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fantasticwizardcoffee · 2 years

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phantasyprone · 6 years

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I don’t really agree with Dan’s philosophies on happiness in that video. I’m not bashing it and I’m pleased that people found it helpful but I disagreed with so much of it. Well, not disagreed with the main premise of finding your own truth and living by that, but lots of the other stuff he said, I personally don’t think is the best way to find happiness.

Finding your own truth and living by your authentic self is good, and good advice. But I wouldn't personally suggest that one goes on this huge long search for your self identity in this very... struggling way. It’s of course great to do new things, meet new people, have new experiences to try and learn more about yourself, but there is a difference between that and purposefully going on this spiritual and personal journey to find out who you are, what you want, what you want to do in life, and who you want to be with.

The frustrating thing about Dan’s approach to philosophy is that there is a lot of (to borrow some words by Keats) irritable reaching after fact and reason, or more accurately; an irritable reaching after meaning and purpose. I used to be beguiled by such existentialist hang-ups where you would spend every crisis wondering if life had any meaning - if your own life had any meaning. Then moving onto asking yourself who you are, what you want, all that kind of stuff. And this always came from this place of irritable searching, of this constant struggle to define and to need concreteness.

As someone who struggles with mental health, and as someone who isn’t straight, and as someone who isn’t really cis, searching for meaning and concrete identities was something that I thought would help, and it did at times when my Self seemed to detach itself from my body and my personality completely fucked right off. But this search didn’t really make me happy (this is all personally for me, of course). And when I wasn’t feeling so bad I am so glad that I was able to go back to my non-existentialist methods of analysing my life and trying to philosophical elevate my life into a happier state.

If I were in a worse mental place than I am now and watched Dan’s video, ngl it would probably have made me worse. Because the LAST thing I need to hear when I’m in a bad way is someone telling me to find my truth and search for it. I canny deal with that pressure and that would just send me into existentialist worries over if my life has meaning, if i will ever truly know who i am blah blah blah. I don’t want to be thinking about existentialism and the authentic self when I’m feeling like shit. That aint gonna help me.

Instead what helps is to literally get existentialism to FUCK RIGHT OFF. That yoyo of meaning/no meaning can fuck all the way off because i don’t need to ride that rollercoaster of nihilism and optimism and get whiplash from the 180s in outlooks. Instead, I need someone to tell me not to go out and search for who i am, my identity, my path in live. Who cares if life has meaning or not? Why the fuck even ask the question? Don’t get bogged down with that shit. Instead live each day and be comfortable with who you are, don’t go about trying to be someone you’re not. Just learn how to be. Be content and comfortable, not on this pressured quest to find inner answers.

Anyway, I was going to write more but I’ve got work tomorrow and need sleep.

BASICALLY, I disagreed with Dan and I’m happy that I’ve looked into philosophy and religion and critical thinkers so that I have made my own specially tailored way of trying to find happiness. So even if Dan’s video resonated with you, I’d suggest to keep looking for different perspectives. Because I once thought that existentialism was a good way for me to look at life but it wasn’t. Just in a v. casual way read about for cool philosophies and one might fit :)

And try to just be, don’t put loads of pressure on yourself to know and define. Be comfortable living within uncertainties, embrace the negative capability, the cognitive dissonance, the philosophical dichotomies, the greys, the wonderings. And be comfortable just being is my bullshit advice. But mainly, don’t listen too much to me or Dan. Check out some books or the Stanford philosophical directory website :)

#mischa's philosophy #happiness video

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spiritofwhitefire · 3 years

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The thing is that I love Hannibal’s whole “nothing happened to me, I happened” philosophy and the sort of empowerment that affords him like, no he is not the product of his trauma, he makes his own decisions as to his future and the man he wants to be as well as the man he projects to the world at large but I do not think that his history had NO effect on him. It would be impossible for it to not have any effect on him. We KNOW he loved Mischa and we know how Hannibal reacts to having things happen outside of his control. He probably was born with a unique and unusually mind and likely would never have been totally normal but something DID happen to him, there is a reason why his method of murder is cannibalism and not like... turning peoples skin into clothing. And the thing is it is a compulsion, it seems like for Hannibal murder is a coping mechanism. It’s what he does when is he upset, it’s what he does to celebrate and also to deal with unwanted emotion. He clearly isn’t good with his emotions, he is so unfamiliar with the concept of a relationship that he doesn’t know how to have one with anyone without hurting the people who he loves.

