Blog for indie/semi-incorporated OC in the Death Note fandom, specifically in Wammy’s House. Currently active, 18+ material discussed. All other info in links below:
About Saturn
Rules / Explore blog

roma★
$LAYYYTER

Andulka
Xuebing Du
occasionally subtle
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

tannertan36
we're not kids anymore.

Product Placement

Discoholic 🪩
No title available
NASA

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
YOU ARE THE REASON

⁂

Kaledo Art

pixel skylines
Claire Keane
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
Not today Justin
seen from United States
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@saturnscholar
Blog for indie/semi-incorporated OC in the Death Note fandom, specifically in Wammy’s House. Currently active, 18+ material discussed. All other info in links below:
About Saturn
Rules / Explore blog
I think I'm gonna die in this
Ḩ̷̧̞̦̫̠͎̞͇̦̗̻̜̹͖͉̮̤̟̰͍͎̙̳͕̜̥̝̘͒͆͑́́̑̉̊̔̑͌̀͒̎̉̈͌̓̈́̽̾̉̆̃̚͘͘̚͜͠͝ͅͅ ̶̧̧̡̨̩̱͎̖̻̫͉̯̜̖͚͇͔̪͓̲̩͎͇̱͕̪̫̯̼̫͈̥͈͖͍̣͂̌ O̴̢̨̧̩̱̦̰͎̦̠̙̖̺͓̟̖͗́̆͂̓͊̌́̀͗̇̑͗̉͂͛̽͆̈́͗̄̀̈́̂̊̽̂́̌̆͛̽́̚̚͘͘͠ͅ ̶̧̡̡̦͍̤͈̳̠̹͉̫͕̯͖̱̦͕̝͈̺̇̃̂͐͒̽̐̾ Ư̷̧̮̗̹͖̦̬͚̥̯͔͚̳̟̱̥̙̖̗̜̻̦͔̝̰͎͈̙͉̰͚̤̯͕̠͍͎̬͙̘̫̑́̍̆̓̈́͗͑͆͂̏̀̈́̈́͂̑̅̂̈́̑̂̏̀̅͒͘̚͠͝͝ͅ ̶̡̡̧̢̨̛̠̞̬̮̼̮̗̖͈̯̱̘̖̺̟̭̻̝̪̳̟͓͈̬͇͓͚̭̹̓̅͑̆̆̾̋̈́̽̿̆͛̾̈́̂̏̎̌̾͆̿͛̓̋̋͑͊͑͂̌̆̕̚͜͜͜͝͝͝ͅ S̷̡̧̡̛̛̮̮͚̦̫̩͔̞̩̎̔̅͆̈́̆̏͆̽̾̒̂͊̎͆̑̈́̍̄̌̽͒̕͠͝ͅ ̷̧̨̩͉̳͕̯͖̫͖͕̥̇̉͒͐̅̕ͅ Ę̶͇̥͍͚̫͍͙͇͈͇̘́̓̕
In every room
I hear silence.
wake up
Wrath of the Lamb / B's Least Likely Successor
ref
[ 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑 ] (But make it a hallucination) "No one came to save you. You didn't escape. I let you go. They all left you to rot. Especially him. He knew. He knew the entire time. It's all his fault. Gonna be a doormat forever, Drakos?"
Saturn lays flat on his bed in the dark of his room over top his blankets. Shot, red eyes stare into the ceiling and hands interlock fingers to fold politely across his chest. So still, the boy looks ready for his coffin.
4 days, 6 hours, and... he turns his head slightly to look to the clock on his nightstand, then back to the ceiling... 17 minutes. This long since he first looked at the time when returned back to his home. Back at Wammy's House.
His first three nights were spent in the infirmary. This would be his first night back in his own room. His shared room, actually. With Umbral.
Umbral.
Back in the same room he shares with that traitor. Where everything reminds him of all the times he loved and trusted a back stabber. An accomplice to his life's worst suffering.
How could they do this to him, placing him back in that same room as if nothing had happened? How could he do this to him, after all they've been through and still siding with that sick fuck?
He gets a little angrier, the visual snow above him a little stronger, as a voice rings in his eardrums like he's got those headphones back clamped around his ears,
"No one came to save you. You didn't escape. I let you go. They all left you to rot. Especially him. He knew. He knew the entire time. It's all his fault. Gonna be a doormat forever, Drakos?"
