@cryingyetcourageous
It's hard, embodying a place that could be generously described as "uniformly unpleasant", waiting impatiently for a visitor who has admitted himself to be, in his own words, "scared of almost everything, almost all of the times".
That Peter is expecting such a visitor today has left him both unable to relax or to focus on any one thing for very long. Since morning he has preoccupied himself with strategically upending small details of his home, to make it appear less conspicuously tidied. Flipping up the corner of a settee blanket, pulling a few books from the shelves and leaving them strewn about, posing his laptop on the kitchen counter instead of putting it away... and, yes, rearranging the cans in the pantry back into a disorganized state, for he had indeed neatly sorted them, a few days prior. That, he'd admit, had gone beyond "good host etiquette", and landed somewhere in the area of "silly and neurotic".
It is a placid and lovely blue-grey day for one's choice of either boating or flying, though to do either is a pretty big ask for someone not very used to it.
But Rai had made it very clear he wanted to visit - and, perhaps a bit selfishly, Peter wanted him to about as much, if not even more. Still - he has to wonder which it will be. His home possesses such an abundance of upsetting features and details that Peter had once, in a fit of good-humoured self loathing, made an entire bingo sheet out of them. The isolation (aloneness), the isolation again (inability to get help or easily leave), the ocean and its growling-belly drone, the heights, the wind, the cold, the towers' disorienting lack of windows, the godawful food selection, the water rationing, the physical danger, the boredom, the isolation a third time (vast emptiness as far as the eye can see)... which will it be?
Or maybe Raivis is perfectly resilient, and Peter is being a big dumb loser, and everything will be actually just fine. Maybe he should feel silly for wasting so much time doing something so unproductive as worry over problems that aren't even happening yet.
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It's a very welcome relief, the feeling of some kind of vehicle entering his possibly-supernatural radius of awareness (a sensation he would describe as like a spider crawling up his arms). He jogs outside to take down the tall pole meant to stave off any unauthorized landings, finishes that task far too quickly and efficiently, and sounds the rest of his time pacing around the deck like a circling shark. Just as the helicopter finally (finally!) arrives, he rushes back onto the stairs leading up to the landing pad to get buffeted by the downdraft.
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"Hey, so, you did it!"
Peter, fizzling with nervous energy like poprocks dropped into a soda, is clearly trying his best to seem nonchalant about the whole thing. It's not working. "I do hope the way over wasn't too terrible - how are you holding up? You're actually here, wow. Um - I can get your things if you want, you're not dizzy or anything, are you?"