I guess that I just think that it is such a human trait to want to separate yourself from your past and the bad things that happened to you and I find it so interesting that as fearsome as Hannibal is, he isn't above being paralyzed by his own past traumatic experiences

#Hannibal meta #hannibal

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safflowerseason · 3 years

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rewatch podcast reflections

I listened to the first episode of the new OTH rewatch podcast Drama Queens, with Sophia Bush, Bethany Joy Lenz, and Hilarie Burton Morgan, and wow, I'm not even a particular OTH fan (but a huge fan of those actresses), but it was so enjoyable and heartwarming and funny, I am absolutely going to keep listening. It was so interesting to hear them reminisce about their early days getting into acting and how they landed their parts (they were very good at keeping the conversation on target, which I appreciated...) I had no idea they had to reshoot all of Haley's pilot scenes, for example! The actresses clearly have such a deep friendship and know each other so well, their chemistry and timing was impeccable. It was such a pleasure to listen.

And I really appreciated how Sophia Bush--I think it was Sophia--just came out and was like "yes, this was a ridiculous teen show and a lot of the scripts sucked" and yet at the same time, they are still proud of the show, the work they did, and its global reach. HBM's whole rant about how more people connect with shows like OTH than with Oscar winning films is very well taken, and I loved it. They are all so spunky. I am confident they will be able to strike a balance between critiquing the show and loving it.

This podcast's whole philosophy is such a contrast to Welcome to the OC, Bitches, where the producers are so clearly declining to contextualize the show or look at it critically. It's just a love-fest and they are trying to pretend it was all a love fest, when we all know that's not what happened, even setting aside Mischa Barton's experience. OTH is a show that has been able to have multiple reunions around the world--not attended by all the cast members all the time, but attended by enough of them that they can actually organize something. What does it say when nobody has ever gotten The OC ensemble together?

It was just so refreshing, honestly, to hear the actresses talk openly about the business and how it is a business and as young women they were totally just thrown to the wolves. Their reflections on how their location in Wilmington protected them a little from the invasive paparazzi, compared to actresses who had to be based in Los Angeles. I really appreciated how Hilarie Burton Morgan was like "I got papped one time and was totally traumatized!" I bet the OTH actresses have so much compassion for what Mischa Barton went through...I support her going on Drama Queens to talk about her experiences with fame, tbh. They would be so much more receptive to her than Rachel Bilson.

And I was so intrigued to hear how all of them refused to do certain things that the writers had originally planned for them, and how they refused to be pitted against one another and they all know so much more now about how actresses are manipulated to not ask for anything they need on a set. I can't wait for them to talk more about those experiences. So good. They are so clearly attuned to this cultural moment where we are interrogating how young women are treated in the entertainment industry. This is what I wish The OC podcast could have been.

#drama queens #one tree hill #welcome to the oc bitches #the oc

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dawningfairytale · 2 years

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the rtc characters' favourite tv shows because sometimes that's the vibe

constance: crazy ex-girlfriend. would y'all be surprised if i said i was projecting? it's not just because there are three bi main characters (men and women) and it depicts religious diversity (intelligent atheist, christian, and jewish characters, with their brains not defining their beliefs) although that helps. she loves it thanks to the complexity of the storylines, the willingness to show female sexuality, and of course the musical numbers. she appreciates the catchy melodies and often has a song from season 4 stuck in her head.

ocean: glee. oh come on, it's glee and she's basically rachel berry. she watches it at 17 and part of it is as she gets older it's nostalgia. she recognises it's bad eventually, sure. but santana was her lesbian awakening (i will die on this hill) and she first gets exposed to 85% of the songs through glee. her main issue with it is that it's so surface-level at times. also, her life wasn't as easy as rachel berry's.

noel: the good place (stay with me). i have a post in the drafts about noel's complex relationship with religion (specifically christianity since That's All I Know), especially once he's forced into karnak's limbo. i think he appreciates the creativity of it and it enables him to separate cultural views on heaven from his own beliefs, whatever those end up being. he also likes philosophy and considering these perspectives on what life is. plus, tahani is an awesome bitch and he is here for it.

ricky: doctor who. they just love the space travel and you just know they write a bunch of fanfic for it. they've seen every episode four times, from every series. they like how it goes to every extent possible and explores these ideas they find curious, even if there's no mention of zolar. also, they have a crush on amy pond.

penny: i think she really loves "how it's made". i don't have a massive reason for this, she just fucking vibes with the pretty colours and how GUYS THERE'S SO MANY WAYS YOU CAN USE RUBBER. FUCK YEAH. and the narrator's voice is the one thing that calms her.

mischa: heartstopper, fuck you. i will elaborate. btw this is heavy projection. so he watches it in his own time and then constance suggests that they watch it as a choir. he kinda thought he was straight-ish when he first watched it, but upon looking back he realises oh. he's bi. when he watches it with the choir, he keeps seeing how the bi experience (brought to you by nick nelson) is really close his. so, at one point while their watching it, he says ''i crush on a boy and that is not what that was like" (the boy is in the room. it's noel.) this is how he comes out. he gets really attached to it as a result, and yeah. this is a part of him actually represented. he wants to lift up his friend on the shore and scream that they're boyfriends. believe it or not, he likes the fluff. he desires that queer joy and comfort in his life. even if not all aspects of his identity are represented on the show, it's enough.