Saturn snaps again.
He sits up suddenly in a heated pant, throws himself off the bed, and snatches a pair of scissors from off his desk while the cup previously holding them knocks over and falls to the ground with the rest of its contents. The bed next to his creaks at the weight of his body pouncing upon it rabidly.
Blades sink in to the soft cloth of his roommates pillow. Once, twice, three times as the innards spill forth out of it. The blankets and mattress too are unsafe from attack as Saturn stabs and stabs and stabs into those next, ripping into the fabric as though it were a hunting knife to the belly of a fresh carcass.
It's lucky there is no body inside, as the usual inhabitant is away for his usual night classes. Though lucky might still be a bit of an overstatement.
The weapon is tossed to the side as he throws off the pillow, followed by the blankets, to be strewn across the room. Still worked up, he gets to his feet and throws off the mattress from its bed frame too.
Finally, he storms out of the room with a slam of the door, back to the infirmary incredibly tensed, and demands both more sleep aide and refuge for the night again. It is just too soon, and he isn't ready.
That was his room first. Umbral tainted it. Umbral tainted everything.
As he lays back down on the cot, he makes eye contact with the clock before staring back up at the ceiling while waiting for his eyes to drift and droop closed.
4 days, 7 hours, and 9 minutes since he has been returned.
It has been about 5 minutes since Saturn's last outburst.
And a long, uncountable amount of time since he's gotten a decent night's rest.
(From this)
Quix is dressed lighter than usual. Trading out his typical thicker long sleeved shirts for a thin one, keeping his bandanna of course. He's also wearing shorts instead of sweats or jeans. He's got a notebook in his left hand, with a handwritten essay on the history of archery across the world. It's not short, either, it's referenced every book that Saturn left on the note. It's also referenced other materials that Quix dug up himself, including extra detail on a certain martial art that Quix practices, involving fighting with a bow.
He checks his cellphone. 8am. It's not the earliest he's ever bothered someone, and usually, his morning runs are at 6am. Quix knocks on Saturn's door. Umbral should be returning from his last class soon, so Saturn would be awake anyway. Right? If not, oh well.
For good measure, he knocks again. "It's your best friend," Quix says flatly. They definitely are not best friends.
PREV
Saturnscholar
While surely not perfect and therefore not good enough to the keen professional eye of a seasoned archer, to have it nearly sink center with a heavy, freshly hand strung bow was impressive enough to a more amateur one. "You should. Put a piece of all that old money to some good use for once. Still, nice shot."
Whether Saturn's watchful eyes or vaguely encouraging comment are what makes Quix chuffed is a mystery, but he rolls his shoulders a few times, thinking. Smiling. It's not fair that the gun slinging marksmen get all the useful equipment. Maybe he could start something of an archery club. Him, Saturn... hell, maybe some kids were inspired by that A with a crossbow. Quix isn't a fan, but it's still interesting.
"You're right. I'm very persuasive," he says, like a matter of fact. "Besides, once your generation is retired, I'm rather confident I'll be at the top. If first makes a request... well," Quix adjusts his aim slightly, firing off another arrow. This one is a bullseye. "maybe he'll actually listen. I'm not asking for the world, just a fancy piece of wood."
Quix lowers the bow and turns toward his audience of one. He leans back against his little shooting bar, eyeing Saturn over again. A swimmer. "Don't be surprised, but I suck at swimming. I can barely float. Sad, huh?" He shakes his head, seemingly disappointed in himself. "What do you do? I know there's butterfly, or doggy paddle, or whatever. You know. Which one?"
Saturn in an archery club is an interesting thought, at the least. However the practice in both precise aiming and steadying his sometimes more nervous hands under pressure would be a good enough reason to join as they would be useful enough skills to hone for himself. It could also lead to a little more bonding time with the younger, more elusive student. Could be more than worth considering. A smile graces him for a moment when the arrow fires straight to its desired center. Nice.
"Thinking ahead and kicking us to the dirt already, huh?" He half laughs towards the other's self-confidence about his own generation's ever impending downfall. "You make me sound so old. Aren't I only about a year older than you?"
Saturn only feels a slight self-consciousness being eyed over like a lean piece of meat. Not that he was wearing anything particularly revealing, but it is not often the bookworm's body is gleaned over. Or at the very least this obviously. His posture adjusts slightly.
