~Several Seconds of Sunshine. [Open.]

[DNA]

It was surprisingly warm in the gardens, at least, for a bright and "sunny" day in Alaska, of all places, it was quite warm. Of course, there was little one could consider when in a place that seemed to be either cold or colder. One had little room to be too picky, else they would simply detest their environment and situation in general. For DNA, it was best to think of the positives to any plight, especially considering the fact that he was actually settling down in a place where he was surrounded by the degenerate youths of the world, but... How was that any different from his home setting? Truth was, it was not much different at all. Well, other than the small fact that, here, people at least had the ability to use proper grammar. Despite how silly and fun it was to mimic, DNA had a secret hatred of Ebonics, and quite often found himself having to refrain from correcting the speech of people around and about his home-front. Here at Ridgestone, there were evil-doers throughout every corner of the world, and, all crimes aside, each and every one of them seemed to have a highly redeeming quality about them. And, besides, DNA had only been kicked and elbowed in the ribs once since his coming here, which, taking into consideration how badly he had been beaten by his own family members, that was not at all a bad record. Then again, he had never really been harmed by anyone other than family or good friends of family before, so, really, it was not a good record at all; it was a first. That sort of thinking, however, went against his happy-go-lucky sense of thought, and from that ideal, he sat back and gazed off into the lush of green and varied colors.

The flowers were absolutely gorgeous, and in that moment, all the young boy could do was close his eyelids, dressed in a metallic-silver eyeshadow with thin lines of black eye-liner, and breathe, the scent of leafy green dew filling his nostrils and giving fresh, rejuvenating oxygen to his lungs and, ultimately, his blood stream as well. For a moment, he questioned whether or not flowers were merely a portrayal of what colors would smell like if, in fact, colors had a smell, but soon grew too distracted with the benefits of silence and relaxation to even think of such trivial things. No. DNA did not find himself to be a fun thinker. Truly, he had problems with thinking in an optimistic manner when he was by himself-- His mind only worked on optimism when he felt the need to pretend to be kind whilst around people he wished to befriend, otherwise, his optics shot to shaken anxiety fits and pessimistic ideals, having often grown custom to feeling down and damask when in his lonesome. Here, though... Everything was too beautiful for him to think of everything that could go wrong in the near future. Surrounded by flowers, color, and warmth, he had the chance to try and keep himself from shaking or fretting. Just as fitting, he had told many of his newfound friends to be optimistic and think only of the good in such a place. DNA had always known that he was a hypocrite... But he wished to be more truthful than he had been in the past. He had started to gain trust from people. If anyone discovered his true colors.. He simply knew that they would grow to hate him. Everyone hated the down and deppressed... People simply found it annoying. DNA did not want to be considered annoying. No.. Daniel did not want to go back to being hated and used and alone. And then.. It had always been when he was alone. The dark thought crept up through the back of his mind and his hands would shiver. The boy would look down and notice just how thin his skin was, showing the light-blue lines that would so easily run red once in contact with oxygen. He would stare at his chubby fingers and see his clean-cut bangs against his own forehead. He would decide that he was too fat or simply not good enough for society. These were all thoughts that he had been told were conceived by an idiotic mind, but... They were all things that he had once been told by his mother. He could not go back to that silence. He could never go back to before. The truth was... DNA did feel better here. Among all of these people that he did not know, he could not be hurt. It was when he grew close to someone that he realized just how easily their every move could effect him. It did not matter if someone was harsh to him if he did not know them. He could kill them with his kindness. If they did not know just how easily the simplest thing could hurt him, then he was not weak to them. The word "freak" was a trigger, but if said by a person that did not know him enough to judge, then he could easily giggle about it. DNA was an actor. He could die on the inside and still have a smile playing across his finely glossed lips.