#rtc #ride the cyclone #st cassians chamber choir #rtc headcanons #constance blackwood #ocean o'connell rosenberg #noel gruber #ricky potts #penny lamb #mischa bachinski #oh? you thought i wouldn't project onto rtc for once?#how highly you must think of me #and how wrong you are #on my sugar queue

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radiosandrecordings · 4 years

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re: kiss noises, gotta say that having a kiss in a podcast can be very hit or miss. creators have to be extremely comfortable and 110% behind it for it to work imo. it's why it works for me, say, in the penumbra podcast, but I would feel super weird about one in TMA. (also genre I think is also a factor but that's a whole other thing.)

Genre is exactly the thing I was going to write a follow up post about actually, I’ve been discussing it along with direction style and tone with my friends and I think the comparisons to Penumbra is specifically where a lot of people are finding issue?

Because TMA and TPP are both audio dramas. But they’re nothing alike! Not in story line, not in direction style, not in sound design, not in tone or genre. It’s like trying to compare Deadpool and Dunkirk because ‘... They’re both movies I guess?’. It doesn’t work because they’re nothing alike, TMA and TPP are just popular audio dramas and it’s such a niche market they get lumped together.

TPP is very big. It’s a fast paced cheesy noir sci-fi thriller about a detective on mars and it has the directing, writing, tone and soundscaping to match. It makes you laugh, cry and completes an entire story arc in like an hour and a half. It’s also a romance in one of it’s largest capacities and Sophie Kaner has personally talked about the kisses in TPP and why they’re so much. It’s because they wanted to give representation, because TPP is an inherently queer narrative (ONE straight character! ON THE PLANET!) and they wanted to utilise kissing for that. It fits with a soundscape that’s as loud and encompassing as the rest of the show, and also: the kissing is plot relevant, it’s not just thrown in to gross your ears.

TMA is a very different show! It’s a lot more grounded and serious, I’d say realist if not for the horror. When it uses gross soundscapes, they’re supposed to be gross, like I said in the original post. It’s a lot more subtle in it’s soundscapes, keeping it quiet and definitely telegraphing movement a lot less than Penumbra, because that’s its style. It’s not a show with constant movement like Penumbra where they drive cars and run about cities, the majority of episodes are just. Jon. Reading.

Something I would actually liken to TMA in terms of tone and direction is The Bright Sessions, something that has been often forgotten by the new wave of audio fans, since in two weeks it’ll have been two years since it ended. It was a show that contained supernatural elements, but was largely grounded in reality. Mischa Stanton did a great job on it’s soundscaping in that was basic in the way that if they were doing their job right, you wouldn’t even remark on it at all. It was Normal. Not big and brash like Penumbra. And it had a kiss scene. And it was gross. Far too long, just mouth sounds of two teens making out in a car (a m/m couple if you’re trying to draw comparisons between Sophie’s representation philosophy), and as far as I can remember, it’s not even particularly plot relevant. It just didn’t work since it was a show that hadn’t really set a precedent for that kind of invasive, loud sound in my opinion. The directing style had been too different so far to allow for a full on make out to flow with it.

You’ve got to know what show you’re making and go with how it’s flowing. Sounds are the only tool audio dramas have at their disposal, and if something sounds different from your normal tone, people will notice, and it will sound weird.

#My Post #I have more thoughts but I can't really add them right now both for coherence and space on this post #But DIFFERENT DESIGNERS HAVE DIFFERENT STYLES #Asks #takisinthesockdrawer #Back to add the tag #Kiss-Gate #Q Word

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bathroommakeover677 · 3 years

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Payments are structured and begin right away, which makes it easier to budget. Home equity loans usually have a fixed rate, so the amount you pay will likely stay at or close to the same amount each month. If you aren’t planning to start remodeling immediately, you can move the money to an interest-bearing account and earn money on your money (replace your shower).