"Just a regular breaststroke usually. You know, one arm then the other, turning your head for air while the opposite is up and moving your legs to push you forward type thing. It's nothing fancy. Floating is the first step, though. I could show you one day I guess, if you really wanted. The floating bit is a bit easier to learn with someone there to hold your back up at first."
trading art with mal!
what will he poke
[ 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐂 ] to saturn from hawk, maybe?
[ 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐂 ] ― sender puts on the radio to listen to music with receiver
Light scratching of pencil and paper is all that fills the quiet of the singlet bedroom, at a time before looming roommates and broken hearts sits a young Saturn alone in his bedroom hard at work on the rewrite of an essay. He softly sniffs to himself, a little upset still his first draft had been so openly ridiculed in front of an audience of his peers during biology class.
The formatting was all wrong as he was more familiar with Chicago style over APA to begin with. The introduction was way too long as it was too involved in the backgrounding, and lacked focus in the actual study at hand. It was brought up as a great example of what not to do. But at least he finished it! There was real thought behind his draft over some of the others who turned in half finished slop. It isn't fair, why is he always the one picked on...
"Hey, freckles," Hawk invites herself in through a door left unlocked.
"Oi, Hawk! What are you-"
"You should really lock that, there's a lotta weirdos crawling these halls. Anyway, can you believe this inane project they put me on? My teacher wants me to work with two - TWO - of my other completely incompetent-- Ew. Wait a sec, why do you look like that."
Saturn rubs his eye a bit with his knuckle, embarrassed now. "Ah, it is nothing, really. I just need to rework this essay is all..."
Hawk crosses her arms, annoyed. "Okay. That doesn't explain that pathetic look on your face. I'm not blind, don't brush me off like I'm stupid, eh? Spill it."
"Ah... I suppose I just feel like I can't get anything right... My best is never good enough and I just get berated when I put in my efforts. It makes me feel so worthless. Maybe I should just give up..." His gaze drops back to the paper, looking at it with dissatisfaction in both his work and himself.
The explanation only makes her more annoyed. "Grow up, would you? If I have to hear any more of this pity party I will put a bullet through both our heads. You're here to become the best, no?"
"Well, yes, but-"
"Good." She walks over to a nightstand, flipping on the radio. Close to the start of the song plays L'aventurier by Indochine. "So drown that whining ninny in your head and get to work. Show them why they were ever wrong to doubt you. If you're so smart, give them no room to judge and say otherwise. Do it your way. Prove it."
The knob is twisted to pump the sound louder and she walks back over to shove his pencil back into his grasp. She situates herself on his bed to ensure he gets to work, then starts taking out some materials to start her own. Independently, as she had wanted. Her way.
Saturn stews a bit frustrated at first, but as the music goes on he starts to nod along and lets her words better sink in. Again, she was right. So what if he did it a little wrong the first time, this was his opportunity to get it more than right this time.
So both get to work, and as the determination grows on his face Hawk slips out her camera to snap a memory. The spark in his eye was bright as ever, and beautifully captured. The boy was more than used to being her little model at this point, paying the snapshot no mind as he continues his work over the blaring French classic rock.
The formatting would be fixed. The methodology and study filled out. But he was doubling down on the background. They were getting everything. From the beginning.
Saturn bottled his tears and found his fire, and Hawk from behind a sharp lense felt proud in igniting it.
[ 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑 ] (as Hue) "Kismet is tripping out of his goddamn mind right now."
Solitude is hard to come by in a house of constant movement, peer rivalry, and genius hijinks. So when Hue opened up his classroom to Saturn to use as a makeshift sanctuary, he couldn't help but take him up on the offer when the library was closed or a little too busy for his liking.
S has a break between classes, so he decides to slip in to the art room for a few moments rest of quiet study and a soda before his next period. Hue is sitting idly at his desk when he enters and situates himself at a desk not too far from the teacher, whom looks a little more irritated than usual. He sighs, pushing his glasses up as he rubs what might be a migraine out via the bridge of his nose.
"You going to your history class today?" Hue comments casually with a hint of contempt. It is not directed at the student so much as the subject at hand.
A can is cracked open as he nods while taking a sip, curiosity at the subject peaking a brow in confused interest. "Yeah, next period. Why?"