And, there. Just as suddenly as he had decided to keep away from discomforting thinking, he was wrapped up in the self-deluding words of his own distrust and discomfort. With one bat of his lashes, he was back to staring at the sky; he was resting with his back to the ground. The sky was his thought. Too broad and outstretching to merely be viewed by one eye. His thoughts were his many characters, deciding on what to be based on who he was speaking with... His characters were a lie to comfort others, but more importantly, to comfort himself. So... Who was he? Just another sarcastic and troubled youth in a world where no one really cared. DNA had not always been that way. He used to be quiet. Not outgoing. The boy used to sit in the back of his classrooms and excel in every opportunity he was given. He was shy and tightly held, mature and self inflicting. Adults and parents loved him; children had hated and scoffed at him. Now... He did not know what he was. He had friends, though. Friends were all he had now. There were days when he would cook for Sano, Ashton, Icarus, or Avery.. Days when he could keep control and care for the people that he cared for. That was what a family was supposed to be. DNA wanted to be the mother that he had not had as a child... Such thinking made him unstable. Was that what he was searching for? A make-believe family to distract his mind from its origins? ... He was thinking again... DNA hated it when he began to think his usual thoughts. Reoccuring... He had been given advice on how to fix such thinking, but... He was to stubborn to learn. That, and.. He knew the causes. The young boy had been evaluating and picking at the works of his own mind since he was just an elementary school child. He hated himself for it.

Sitting up, he wished to take a different view, and with a shuddering frame, he hobbled over to a row of vines against a woven wall, covered in dark-red roses. For the longest time, DNA had been blaming everyone else for his troubles, his idiotic plights.. And condemned them for it. Reaching forward, he wrapped his hand around a spindly vine, wanting to hold the leathery petals of one of the roses, but having to pull away as twelve or thirteen sharp thorns found their way into his skin. That was just it, though... While trying desperately to reach for something soft and beautiful, DNA had failed, countless amounts of times, and found himself spurring with beads of crimson in his skin. No matter how often he attempted to wipe it away with water and bubbly soap, it would always be there, just under his skin... Waiting to be pricked and brought back to the surface.

[Wren Burghes]

Alaska was a bitch of a state, Wren had decided. Just standing out here in the garden of the school, simply hanging here on his spindly little legs in this scraped-out patch of dirt, the overall harshness of the state loomed over him. Jagged rock edges here, needle-fringed trees there... And there was always the hint of a chill hanging around, a constant reminder of the dry death that could come howling in at any minute. Alaska, in all her wild, ragged glory, wanted him dead.

The thin teen tugged his jacket around his frame again, hunching in the wind before taking careful steps down the pathway, doing his best to examine the pretty little flowers that peeked out from the dirt. Wren knelt down at the sight of a patch of delicate violets, hesitantly brushing his skinny fingers over the petals. Each tiny purple petal held an intricate network of veins, which made Wren wonder if the flower would bleed purple if he took a razor and slit those petals open. A part of him wanted to try it out, but he didn't. There was no point, and for some reason he preferred to see these gentle little plants whole. They were so short-lived as they were, why would he want to cut that time short? He did pluck one, lifting it up and holding it in his palm as if it were a precious little relic.

One miniscule, beautiful, fragile little flower. It would die within a few hours, the fresh plumpness of the petals would leech out, the stem would wither and crumble to bits. In a way, he felt similar. He was so fucking exhausted, so tired of never being what he tried to be.... he'd been dry for years now, slowly fading out and crinkling up like the violet would soon. He had four years left here, and he didn't know if he could make it. Wren pressed the tiny flower to his lips, feeling the softness and imagining for a moment that in that flower was a gateway to a faerie realm. It was such a stupid fantasy he had, but Wren was always one to look for the rings of mushrooms, always hoping that maybe, just maybe, he could drop into another world of dirt and flowers and bare feet and iridescent insect wings. He wanted to leave this human world, leave it all behind for a fictional land of fey, be they kind or cruel, he didn't care. Anything but this.

The moment of insane wishing passed and Wren tucked the dying flower in his pocket, slowly continuing along the rows of flowers and shrubs. He was lost, really. The thin child wobbled here and there, too faint to realize he was going around in listless circles, his mind whirling around like a dirty little storm inside his skull. He no longer felt hungry, which was good. He was feeling lighter, which was good, it meant the horrible puckers of fat on his ass and thighs would have begun to melt away by now, that the disgusting rolls of fat under his ribs would be shrinking. That was good, couldn't anyone else see it? They said he was too thin... but it wasn't true. They wanted to make him feel better, somehow. That he could eat what he wanted, he needed to eat... No, no he didn't. He couldn't eat, because eating made the fat return, and he couldn't, he couldn't gain the weight again. No one would want him if he let himself go again...