If your remodeling project is going to be a lengthy process, you may be tempted to spend the money on other things instead. A home equity loan is a secured loan against your house, so if you stop making payments, the bank can take possession of your home. If home values take a dive, you may owe more on your loan than the home is worth.

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All HELOCs have a draw period and a repayment period. The draw period is the amount of time you have to use the line of credit you were approved for. Once that period expires, you can no longer withdraw funds, and you must start repaying the full loan. You can use as much or as little money as you need and only pay back what you use.

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During the draw period, you may be given the option to make interest-only payments. HELOCs are variable-rate loans, which means the interest you pay will fluctuate and affect your monthly payments. It can be easy to take on more debt than you can afford, since you can borrow multiple times from your HELOC and don’t have to make payments right away (https://lincolnbathroom.com/arizona/).

If home values fall, you may owe more than the home is worth. It can take a bit longer to get approved for a HELOC than a home equity loan. Kitchen remodels are the sixth-most popular project in the country, according to HomeAdvisor’s 2021 True Cost Report, with 23 percent of households undertaking some form of kitchen remodel, says Mischa Fisher, chief economist for HomeAdvisor.

Value report, minor kitchen remodels recoup 77. 6 percent of their cost in home value.“Because of the relatively higher cost of kitchen remodels, financing these projects with lower-interest home equity loans could be a great way to improve your home value,” Fisher says. Bathroom remodels also provide relatively good return on investment, with 64 percent of a midrange remodel’s cost recouped, according to Remodeling’s 2020 Cost vs.

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“Since that is more cash than most people would like to pay up front, bathroom remodels could be one of the best options for financing.”Wood deck additions have seen one of the most significant increases in popularity of the major projects tracked by HomeAdvisor’s True Cost Report, rising from the 10th most completed project of 2020 to the seventh most planned project of 2021, Fisher says.“They also provide a solid return on investment, according to Remodeling’s 2020 Cost vs.

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Replacing your garage door practically pays for itself, says Sterling, of Georgia’s Own Credit Union.“While it’s not necessarily the splashiest home improvement one can make, homeowners recoup 94. 5 percent of their investment,” she says. “In many cases, this home improvement may be a necessity if the garage door is not working properly.”Roof replacements are also a wise investment, Sterling says.

9 percent, according to Remodeling’s 2020 Cost vs - bathroom renovation Arizona. Value report.“Like garage doors, this may also be a necessity if you have an old or damaged roof. You also get a better return on shingles as opposed to metal roofs,” she says. If you’d rather not use your home equity for home improvements, you have other options.

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However, personal loans can be a useful short-term solution to remodeling when you don’t have much equity but the improvements you are planning will increase the value of your home significantly. Though rates for personal loans are higher than those of home equity loans, you don’t risk losing your home if you default (closet bathroom remodel).

If you qualify for a credit card with a 0 percent interest promotion, it can mean financing a home improvement with no interest, provided you can pay the credit card off before the promotional term ends. Be careful, though, because interest rates can and will go up if you are late or miss a payment, and they can reach astronomical levels.

With a cash-out refinance, you refinance your mortgage for more than what you currently owe, replace your current mortgage with a new one and take the difference in cash. Keep in mind that cash-out amounts may be limited, and that this option is only smart if you can get a lower interest rate on your mortgage.

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crowdvscritic · 4 years

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crowd // YOU CAN’T TAKE IT WITH YOU (1938)

Photo credits: IMDb.com

My complaints about my home are few and mostly trivial, but after watching You Can’t Take It With You, I can’t help but wish for an extended vacation to the home of Grandpa Vanderhof, for everyone there pretty much does what they well please.

His granddaughter Essie (Ann Miller) would make candy for a living if she didn’t dance to the rhythm of her husband’s (Dub Taylor) xylophone. Her Russian instructor (Mischa Auer) stays for dinner whenever he wishes. Her mother Penny (Spring Byington) writes plays because a typewriter appeared on their doorstep, and her kitten weighs down the typed pages. Her husband Paul (Samuel S. Hinds) and DePinna (Haliwell Hobbes) test fireworks in the basement, and Grandpa (Lionel Barrymore) invites anyone who looks like they need a little fun to move on in, like overworked Mr. Poppins (Donald Meek) who has a knack for designing toys. His other granddaughter Alice (Jean Arthur), to everyone else’s puzzlement, has chosen to work in a sensible job as a stenographer at a bank where she caught the eye of the owner’s son, Tony Kirby (Jimmy Stewart).