Hue just shakes his head and mutters, "Kismet is tripping out of his goddamn mind right now."
"It's ten in the morning."
"I know."
"You're serious."
"Deadly. I saw him in the break room trying to break a glowstick into his coffee like a packet of sugar. Kept saying it was his 'secret sauce.' Tried to choke me out when I dumped it down the sink. There is something seriously wrong with that guy. More than usual."
Agitation sits heavy on his face as the student hangs his head back with a groan. "We were supposed to go over the start of section two on the middle ages today. I spent all night pouring over those chapters. Now I don't even know if it's worth going. This sucks."
"Well, you're welcome to hide out here if you want. I won't rat you out. Might lose less brain cells on the paint thinner than with whatever bullshit spews outta that junkie's mouth today."
His gaze is met with a half smile as he swirls the carbonated liquid inside the can, weighing his options. "Thanks. I'm... considering it."
"I heard a rumor that someone carved a puzzle-piece out of the fridge door. They said it matched the wound in his sternum exactly."
(Hello, your trauma is back <3)
"Backup, they replaced it ages ago. I am no longer in dire need of its services, anyway. Let it go." He groans, not ready to take on this headache nightmare again.
"It's a pity. It was a magnificent piece of art."
If you think Beyond has a memory photo of it — he might. Legally speaking.
"Oh, so are you back to eating literary dust for all your meals? Can I claim your cereal then?"
"I'm so sure," he chides, not looking up from his book to give the satisfaction of eye contact. "And no. You can leave me and my breakfast perfectly alone, thanks."
(From this)
Quix is dressed lighter than usual. Trading out his typical thicker long sleeved shirts for a thin one, keeping his bandanna of course. He's also wearing shorts instead of sweats or jeans. He's got a notebook in his left hand, with a handwritten essay on the history of archery across the world. It's not short, either, it's referenced every book that Saturn left on the note. It's also referenced other materials that Quix dug up himself, including extra detail on a certain martial art that Quix practices, involving fighting with a bow.
He checks his cellphone. 8am. It's not the earliest he's ever bothered someone, and usually, his morning runs are at 6am. Quix knocks on Saturn's door. Umbral should be returning from his last class soon, so Saturn would be awake anyway. Right? If not, oh well.
For good measure, he knocks again. "It's your best friend," Quix says flatly. They definitely are not best friends.
PREV
xrphansrevival
Generously, he hands the bow over to Saturn before taking a better look himself.
"Really? Okay, cool." He isn't really sure what leg strength has to do with it at first, that is until the object is easily slipped betwixt them.
Saturn is a bit surprised by the sudden change of course, but isn't complaining. That is probably how they were strung in a pinch, so seeing a more physical way of stringing over the technical approach is equally as satisfying. And, from the tensing and flexing of Quix's thighs, did appear just as if not more taxing work. He should be appreciative of the lengths his newfound friend was willing to go to show off - and is.
"Sure," he responds easily, taking the direction as the archer finishes up the job, then just as easily releases when asked.
Watching him do the work with such ease really showed off his skill. And the show was all for him? He could not help but feel a little special in that moment. How many other people got to see this side of Quix, so full of ambition and pride in his work?
As the bow is passed back to him, he holds it with purpose and aim. Amateur stancing holds his footing as he holds the bow as if to shoot without pulling the string and closes an eye towards an imaginary target off in the distance. It looks fun. He could see why Quix would have fun with this.
He smiles a bit as he hands it back. "Are you still available for some private tutoring?" He inquires, while eyeing the more beginner bow that was patronized when they had first entered.
Quix is relieved that Saturn followed his last direction. He's sure Saturn has read about it, but dry firing a bow can damage it. Now that he's got the bow back, he rests it against the wall. If he's going to be doing archery, he wants to put his gear on. He wore lighter clothes today to make it easier.
"Oh? If you're that interested, sure. But I'm a pretty busy guy," Quix replies, first putting on his arm guard. Even someone inexperienced like Saturn can tell he's very practiced. "I have the least amount of classes on Mondays, but if you're willing to wake up pretty early, I have time after my morning jogs."
Quix grabs his gloves next. He really only needs the one on his right hand, but he likes having a pair. The right hand only has a thumb and the first two fingers, while the left hand has a normal glove. Finally, instead of slinging his quiver over his shoulder, he grabs it to set next to where he'll be shooting.
