We Are Like Light Filaments [Francisco & Saturn Day 4]
Mar 22, 2019 15:37:33 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Mar 22, 2019 15:37:33 GMT -5
Saturn Rhodon
[Writer's note: this thread takes place after "Forced Perspective" and before "The Worst of Me"]
Oh –
There was a stillness that slipped through Saturn he could not render away. He felt his heart give to the quiet of the night when, speaking with Nico he imagined faces of boys come and gone. He should’ve felt nothing, or as much as he had known about each of them (which was to say, that he remembered their faces at all was a miracle). But alcohol was good at shining light to darkened corners, that much Saturn knew. He still remembers this part of the evening clear as the pyre burning bright behind him; two quiet steps toward stalks of long grass swaying, away from the sounds of whispers and into solitude.
All of them cradled a sense of urgency.
Even Saturn was not so dim that he could not recognize that in the creases of their smiles, or the nervous tap of feet against the soft earth, this night was a charade. Some would while away the hours searching for deeper meaning. Some would come to terms with the inevitable, that they were the dust they trod upon, settled to be returned once again. Saturn ran from reason, from death. Tonight he focused on pleasure, a simple and base thing – hungry now, with alcohol at his lips and burning through his veins.
The flat indentations of earth gave way to hills, and the sound of a water trickling across the plain. Saturn pressed through a thicket of ferns with fat, glossy leaves wider than he was, and began to imagine himself an explorer. How much easier it was as a child, when he could imagine a world all his own, with his own rules (and punishments). Alongside the gentle slope of a hill was a creek, flowing along a steady curve toward an outcropping of rocks that reflected under the moonlight.
He kneeled at the water’s edge, and stripped away his boots, haphazardly tossing one after another into the grass. The water was cooler than he’d imagined, his right foot’s big toe the first to explore the brackish expanse. He did not retreat, rather, began the slow and steady process of peeling one piece of armor after another from his heavy body. He paused to let his bare chest feel the wind clear away the sweat down to a trail of hair that stopped just above his underwear. He leaned backward on his palms and stared up at the stars before closing an eye and pointing to the spot he imagined his namesake to be.
He is flesh and nothing more, he thinks, alone. The thought simmers, and Saturn watches the water keep pace over the rocks. When his corpse was laid to rest, what words would they have used? That he was strong? Maybe the would say that he was full of life, as eulogists were want to do – another way of letting others imagine him a cup overflowing, making a mess of everything. He was all surface. Flash, without substance left to exist too long.
When he told Damaris of the man that hurt him, he didn’t think to mention that it happened more than once. He didn’t say how after the first time he felt the heavy obligation that it should happen again. At least then he knew it wasn’t a fluke, to be so wanted that he was to be taken as he’d wanted (even if he screamed inside of his own head, again, and again). He is the boy that lay on his back in bed, closing his eyes, wishing that it was over. He is more a punchline than protagonist.
His hands are shaking when he hears the sound of movement in the water. Ripples undulate across the creek, and Saturn spies the boy from five. His chest exposed to the moonlight, Francisco Bloom has the figure of a poet: lithe, sharp angles, and astute. He is more Stanley than Berlin, but with a face that spoke more truth than a boy like Saturn could ever manage. He can’t say why he’d never noticed him. Such was the world – boys like Francisco could not see Saturn, and boys like Saturn could only see boys like Francisco when it was too late.
“Franky, isn’t it?” Saturn calls out. He pulls up his shoulders and eases his chest, and takes up his own little bubble of space along the shore. He splays his legs open, revealing himself without shame (part of him hopes Francisco will look). His head swims and his heart pumps. He forgets himself.
“You and I never got the chance to get acquainted,” Saturn grins. “That seems like a shame to me.”
Oh –
There was a stillness that slipped through Saturn he could not render away. He felt his heart give to the quiet of the night when, speaking with Nico he imagined faces of boys come and gone. He should’ve felt nothing, or as much as he had known about each of them (which was to say, that he remembered their faces at all was a miracle). But alcohol was good at shining light to darkened corners, that much Saturn knew. He still remembers this part of the evening clear as the pyre burning bright behind him; two quiet steps toward stalks of long grass swaying, away from the sounds of whispers and into solitude.
All of them cradled a sense of urgency.
Even Saturn was not so dim that he could not recognize that in the creases of their smiles, or the nervous tap of feet against the soft earth, this night was a charade. Some would while away the hours searching for deeper meaning. Some would come to terms with the inevitable, that they were the dust they trod upon, settled to be returned once again. Saturn ran from reason, from death. Tonight he focused on pleasure, a simple and base thing – hungry now, with alcohol at his lips and burning through his veins.
The flat indentations of earth gave way to hills, and the sound of a water trickling across the plain. Saturn pressed through a thicket of ferns with fat, glossy leaves wider than he was, and began to imagine himself an explorer. How much easier it was as a child, when he could imagine a world all his own, with his own rules (and punishments). Alongside the gentle slope of a hill was a creek, flowing along a steady curve toward an outcropping of rocks that reflected under the moonlight.
He kneeled at the water’s edge, and stripped away his boots, haphazardly tossing one after another into the grass. The water was cooler than he’d imagined, his right foot’s big toe the first to explore the brackish expanse. He did not retreat, rather, began the slow and steady process of peeling one piece of armor after another from his heavy body. He paused to let his bare chest feel the wind clear away the sweat down to a trail of hair that stopped just above his underwear. He leaned backward on his palms and stared up at the stars before closing an eye and pointing to the spot he imagined his namesake to be.
He is flesh and nothing more, he thinks, alone. The thought simmers, and Saturn watches the water keep pace over the rocks. When his corpse was laid to rest, what words would they have used? That he was strong? Maybe the would say that he was full of life, as eulogists were want to do – another way of letting others imagine him a cup overflowing, making a mess of everything. He was all surface. Flash, without substance left to exist too long.
When he told Damaris of the man that hurt him, he didn’t think to mention that it happened more than once. He didn’t say how after the first time he felt the heavy obligation that it should happen again. At least then he knew it wasn’t a fluke, to be so wanted that he was to be taken as he’d wanted (even if he screamed inside of his own head, again, and again). He is the boy that lay on his back in bed, closing his eyes, wishing that it was over. He is more a punchline than protagonist.
His hands are shaking when he hears the sound of movement in the water. Ripples undulate across the creek, and Saturn spies the boy from five. His chest exposed to the moonlight, Francisco Bloom has the figure of a poet: lithe, sharp angles, and astute. He is more Stanley than Berlin, but with a face that spoke more truth than a boy like Saturn could ever manage. He can’t say why he’d never noticed him. Such was the world – boys like Francisco could not see Saturn, and boys like Saturn could only see boys like Francisco when it was too late.
“Franky, isn’t it?” Saturn calls out. He pulls up his shoulders and eases his chest, and takes up his own little bubble of space along the shore. He splays his legs open, revealing himself without shame (part of him hopes Francisco will look). His head swims and his heart pumps. He forgets himself.
“You and I never got the chance to get acquainted,” Saturn grins. “That seems like a shame to me.”