It turns out that’s just one way the Vanderhof and Kirby families will cross paths—Grandpa’s freewheeling follow-your-dreams spirit is the antithesis of Anthony Kirby Sr.’s (Edward Arnold) regimented business-as-a-hobby lifestyle. As Tony and Alice try to make a future for themselves, as Kirby Sr. tries to make the biggest business deal of his life, and as Grandpa tries to hold on to the memory of his wife in a house Kirby Sr. wants to bulldoze, we find the patriarchs’ philosophies are not just at odds—they’re mutually exclusive.

I’ve been looking forward to my next Frank Capra Best Picture winner, and boy, what a treat. While it’s based on a Pulitzer Prize-winning play, it feels like signature Capra. A class-conscious romance like It Happened One Night, the “no man’s a failure who has friends” of It’s A Wonderful Life, the screwball comedy in overlapping plot threads of Arsenic and Old Lace, even the righteous speechmaking of Mr. Smith Goes to Washington—it’s all there. (The presence of Stewart and Barrymore, in some ways flip-flopping their Wonderful Life roles, help with that vibe, too.) As mentioned in my reviews for One Night, the best-known Capra movies focus on optimistic characters facing great odds, and the Vanderhof family is no exception, though their optimism is so strong it might fool you into thinking otherwise.

In spite of their financial challenges, this eccentric family lives a charmed life because they believe whatever you love doing is perhaps the thing God put you on Earth to do. They never claim perfection, and it’s not that they never lost their innocence—they just found it again. The Kirbys’ responses vary from amused to confused to disgusted because they don’t know what to do with people whose identity doesn’t depend on wealth or influence. Our response is delight, not just because their shenanigans are still funny 82 years later or because of the witty dialogue—it’s because like Tony, we all wish we had courage to be just like them.

Bottom line: I’ve seen Capra’s movies compared to fairy tales, and this ending is one you wish could be the kind of happily ever after you see in real life. If you told me a week ago that a harmonica-led rendition of “Polly Wolly Doodle” would make me cry, well, I don’t know what I would have said, but I wouldn’t have believed you. That’s the kind of fairy tale magic Capra is capable of.

POPCORN POTENTIAL: 9/10

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vergoftowels · 5 years

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Epicure - Hannigram Fic

I wrote a fic. Also posted to AO3. Set post-S3.

According to the philosophy of Epicurus, fear of death is at the root of human neuroses and one should strive for a life that is peaceful because of the freedom from fear.

Hannibal is struggling to keep his thoughts together after the fall, taking care of his incapacitated lover while slowly succumbing to the ravages of his own wounds. The surrounding silence of winter is full of imaginings he would rather put to rest.

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Silverware polish spots the tabletop, soaking into the wood in places where the dark varnish is peeling. Hannibal draws a fingernail along the wood grain and it comes up tacky. He rubs the residue away between his fingertips, face impassive but inwardly frowning. Seventeen spoons, lined up like fallen soldiers along the edge of the table, reflect back his profile in the dim light. The polish hasn’t quite managed to take off all the patina, and each pitted and discolored silver round seems to say, “beggars can’t be choosers.” Hannibal scrubs the last spoon with an oil-dirtied handkerchief.

It is close to 4 PM. The windows in the cramped kitchen are smudged with age and rimed with frost. The falling snow outside dims the setting winter sun into a pale silver coin, giving the old house a ghostly submarine glow. In the downstairs hallway, the grandfather clock tick-tocks slightly out of time, sounding strangely muffled. Hannibal pushes his thumb into the curve of the spoon. His hands smell like polish now; the whole kitchen does. The rest of him smells like sweat and blood and antiseptic, masking the unpleasantly sweet stink of infection. He closes his eyes. The spoons are part of one reality. When he opens his eyes, he is part of another.

Florence. Standing on the Ponte Vecchio, listening to the vendors hawk their art and jewelry, imagining the smell of the butcher shops that originally lined the bridge, stewing in the perfume and body odor of the tourists. Closed in on either side by the storefronts, cold in a winter breeze, face lit warmly by reflected firelight from wrought-iron lanterns. Looking out over the water at the graceful arches of the Ponte Santa Trinita. Remembering a rough little dog waiting for handouts at his feet. Remembering a craving for Chianina beef and human liver and fresh olive oil. Imagining the feeling of slim and strong hands on his waist. Imagining the taste in his throat of aftershave with a ship on the bottle.

Will cries out from the bedroom. Hannibal rises from the table, folding the handkerchief. Eighteen spoons on the table’s edge like uniformed corpses. He hears Taps ringing in some other life as he walks away from them.

(cont.)