"I'd recommend you work out a little, too. If you intend on doing this more often. It's mostly arm and back muscles, but if you want to eventually do horseback, you'll need more of a full body routine." He smiles. "It's really rewarding. I don't think there's anything comparable to shooting down a target while on a fast moving horse. It's really fun."
It's a little embarrassing, but if Saturn can get really excited over history, Quix feels a little less self conscious about his fun. He walks Saturn a little ways over to the booths. "Sometimes I go out in this field, but only when I'm alone. I like to set up the flying discs. I'll stick to simple stuff today."
Quix knocks an arrow into the Korean bow. He nods slightly, the arrow fits well. He takes a deep breath before really focusing, his breath getting slow. It's a little like his form of meditation. Quickly, he pulls the string back, and fires off the first arrow. It's barely not a bullseye.
"Tch..." He frowns. "Maybe I should nag Roger into getting a board..."
While Quix starts to set himself up, Saturn situates himself on a wooden bench not too far away to watch. He quietly appreciates the routine and care that goes into the set up, finding the process to look rather meditative in approach.
"I could make some free time for that," he agrees tentatively. As for the other comment, his eyes narrow for a short second at being called out for his lesser body strength than that of his company, and admittedly a good chunk of his peers. Still, though, it was not as if he was working with nothing. "And. I get what you're saying. But hey. I swim. That's a great arm and back workout. But I could easily see the horseback needing a lot of leg and core exertion."
When beckoned over he stands again and follows to the booth and leans himself against the nearest surface to watch. Saturn watches the practice of skill before him, lining up his readings with the display and follows as arrow snaps from string to target. He tries not to blink, making sure to absorb every detail to the best of his ability.
Cool.
S leans his head, better lining up his vision to the target in front of them both. While surely not perfect and therefore not good enough to the keen professional eye of a seasoned archer, to have it nearly sink center with a heavy, freshly hand strung bow was impressive enough to a more amateur one. "You should. Put a piece of all that old money to some good use for once. Still, nice shot."
[ 𝐑𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐄 ] ― sender and receiver see each other again after a period of being apart
Hype of the nearly famous befreckled kidnapping victim has died down in a slow decline over the passing weeks since his return to the orphanage. In that time so has his moody outbursts in turn become a little less frequent, though generally more pointed towards one peer in particular he had grown rather close to. Some find this surprising, others less so - more a falling out that was just waiting to happen due to the battling first's more volatile nature, though the means of which no one could have predicted.
Constantly though, without fail, day after night after day, a grown familiar same face echoes in the forefront of his psyche. It drives him up a wall like nails up a chalkboard. Not even his favorite books or burying into studying is enough to dull his mind.
He's tried swimming. He's tried mindfulness. He's tried a handful of medications.
Sitting in silence for too long reminds him of it. The blankness of the snow covering a blanket over the earth reminds him of it. Closing his eyes to rest reminds him of it. Rest is a laughable activity to even mention right now. A sore subject.
And he doesn't have anyone to talk about it with. Not anyone he feels comfortable enough laying it all bare with quite yet. The horror is hard enough to put into words spoken of any kind. Just sits and settles itself snuggly within the folds of his brain, or what feels like is left of it.
Well. Until he is scheduled for an appointment.
"Saturn," calls Dr. Joy, beckoning from a door open ajar. "Come on in. I've been waiting for you."
Slowly, from the waiting room towards the private one, where they would sit alone, clouded eyes bore into the floor as Saturn takes a seat across from the other.
"So, what brings you in today?"
He feels uneasy - a touch dizzy, even. Maybe it's the sterile but welcoming environment mixed with a hint of herbal essences wafting through the air. Maybe it's the anxiety of spilling all his harbored troubles to a stranger.
His gaze barely lifts. It sits at the legs of a chair, the bottom of the desk, to knees covered by firm pressed khaki's, a lint rolled sweater, towards, finally, a friendly, patient face.
Lightly trembling hands grip tightly into fists against his own faded jeans.
There is something about the way that gentle, serene smile sits on the therapist's face that riles up the acid in the pit of his stomach and scorches the back of his throat. So much so, in fact, before he can react quick enough to even reach a can, Samuel vomits on the floor.
Fuck.
...
"Can we reschedule?"