Mike hadn't wanted him anymore. It had to be because he had gotten round, so this time he was correcting that before it started. He would be thin and he would find someone again. Maybe. Or he would just sleep around with everyone and their father until nothing was left to give. Wren rubbed his temples, shivering faintly at the thought of Mike. He'd been left here, dumped here, then cut off from the last person who he had believed to care for him. Despite every single fucking scar Mike had put on his body, every time he promised not to leave, here Wren was. Alone. Alone except for a body full of whip scars and knife marks and the knowledge that, as much as he tried, he would never be enough.

Wren blinked and sniffed back a drop of wetness. He carefully caught the droplet on his sleeve, holding his eyes open until the wetness dried. It would not do to smear his eyeliner, it would not do at all. If absolutely nothing else was good enough, his makeup had to be. Just enough to make him beautiful to look at, but not enough to look whorish. The eyeliner did not run, nor did the mascara, but the tiniest smudge of foundation rested on Wren's sleeve. He hurriedly rubbed it away, focusing on the flowers again and attempting to marvel at the delicate beauty of the petals again, but it barely worked. He swayed and wanted to collapse, briefly wondering that if he did, would he crack open to reveal nothing inside, he was just a brittle, empty vase?

His knees wobbled a bit but he did not fall, instead he moved on and kept walking to the far end of the garden, a place where the leaves made a dark wall that offered the illusion of comfort. Soft fragrances flitted along with the wind, lilac and honeysuckle among them. A hint of rose hid in there, but the scents were enough to make Wren's mouth water. He was so empty, empty, empty. If he crammed his mouth full of blossoms and swallowed them whole, filled his belly with them until the damned things spilled out his mouth, would he feel anything? Would it take the hunger away, or would it just be a beautiful autopsy? Look, surgeons, I am filled with flowers! No need for bouquets, I brought my own flower displays for the funeral.

His thoughts ran around in nonsensical circles as he reached the back wall, but the boy hung back for a small moment when he realized he wasn't alone. DNA, the beautiful child who always made delicious-smelling food and who was just so.. beautiful a person, was there. Wren blinked and watched him prick his fingers on the thorns as he reached for a blood-colored rose, his own delicate mouth turning down in a slight frown. His bird-boned fingers fumbled for the tissues he kept in his pocket, that mouth of his tugging itself out of the frown and into a gentle almost-smile. He approached the other from a side he knew he could be seen from, offering the tissues.

"Here, hon," The words felt alien to him, too caring, too much like what he tried to be but wasn't. He held the tissues out for the boy to take, looking up at him in mild concern. "That can't feel good.... Those roses are really prickly. If you hold them by the base of the blossom, though, the thorns aren't bad." His violet eyes traveled up to DNA's own, seeking out whatever emotion hid there. A certain heaviness sat in the air, and Wren wondered what all was going on. The concern in his voice was sincere, though faint, when he spoke again.
"You been doing okay, Dee?"

[DNA]

The beads of red had always been intriguing to the young boy, dark-blue eyes gazing at his palm as they filled and fattened, like seeds growing underground. If held still, they would just continue to bubble until hardening into some sort of clot, but if allowed to run with a tilt, they would spread over his skin and create an even bigger mess. Honestly, the blond child did not mind a mess of that sort. A great portion of his clothing was blood-stained, easily covered by second and third layers. Just as easily, he could hide such things by wearing near nothing. It was simple to hide behind some sort of perversion. You could be covered in blood, but if you have on a mini-skirt with high-heels and thighs showing, then no one would care as long as you could still flash your legs. At that moment, however, DNA was wearing nothing of the sort. Just the opposite, in fact. Over his chest and stomach was an extremely baggy t-shirt with picture of sesame street characters on it, and covering his legs was a pair of bright yellow skinny jeans, way too big for him as well despite having owned them for over three years. Truly, his appearance was awful at that point, only his dolled face and flashy heels a sign that he even attempted to make himself presentable. Back home, he would not have gone through such efforts. Home, everyone knew him for exactly what he was, a chubby, emotionally challenged, and lying child. No amount of make-up could cover the scars from such thoughts, and DNA did not expect it to do so. Sure, inside his chest, there was a beating that seemed to hurt with every pulse, growing more knowledgeable to the pain in the boy's head as it ran around his every sense. It took the metallic scent of blood to even make him realize where he was again. From time to time, his mind enjoyed playing tricks on him. Switching numbers or letters, faces and people.. One second, he could be laughing with friends, the next, he might be staring at an empty table, his mother off to the side explaining that he was not worth the trouble.. It was an ailment occurring from nothing in particular, and with it, he only felt more inadequate, deluded, and troubled. He often questioned if he had some sort of mental retardation. It would not have puzzled him at all if that were the case. At times.. He simply felt stupid. Then again, he felt worthless in any way at one point or another. His intelligence was no exception.