“Tutto bene,” Hannibal says in the bedroom, smoothing his hand along Will’s fevered brow, pushing his wet bangs away from his pale and beautiful face. Saintlike in the firelight, Will rests with his head back, throat bared, eyelids flickering with nightmares. So exquisite. St. Francis of Assisi in ecstasy, or St. Sebastian. He bears the wounds on his body grandly; they are red in the yellow light. The hollows of his bones and his ruined cheek are heavily shadowed, Carravaggian, painted delicately with a thick brush. Hannibal runs a hand over Will’s cheek, his jaw, that throat. He closes his fingers around the pulse point and leans in close. When he can’t find his English, he murmurs in Italian. Precious. Mine. Sometimes, you brought this on yourself. But Hannibal can’t summon any anger. He bathes his Will with cold water and meditates on the nature of love and how it’s taken almost everything from him.

Some days are better than others.

There’s no television in this house, but Hannibal has a radio. He carries it around with him when he’s working. He listens to NPR and staticky strains of opera as he changes the oil in the truck. It has been many years since the last time he had to do this, but he hasn’t forgotten how. He forgets very little, even the things that are better forgotten. He sings along to E lucevan le stelle under his breath, perfectly pitched but voice cracking with disuse. He was never a singer. That doesn’t matter to his audience of air and snow. He taps his fingers along the truck’s hood, pressing phantom harpsichord keys, until it’s too cold to stay outside.

Hannibal chops firewood with an axe half-dulled by weather, but the blows are rhythmic and soothing. Not so long ago, he used an axe to fell a glorious red dragon. What he’s doing now bears little resemblance to how he imagined the life of a knight triumphant, but he minds the spoons: beggars simply cannot be choosers. He’s been through worse; he lived for three years in his mind, waiting for his foolish heart. He bends to pick up the split logs and falls to a knee. The pain is startling still, sometimes, and the twist of the gunshot wound in his stomach knocks the breath out of him. He doesn’t make a sound. He has been through much worse.

Mischa watches him from behind the wood pile with her big, dark eyes. Her little hands rest like snowflakes wherever they fall. The wide, open fields around Hannibal seem to close in on all sides, dizzyingly, like the rooms in Mischa’s dollhouse. She smiles at him. After a long moment, soaked with snow, he struggles to his feet and goes inside. She isn’t real.

Will talks in his sleep frequently, making querulous pleas for succor or calling names that don’t mean anything to Hannibal. He doesn’t share the bed anymore. It’s hardly wide enough for one of them to begin with, and Hannibal doesn’t need another elbow to the stomach. He almost killed Will for that – knife to that beautiful throat, shaking and sweating in a haze of pain and sleep. What a waste that would have been. He still feels sick remembering it now.

He stays in the chair at Will’s bedside and dozes. He delegates himself to watching over. Will requires a lot of attention. They’re running out of medicine. Hannibal starts breaking the painkillers in half, then he stops taking them himself altogether. It’s better when Will sleeps through the night.

Hannibal doesn’t sleep much. He walks the streets of Florence, visiting the Duomo in his mind, visiting the Pazzi family chapel, researching Dante and Sforza and Graham. Other memories intrude. He lets the fever find him in his weaker moments when his hands tremble from wiping pus away from his sutures. A curious physical reaction for a surgeon; so his brain narrates to him as he looks through his cowardly fingers at the angry red lines. They flicker in his vision like the dying fire in the grate. He doesn’t ever look too long or he sees faces inside the flames, some he recognizes.

It starts to snow and it doesn’t stop for days. The wet flakes gather quickly in drifts and make the world silent. Hannibal keeps the doorways clear with a yellow plastic shovel as best he can, but if he stops and sleeps for an hour, then the snow starts to get too heavy to lift without seeing stars. He washes Will’s body and feeds him broken pills and drinks a truly terrible bottle of wine that was left by the previous occupants of the house. He swirls the liquid around and takes in the bouquet out of habit, but it doesn’t help. Notes of vinegar, and they aren’t subtle.

A black dog comes on the third day of snow. Hannibal sees it out of the corner of his eye from the attic window. The shadowed lupine shape stands out against the fields like an inkblot devouring paper, an absence of light. Blankets smelling of mothballs slip from Hannibal’s (coward) hands when he sees it. Ice crowds his gullet. “Perkūnas.” It’s the name of an old, old god he remembers from childhood stories. It’s the name of a black dog. He goes downstairs to make sure that Will is still breathing. He can’t tell if the howling he hears is coming from the dog, the wind, or himself.