The therapist kindly offers him a tissue to wipe his face. "We could, but I think it's in your best interest to stay. What better a place to start than from the inside?" The smile remains in its place, even if it might be biting back something a tad more sinister.
Poor thing. He's all fucked up. He can barely stand to look at me. I have to make sure that I don't look like I'm having fun-
Dr. Joy doesn't allow the heartbreak to show on his face. Seeing traumatized children never gets any easier, and it's clear what Saturn has been through has him on the brink. He will need to be very gentle.
He stands up and makes his way to a cabinet with some cleaning supplies, flicking on a small water feature on a shelf nearby. Something to break the tension.
He cleans up the mess in no time at all, washes his hands, and sits back down across from Saturn.
"It's normal to have strong physical reactions like that with the high amount of stress you're under. Just try and be patient with yourself. I'm a doctor, I've seen it all, okay?"
He reaches down into his desk and pulls out a small tape recorder and a scrapbook. The former is standard, so he begins the recording without introduction.
"We'll be working through a lot of difficult things together, so it's often best not to dive in headfirst without some sort of buffer. It is of course up to you, but I'd like us to try using one of these to illustrate and work out your feelings and memories about what happened,"
He opens the scrapbook to its first blank page.
B pulls out a pack of colored pencils, assorted stickers, and a set of ink stamps with various symbols.
"Let's take a few breaths together. I am extremely proud of you for continuing with the session, but if at any point you feel too overwhelmed to continue, just let me know and we will end it immediately,"
Dr. Joy places a small blue stress fall in front of Saturn.
"Try squeezing that slowly as you breathe in for five seconds, hold for three seconds, then relax your grip exhale for another five. Repeat that process three times for me. And when you're ready..."
He gestures at the selection of craft supplies on the desk. "Try and remember what you were thinking about when you felt nauseous a moment ago and see if you can create some representation of it on this page. It doesn't have to be literal or even comprehensible. We're just practicing giving your feelings room to exist."
Dr. Joy proceeds to walk Saturn through the breathing exercise, all the while, B grins inside of him like a hyena.
Everything in front of his eyes right now is his own design. Now they were going to relive his reconstruction together, and Dr. Joy was going to do his very best to make it all better.
B, in turn, will reopen the wounds as many times as it takes. He's too proud of his work to let it go now. Damien might be the second generation's handpicked failure, but Samuel is a ticking timebomb just begging to go off. The soft, sympathetic center of the entire generation, his inherent goodness inspiring so much affection in others.
Breaking him broke the morale of those around him.
It's been so long since he's seen desolation like that in someone's eyes. It has to be as contagious as it is beautiful. Precious.
His head falls back with a groan, throwing his arm over his eyes.
That was so embarrassing. He cannot believe that just happened. But just as quickly as it did, it is wiped away.
He does not look up when he hears the click of the recorder. Nor the placement of the empty book. His head finally lulls down with fingers running through greasy curls until resting back in his lap as Dr. Joy starts to walk him through the breathing.
Fine. He can reasonably breathe. His hand limply reaches out for the stress reliever and attempts to squeeze and take in and out breath in time with the given instruction. Eyes close while he repeats the actions: in for five seconds, hold for three, and relax for another five. By the last set, he does admit to himself to feel a step more relaxed, at least for the immediate time being.
"Ok," Saturn responds again simply, both in reference to the next task and the out of being able to stop at any time following. Seemed a bit much for a first session in his opinion, but he supposes the doctor is the professional knowing what he is doing. "Though... I'm not much of an artist."
Another glance is stolen for half a second before one of the pencils is gripped in his hand and attention is held onto the blank paper before him, ready to capture a glimpse of depiction from his trauma. It taps against the paper in thought, as he arouses the buried feelings he had just unearthed via route of nausea just a few minutes previous.
Suddenly but slowly he starts, abstract and more so doodling to just get something onto the page with a scribbling tangle of wires. It starts coming together, however, as a more firm image comes to present itself in mind with more specific swirls taking form around the page. A crudely rectangular frame is added around the mass of swirls, then he sets down the graphite in favor of a red color with a string of lines connecting to nowhere. A circle is then added in the center.
"Uhm..." His brows furrow a moment, wanting to be finished but feeling it was perhaps missing a touch.
