SAINT mercy-wallace. xvii. — OH! i'll never be so far from home, taking my chances and we both KNOW; i'll never be so far from home how l o n g until, how long until [ i'm not your n a t i v e ]
@BROOKSWINDSOR: it's sus, very sus. i mean, you're kinda sus in general but now you're just making it too obvi. so, just knock it off with the d shit already, mr. ripley.
@SAINTANISM: mr. ripley? i didnt know you knew how to read
@SAINTANISM: you caught me i guess i'll stop now. -D
Throwing her books into her locker, Lucia closed it with a slam while a loud sigh slipped from her lips. She was telling the other of what had happened to her the previous day during a small shopping trip. “Can you believe this?! That brat really asked me if he can touch my boobs for twenty bucks!”, Lucia rolled her eyes, crossing her arms as she turned towards the other, “I would have say one-fifty for each, but anyways. Are you up for going out later? I need some distraction from that .. incident.”
saint wasn’t the type of person to look around to make sure the person in question was actually talking to him, but—he very nearly did. too bad he wasn’t the kind of person who cared about whether people were actually talking to him before he answered. would’ve saved a lot of people a lot of headaches and time from being forced to sit through a conversation with saint mercy-wallace that neither of them had wanted. “ twenty dollars for over the shirt or under? ” he asked with genuine curiosity, tilting his head. people seldom asked him to go out anymore since his swan dive from the top of houghton academy’s social period. fascinating, this one. “ you want to go out later? i can’t today. my existential dread is acting up. ”
@damndamien: u ever get so stressed u don't sleep the entire night? lmao
@damndamien: if i fall asleep in class, don't touch me bc i'll probably bite your hand off xoxo
@saintanism: did you have a dream that you were stuck in a neverending nexus of consumerism and superficiality doomed to wake up every day and realize once again that your life lacks meaning or substance
“ Saint, come ooooon. “ Ivy complained, trying to get her childhood friend to come back home and drink with her. “ I told you my dad’s not home- most guys would have jumped at that already. “ The redhead crossed her arms, sighing, even though she knew the boy couldn’t be compared to… anyone? “ My mom’s trying to contact even though she didn’t for what- months?! I need you, and drinks. Help a friend out, pretty please? “ Ivy continued, now showing her best sad puppy eyes.
“ when you say ‘ me and drinks, ’ does this mean me and drinks, or me, a hundred of your closest friends, and drinks? choose wisely, vee, my answer depends on it. because you know how i feel about the tedious cycles of hedonism to avoid genuine connection that we call ‘ high school parties. ’ ” saint didn’t know why he fronted—they both knew that no matter how much he complained about his existential dread, he’d willingly subject himself to ivy’s every whim. or—his version of her every whim, even if that meant weird, bordering intrusive behaviors at every party while he avoided socializing with the brainwashed masses of their school. “ did your mom tell you what she wants? ”
daaaamn aj, back at it again with the long as fuc headcanons !! anyway hi everyone it’s me this is saint he’s a pretentious fuck & my ( really long, sorry, feel free 2 skip them, there’s a tl;dr summary in my bulletpoints so u can just scroll past it ) headcanons and intro stuff is under the cut !