Will stirs in his nightmares and gasps Hannibal’s name. Hannibal kisses his forehead and holds his hand through the long night, fingers intertwined.

Oh, what would he say if his ever-rational father could see him now?

It doesn’t really matter now. His father’s brains were eaten by wolves. He dreams about them steaming in the snow on a night like tonight, jellylike and pink with blood, and the smell of burning metal and rubber, and the smell of gunpowder and death. He is grateful, when he wakes, that the acrid taste of vomit banishes the imagined texture of grey matter on his tongue.

Hannibal knows he’s seeing things. He sees the wolves in the trees at twilight, disappearing between the pines, disguised by the heavy branches mounded with snow. Ghosts in the long night. He sees tracks at the doors, circling the house. Each toeprint tipped by a claw mark. And then there are the boot prints, too. It varies from hour to hour whether he thinks they belong to the FBI or to the Hilfswillige. The thought that either one has found them fills him with a desperate sense of purpose; he stands in front of Will’s bed with a knife in hand, watching the doorway for hours. He knows no one is coming in. Physician, heal thyself. The shadows still feel like monsters even when he knows they cannot be.

He sees the black dog again. Outside, it walks with Mischa, stalking her steps. She moves with childish grace, plays like violins between the drifts. The strings are dogged by French horns. Petya i volk. Notes spill from his mind into the waking world. Hannibal wants to go to her, to lift her from the snow, to feel her tiny, star-shaped hands on his face. Her hair is long and curling in her face. Her smile is like the sun. He reminds himself often that the pain in his arm is from his fall into the sea, not from reaching after her and having the barn door slammed closed on him.

She disappears when he rushes outside to her, stumbling without shoes. Down to his knees again in the snow. She isn’t real. The sun is fading from the world. Look inside the belly of the wolf and find it swallowed alive.

In the evening (some evening, what day is it) Hannibal runs hot water over his wound, looking into the ugly, puckering skin, shivering and sopping up the pus. It’s very cold. Has he brought in enough firewood? Breathing is a labor and his mouth is dry, like he’s sucking on wool. He reminds himself that he’s been through worse and lies back down on the floor. (This is getting to be pretty bad.)

Maybe the dog is here for him?

He never thinks about what comes after. He thinks about his earliest memory and projects forward to what he imagines will be the moment of his death. He didn’t imagine he would be dying of a septic gunshot wound, laid out on greying tile in a borrowed bathroom. Something more glamorous would have suited him better. An aneurysm at the height of a crescendo. Being crushed to death under a crystal chandelier. Or, indeed, falling from a cliff with his darkened and debauched lover in an unwitting murder-suicide.

But they lived. They lived to decline. Hannibal feels tears wetting his face. He doesn’t want to go yet. He finally has what he wants. He closes his eyes. Some time passes in darkness and the sound of surf, no, the sound of the river Arno washing against the Ponte Vecchio. Prokofiev playing. Salt smell of prosciutto, olive oil. Someone is touching his cheek.

“Mischa?”

“Shh,” says Will. “I’m here.”

---

Will is half-silhouetted against the bedroom window, hair long and falling into his face. He’s very thin, swimming in a sweater pulled from one of the room’s dressers, but his eyes are clear. His cheek isn’t healing very nicely, but at least it’s healing. Hannibal tries to reach for Will, but his arm won’t move. Broken by the barn door? He’s struck by the thought that this is a dream, that all of this has been a dream he created in the white, geometric interior of his cell at Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane - maybe he’s finally, actually gone insane? Then Will is there, gently freeing his hand from the heavy bedclothes and taking it between his palms.

“Hey,” Will says, attempting a smile. The scar pulls at his lips. The warmth in his gaze is genuine. “You’re back.”

“Dove sono andato?” Hannibal asks, or thinks he asks. Where did I go? Will tilts his head, and after a moment Hannibal realizes he didn’t understand. His mind roves over letters and words, picking them up and putting them down like seashells collected from a stormy shore. By the time he finds the right ones, he’s forgotten what he wanted to say. It doesn’t matter; Will has leaned down to kiss him softly. Their mouths meet for the first time, and a feeling rises in Hannibal’s chest, a warmth, a pressure that settles in his throat. He takes Will’s wrist in a tight grip. “Non lasciarmi,” he says, curses his fumbling tongue, but the meaning this time seems clear. Will rests their foreheads together.

"I’m staying, Hannibal.” Will squeezes his hand. “This time we’ll be together.”

Some days are better than others.