The pack of stickers is inspected then, each deliberated over until he finally scrapes a thumbnail under one and lifts it from its spot and into the center circle.
A big yellow generic happy face sits innocuously within.
The nausea feels like it may threaten its presence again as he pushes the scrapbook away from himself.
"I'm done with this." Saturn states shortly, looking away towards the window.
"I heard a rumor that someone carved a puzzle-piece out of the fridge door. They said it matched the wound in his sternum exactly."
(Hello, your trauma is back <3)
"Backup, they replaced it ages ago. I am no longer in dire need of its services, anyway. Let it go." He groans, not ready to take on this headache nightmare again.
Drew this for Jay for artfight!! Saturn and Eye! @saturnscholar
YOU WILL GO DOWN IN HISTORY
[ 𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑 ] ― sender traces a scar on receiver’s body
Day. Who can tell. Maybe night. Samuel has been inside so long, the hours all blend together into nothing. There is only sleep and awake to break up any time spent together. At the least, at this point, he has been unchained.
The room is still a pristine white, save for maybe the sweat that had stained over where he has laid idle for... Again. Who knows how long. The lights are always on, not even a florescent flicker to provide any kind of stimulatory relief. Something to count, even if it were infrequent. He gave up on banging on the door to be heard a while ago. He learned quick his pleas were meaningless.
The door squeaks open ajar, enough for a body to squeeze in, and slams shut behind him. His breath hitches.
"Samuel!" Tsks his captor's voice. "You're absolutely disgusting. Let's get you washed up! Now."
He is still gagged which leaves no room for arguing. Neither does the firm grasp on the back of his collar all but dragging him to a small bathroom, tub already filled with water. The door is promptly locked behind them.
"See? No one in, no one out. You'll have some privacy! Now strip."
There is some obvious hesitancy as he looks from the water, to B, and back to the tub.
"Come on, this was a lot easier the first time. You were a much better listener on drugs, you know. It's useless being shy now; I've already seen everything. You're a smart boy, how do you think you got into those clothes you're in now, huh?" B looks impatient, more than ready to strip him himself if Saturn takes too long deciding.
His expression warms into a grin as Saturn finally obliges orders, removing the garments and stepping into lukewarm water. Foreign hands waste no time in lathering up a wash cloth to rub over his victim's body. If Samuel weren't so dehydrated, he might have started crying again. Instead, he just utters a few short, choked sobs past the bite blocking his mouth. The scrubbing stops momentarily as he suddenly feels bare fingers tracing lines against his back. He holds his breath, absolutely still.
"Umbral was right, you do have a nice back. So many little stories it must tell," B sighs wistfully, then squirts some liquid soap into his hand to move on to the earthy nest of curls that curled knotted at the top of his head. S shuts his eyes tightly while persistent fingers work up a lather against his scalp. He is too scared to move.
"Not to worry. Those are nothing compared to what I'll be giving you when I'm done with you." The scrubbing becomes more loving; the rubbing of his scalp in small circles becomes more massaging his head than anything. With each movement of his thumbs, he goes, "I'll put one here, and here, and here, until you're completely unrecognizable. Oh Samuel, you're going to be so beautiful when I'm done with you."
Well minded Saturn has taken refuge from the noise and bustle of the halls in the library. For a few days now it has been the first and last place he visits during the day; always getting out two large books, sitting in the far corner table surrounded by shelves, and placing yellow sticky papers with notes all within the pages. Something was not adding up and he was adamant about finding these inconsistencies and correct the sources. A few times kids tried to approach him, get a clue at what project he could be working on, but most kept to their own business which was much preferred as the ones that did were either shooed away or flat out ignored. While Saturn is not much for company anyways, that counts doubly so for when he is deep in thought and does not want that disturbed. So when one of his peers appears and shows no sign of leaving, annoyance grows.
Without even glancing up and before the other could sputter out a word, Saturn beat them to it with a curt, “What.”
saturnscholar
[…] He grants him a side glance. “What’s your, uh, what’s the deal with your sculpture?”
“Yeah, I know. I’ve read it,” Hue snorts, like he’s suddenly been reminded of an inside joke. “The inaccuracy is the point. What I need is what that revision made obsolete.”
Hue picks up the book Saturn is trying his hand at editing, but gingerly this time. He doesn’t open it, so if there are notes inside, they remain where they are. He briefly looks over the front and back, possessed with the first half-smile anyone in the orphanage has probably yet seen.