first headcanon. while most houghton parents are doctors, lawyers, and business executives, saint’s always been something of a horse of a different color. his family certainly isn’t unwealthy—he does, after all, live in one of those multi-million-dollar brownstones in beacon hill auctioned by freaking sotheby’s—but they’re certainly neo riche, which can be sort of hit or miss, depending on who you’re asking. saint is not unlike his parents in that they surround themselves with a kind of off-kilter opulence ( sure, that kind of cash value would have bought them a newly constructed sleek mansion in the suburbs, but why go for something new and modern when you could live in a brownstone with over three hundred years of history that, supposedly, one of the founding fathers lived in? besides, you just can’t beat that location—never mind that the brownstone’s been totally gutted and replaced with sleek, modern interior anyway, and definitely not anything that ben franklin or whoever would have touched ) while pretending to eschew materialism and vanity. why else would they live in boston instead of new york or la, right? anyway. saint is the only son of the one and only cordelia st. mercy ( pronounced, unlike saint’s name, the french way—san merci, which sounds hilariously close to ‘sans merci,’ meaning ‘without mercy,’ a joke that is not lost on saint ), a renowned fashion photographer and portrait artist ( think in the vein of annie liebovitz and arthur elgort ) with a marked celebrity and high art clientele, and also the one and only son of the less elegantly named garrett wallace ( a pen name; his real name is garrett wallerstedt, but his editor and agent agreed that last names that are difficult to pronounce are harder to sell ), whose grisly but artful novels earned him a national book award in 1997, a film deal in 2001 ( the film was a critical and box office success but, in garrett’s opinion, too reductive of his book; ‘pure snuff’ ), and a professorship in the creative writing program at MIT. yes, that MIT, which yes, does have a creative writing program, and yes, it’s a very good one. SO—that’s the pedigree saint mercy-wallace was born into, and it probably explains a whole lot about him. his parents are not and were never married, so he can’t quite say he’s a child of divorce. instead, he spends the school year with his father while his mother travels all over the world, doing her work, though she comes home for holidays and saint’s birthday, and the summers he spends with his mother, dipping his feet into the world of the new york art scene. it was an unusual arrangement, but not a bad one; it was a long time before saint even understood that his family situation was out of the ordinary, but, like, at least he knew both his parents loved him or whatever. they are both pretty emotionally distant and prone to getting caught up in their own work—his father is always focused on teaching or poring over his latest book or invited to give a talk somewhere, for example—but it’s not a bad situation. they’re just more like friends than parents. as a result, saint grew up with a lot of freedom ( more than most of his houghton peers, whose helicopter parents put the weight of the world on their shoulders ) and little discipline, often left to his own devices and trusted with the ability to take care of himself.
second headcanon: ah, yes. the houghton food chain. it’s easy to say saint sits at the dead bottom. like, he’s not even the bugs that get eaten by the birds or whatever. he’s the plant that gets eaten by the bugs. or the soil nutrients that get consumed by the plants—something like that. but the easy answer isn’t necessarily the correct one, and you see, once upon a time, saint sat somewhere near the top. he was never number one, of course, but he was up there, in that little crew of self-proclaimed high school princes and princesses ( quite literally, what with calling themselves windsors and all ). and he fit quite well, all things considered. what, with his pseudo-celebrity family background and his instagram roll full of selfies with models and musicians and actors and that specifically youthful brand of devil-may-care attitude that bordered at times on cruelty—he was a perfect fit for the windsors, his five-story, oft-empty brownstone the perfect venue for their parties and his unconscious need to belong to some kind of family the perfect host for going along with anything that dante and his ilk said. that’s not to make it sound like he was manipulated into it or anything of the sort—he wasn’t. he and dante were good friends—they were all good friends—and like anyone would, saint relished in the perks that came with sitting at the king’s left hand instead of dancing for his entertainment. he was ( and still is ) always the kind of person who gave off an air of not really caring about anything at all, but that’s especially easy when you want for nothing. his life was impossibly easy. too easy, perhaps—exactly what went down that infamous day when saint fell from his high school pedestal remains a mystery. all anyone really knows is this: it was your typical rager at chateau mercy-wallace. the party was going as saint’s parties typically did, so, pretty well, until saint cut the music and ( red-rimmed and wild-eyed, or stinking of about a hundred cigarettes, or with a bloody nose from too many lines of coke, depending on who’s telling the story—it’s morphed a bit over time ) threw everyone out of his house with no explanation. just a party’s over, fuckwads, get outta my house, and some monologue about the bullshit superficiality of high school, of all of them, about how they were all talking in circles and repeating the same lines over and over, but not even their own lines, lines they’d inherited from generations and generations past. it’s equally up for debate whether saint left the windsors or was kicked out, but there’s something of a general consensus that it was in the muddy lines of both. that went down somewhere towards the middle of the end of his junior year. since then? total social pariah. he left behind the lacrosse and soccer teams, opting instead for chain-smoking under the bleachers and cutting class. he’s a mystery, that saint mercy-wallace.