Hannibal doesn’t enjoy taking over the role of “the bedridden.” He doesn’t enjoy the weakness in his limbs or the ache of his unused muscles. He sleeps, struggles, sleeps again. He sicks up ill-gotten antibiotics and oversalted chicken broth patronizingly spoon-fed to him by a frustratingly patient Will. There are long afternoons when he can do nothing but listen to the fire or the radio, alone. He chafes in the emptiness, resents his dependence. The Florence in his mind is full of unintended associations now, and he hides from them elsewhere, poring over medical texts in the Eisenhower Library at Johns Hopkins or listening to the Goldberg Variations playing endlessly on loop at the Bach House in Eisenach. He dreams of Mischa often, but he doesn’t see her anymore, and this is a kindness.

He sees the black dog again. After days of recumbency, missing Will, he’s pulls himself up, finally, from the confines of the bedroom and is determined to sit in the kitchen. At least it will be a change of scenery. He can take in the silver sunlight and polish the spoons. He can advise Will on how to make a proper bowl of soup, with silkie, red dates, and goji berries; it will fall on deaf ears, he’s sure, and anyway, all the food they have is in cans. Still, he can’t abide the idea of eating like this forever. Will will have to learn to cook. Hannibal crosses the den, one hand on the wall for support, tracing the faded flower pattern of the dated wallpaper. And there’s the dog, sitting in the kitchen doorway, forelimbs stretched out before it like Tutankhamun’s Anubis Shrine.

Hannibal must make some sound (of fear, potentially, though he prefers to think dismay) because Will comes down the stairs at speed, somewhat dusty and trailing an extension cord.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he says, “It’s okay.” He touches Hannibal’s shoulder, then goes to the dog, half-crouching, to take it by the scruff. “I found her outside. Good girl. This is Hannibal. See? She’s really friendly!” He half-smiles up at Hannibal with a note of pleading in his voice. “I thought we could keep her.” His eyes look very blue today in the silver winter light.

Hannibal swears under his breath in Russian like the stable hands used to. They have no room for a dog in this house. There might be space enough, but the corners are crowded with fears and doubt, the threat of capture lurks under the windows, the future flees through every crack. They can barely feed themselves from what they have. And every time Hannibal looks at the dog, he sees death waiting for them. He doesn’t say that part out loud – cannot. It’s the spiraling clamor of his dying mind; it’s a thought that should be discarded. He looks at the dog and he looks away.

Will makes a show of listening very seriously to his concerns – the ones that make sense, the ones Hannibal can give voice to – his blue eyes wide and attentive. He doesn’t say anything. As Hannibal starts to wind down, tone going ever so slightly bitter, Will rests his chin on the dog’s head. All innocence, all charm. He will never belong fully to Hannibal.

“Her name is Sadie.”

Will, Hannibal, and the dog stay in the house until Hannibal can stay up for the whole day, carry a backpack, bear the close touch of a jacket over his stomach. Until there are no more instances of lost words or confusing nights when Hannibal forgets where he is and tells Will to bar the door against looters and worse. They don’t talk about that. Instead, they talk about leaving. It turns out that Will has found an old computer in the attic, stashed away under a worn pile of clothes, and he’s been fixing it up in the between hours. With a little bit of elbow grease and the unintended generosity of unknown neighbors with an unsecured wireless signal, they have internet access.

It feels strange to broach the outside world again. The submarine atmosphere of the old house pops like a bubble full of smoke and spills them into the resumption of time.

News sites are still talking about them, some more vociferously than others. They were tracked to the cliffside by dogs and crime scene analysis, but vanished altogether thereafter. Freddie Lounds has pitched a daring helicopter escape to Cuba. They’ll be going north, then. Jack appears suddenly on CNN in a three-minute feature segment and scares them both, like a specter bursting suddenly from a darkened closet. Jack doesn’t think they’re dead, and they’re not, and they shouldn’t linger.

“Time to go,” Will says, after they’ve packed up the truck. The back seat is full of all their scavenged wealth: the blankets and clothes and cans and the last of the medicines, all they can fit and find use for. Sadie sits in the footwell, resting her chin on the center console and slowly wagging her tail. Will gets into the driver’s seat. “Where to?”

The sun is setting and the trees are casting wide nets of shadow over the fields in front of them. The interior of the cabin smells like cracked leather, old smoke, and the ghost of a pine-shaped air freshener. Will smells like soap and healthy sweat and mothballs. Hannibal kisses his jaw. All they have is now. All they have is each other, a truck, and an ominous black dog.

“Wherever you want to go, beloved.”

#Hannibal #Hannigram #hannibal lecter #will graham #mischa lecter #my fic #sickfic #whump #injury and recovery

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