named 'Mr. Mine', mostly because he'd had video games in the brain upon the starters glorious creation. It was a little cringe, yeah. Sue him. He could have a little fun with his hobby. It wasn't a sin. The starter was thriving and almost a year old, so really, who's laughing anyway?
(He is. The name always gives him a chuckle, after all.)
Mason peers inside the jar, deciding it was well fed enough to start making yet another loaf. He reached for the flour again for the fifth time that day, barely even paying attention to what he was doing. It was second nature now. The perfect lull of routine.
He could start over, because the steps were clear. Because the path forward was straight and well lit, and not shrouded in uncertainty and scorn. He could start over with a clear conscious, knowing he couldn't fail. It was easy. It was thoughtless. It was everything he needed.
He could start over. It wasn't that hard. It wasn't insurmountably impossible. He could start over. He could grow. He could be better. He had to be better.
He could start over. He could change. Better, better, he could be better this time. He could do it, he swore to himself that he could. Swore to himself because he was alone, and there was nobody else here with him, even if the Eyes were at the edge of his vision. Swore to himself, right. He was alone. Totally alone. That was a *good* thing.
He could be better. Grow more, change more, be more.
He could be better, he just had to—
Goddamnit. He overworked the dough again.