third headcanon: they were friends until they weren’t. they met in middle school and hit it off pretty easily, these two sons of daedalus who feared not the dangers of flying too close to the sun. they were handsome and charming and confident and gifted and the world opened for them—it made it easy to get along. eleven-year-olds didn’t need much by way of substance to start friendships. if you were to ask saint, looking back on it, after that they remained friends out of habit—because they were in the same place at the same time, because they had similar privilege, because they both felt they could do anything and get away with it, because they had similar luxurious sensibilities. it was ( if you ask saint ) what really bonded all of the windsors together more than any other kind of commonality. but, you know. when you wake up—as saint describes it, a waking up—and you look around and you see all this shit you’ve been brainwashed into thinking matters about anything, and you call out the only flimsy common ground you’ve got. well. you’re not going to be friends anymore, are you? after that, saint didn’t harbor any particular resentment towards dante, but he made no attempts to be friendly, often making snide remarks about the absurdity that was the whole premise of the “windsors” and how maybe they all needed to get outside and look at something other than their phones once in a while. he was still fairly shocked and upset by his death—nobody wants anyone to die, old friend slash new enemy or otherwise—but not enough to make a big thing out of it. saint’s had a pretty hard time feeling much of anything these days.
OK THE TL;DR VERSION:
son of a big hotshot fashion/art/celeb photographer ( cordelia aka cordy st. mercy ) and an acclaimed writer, essayist, novelist, thinker, etc ( garrett wallace, who teaches creative writing at MIT )
lives in a big ol brownstone in boston proper, often left to his own devices
his parents are not married to each other so he usually spends the school year w dad and the summer w mom - pls advise if u want some kind of step sibling or “our parents are dating this is terrible!” connection
used to be a windsor ! he was once (in)famously a member of the elite Inner Circle(TM) until he even more infamously had a giant burnout , threw everyone out of his house during a Classic Saint Rager ( he used to be known for throwing parties ), stopped hanging out w the windsors and has been kinda.....weird ever since
i mean don’t get me wrong he was always a pretentious fuck but he used to be better at keeping it inside and like having fun and talking about silly things now he hates talking about basic high school bullshit
his instagram is full of selfies w models and artists and musicians and actors and he only listens to bands you’ve probably never heard of who are “on the up and up”
and also house music and gregorian chants and weird af shit he’s into, like, industrial noise. anyway..........
prides himself on being very fashion forward and forward thinking in general
BIG MESS
literally never says things that aren’t . ridiculous
examples:
“can’t today my existential dread is acting up”
“i only eat squid ink pasta it’s the most melancholy of pasta”
“i can barely navigate the hellish vortex between breakfast and dinner, let alone the labyrinth of the soccer field” ( said when he quit the soccer & lacrosse teams, which he used to play )
does not give a single fuck about anything ever
chainsmokes like u wouldn’t believe catch him on the bleachers during football practice wearing all black and smoking three cigarettes at once it’s disgusting ( lowkey he thinks it looks cool lol what a loser )
reads pretentious af shit like jd salinger and allen ginsburg and the other beats and thinks he’s so edgy. kill him
skips class.....all the time . . . . but has really good grades ? wild
hates everyone and everything that isn’t Elegant
acts like he’s so above all this high school hierarchy nonsense & too cool for it & blah blah but uh
he’s probably just depressed
maybe still gets invited to parties if people forget for a second that he’s a giant fucking weirdo now? but maybe not
i would Love a ferris bueller to his cameron frye but we’ll see
anyway he’s super hard to plot with but you should plot with me anyway
this has been an intro by aj thanks for coming to my ted talk