“Huh. Alright, I get you’re some kinda boy wonder, but… they’re the ones gettin’ paid to teach you, aren’t they?” he shoots the younger boy a knowing glance before setting the book back down. “You don’t look like a smart ass…maybe that’s how you get to make a professor look stupid and pull extra credit while you’re at it. Good on you.”
Pulling one knee toward his chest to serve as an armrest, Hue’s other hand occasionally grasps at some invisible stress ball as it rests at his side. “I’ve met a couple of the professors here. Swear to God, at least one or two of ‘em were junkies. Fuck, your school might just be about as much of a racket as mine was,”
At the mention of his art, Hue appears to become…negatively animated once again. He finds something tangible to keep that hand busy - a lighter with an elaborate filigree engraving. It stands out against his otherwise disheveled, hyper-casual state of being. Hue flicks it open only to flick it back closed again, and repeats the movement absentmindedly as he goes on.
“You ever wake up and decide, 'hey, I’m gonna make myself fuckin’ miserable for the next six months of my life’? Yeah, I’m gonna personally weld as many giant, historically-accurate, semi-functional compasses as I possibly can and connect 'em like gears; then I’m gonna try and figure out how to keep all the magnetic needles spinning perpetually in unison… and oh, can’t forget to work out how that heavy piece of shit is gonna stand upright or fit in any building without vaulted fuckin’ ceilings for that matter…”
Hue is ranting mostly to himself again. This is how he always gets when asked about his work. Exasperated, he shoves the lighter back into his pocket.
“That’s what’s up with my sculpture. You think I’m unlikeable? At least I’m honest about it. All artists are fuckin’ scumbags. And thieves,” he gestures to the book they just fought over. “I came here cause I was sick of the industry, but I’m right back to the same old shit I did in New York. Trying to impress somebody by putting myself through the most tedious process I can possibly come up with. As if there is any inherent meaning at all in that…”
Fingering the half-empty pack of cigarettes in his pocket, next to the lighter, B figures Hue probably needs a smoke. Hue always needs a smoke, since he’s always stressed and overworked and hates his life and everyone around him. Not Saturn though, B decided. The kid’s alright.
“Well. Here’s hopin’ your professor eats shit.”
"You've met Kismet, then," Saturn retorts while returning some of his notes into the folds of their respective pages. It really wasn't that many, now that he thinks about it, and this gives him a chance to be more concise anyway. He does have a bit of a tendency to get carried away. "His technique is... unique. But he can keep up with me unlike the dragging some of the other professors do slugging through the textbooks. He might have even assigned this just to get a rise out of me, specifically. Or he was just high. Hard to tell."
He sighs, seemingly content enough to set the book down open in front of him instead of fussing anymore. Any left over notes are placed to its side without much further thought for the time being.
Hue is talking about grand compasses, but Saturn's thoughts are still stuck on archaic trade routes and ports. The book Hue examines is an extensive look at 'The Silk Road.' Its main issue is less the trades itself, but who it ignores in favor for a focus of the ever grand Europe, and to a lesser extent, Africa. All but glossing over at best the prevalence of Southeast Asia and their contributions. It might as well say the whole thing took place on land. A decent metaphor for the rat race if one were to relate Europe to first, and basing all the rest of the generation as nothing countries that are only there to help support the grand nation to thrive, be that with goods, land, or servitude. Or, in their case, to be fodder for a list filled.
An ever spinning expansion of navigation is relatable, he supposes. He did feel a little out lost at sea currently himself.
"Is adulthood really just all chasing the same misery in patterns you set out for yourself?" A naive question, the teen is more than aware. He half laughs. "I guess I'm never getting out of this rut."
Where Hue might need a smoke break, Saturn has decided it has been long enough since he has had his last caffeine refill. If he really was to set everything right again, and maybe even just power through all the details he set out on correcting, he muses on just pushing on and getting it finished within the next day or two. But again, another sugary caffeine boost was in order to accomplish that.
He stands then, stretching out joints long locked from the time spent sitting hunched over on the floor barely moving. The two empty cans sitting at the table are unceremoniously dentedly crushed in his hands.
"Thanks. I'm looking forward to it. Good luck with your artistic endeavor. Sounds complicated."