At a movement, he paused, his mind freezing as well, swirling in a mass of disconnected thoughts that started at one area of his own unique spectrum and ended at another. He had never been one to focus easily, but never actually took the time to get anything tested of it. Blue irises widening gently, he spied a tiny figure among the dense terrain that... Was anything but dense if compared to the sort of forestation that one would have been able to find in DNA's home state. No. No, no, no. It was one thing to be alone. Daniel was well aware of how horrible a person he could be when judging himself and, at times, others even, whilst on his own.. But once in such a stupor-ed state, he would never have wished another person to find him. Catch him in the act of thinking, the horrible deed of collecting himself.. The unwritten, yet unlawful, task of hidden hypocrisy. To think that, in such a silence, there could be someone wanting to break the chill, sending warm air through a barren land that, despite it's daily pour of frozen water, would have been considered an unorthodox type of desert. Truly, DNA was afraid to be alone. It was one of the many fears that often rushed through the front of his mind, but when alone, he feared even more to be found. From such a fear, he quickly attempted to hide any evidence of his problems, tucking his hand away in the wraps of his giant T-shirt, smearing splotches of blood, not yet dried due to the child's low iron intake, against Big-Bird and Elmo's fabricated figures. The stains would be removed at some point.. He knew how to wash blood from clothing, simply hated the amount of time that it took to do so. Either way, nothing would sit permanent. Everything changed at some point and DNA was one of the few who could accept such ideals. At least... When he did not mind the conditions of said changes.

It seemed to take forever for the boy to remember who it was coming toward him, even more troublesome, he could not seem to remember who he was when around this face. This face that he recalled so well, and yet... He could not place it. For a second, he wanted to ask who... But he could not do that. In his thought, DNA cursed to himself for having such a terrible memory, his eyes striving blankly to send the signals to his brain, describing the sight that could only protrude the image of one name in general. Faces... He had always been able to remember faces. Once seen, he would remember if he had seen it before. It did not matter if he had only viewed them while passing in a grocery store. If he had seen them once, he would remember the face. But names. Names were different. At one time, he had been keeping a log of every person he came into contact with, jotting down how they made him feel and if he wished to be near them again.

Suddenly, it came to him. He remember singing "Green Finch and Linnet Bird" while writing about this particular being. Name like a bird, skin thin and fragile, like his own... Too skinny to be healthy... Wren. This man was another sweetheart among murderers and rapists. Like the gentle petal of a rose surrounded by prickling thorns, he was stuck there as well, probably for idiotic charges.

With a wide smile, a practiced farce that he had used many a time before, he blinked and gave a light tilt of the head, his wavy locks falling tenderly against his right shoulder. At the words, however, he forced himself to unravel his hand, defeated by another's quick eye. "Ah!" he exclaimed, taking one of the tissues and blotting it, unconcerned, against his hand, "Oh.. It's nothing, really. I'm alright with a couple of pricks!" That sounded too enthusiastic, too forced. Dammit, DNA felt stupid at that moment. "...Hmm?" The simple question, a mere noise of sorts, was his way of stalling before giving answer, just as simple. "I'm gucci. Thankoo for the concern, though. You're a sweetheart!" The word, "Gucci", was one that he often used as a distraction. If someone understood the Ebonics that went along with the word, they would often laugh at the fact that DNA would sound so "cute" or "white" whilst speaking it. To those that did not understand the joke, they would normally question his wording. Either way, he was able to change subjects at a moment's notice if necessary. With an airy, yet high-pitched giggle, he went to nibbling on the inside of his lip, a habit that had started when he was only an elementary schooler. "How are you doing, Wrenny?"