drjholtzmann

[drjholtzmann]

A Controlled Burn Chapter Five  |  Better Call Saul 6x07

[drjholtzmann]

I’m like if a hater enjoyed things

[drjholtzmann]

Hob’s eyes follow the curving, liquid grain of the wood. It reminds him of lava, folding over itself and cooling, making layers upon layers of warping lines collapsing into each other, a mass spilling outwards as it grows, melting into the landscape. 

He glances to his right just as the shadow draws near. Somehow he had seen it weaving between other passersby. Morpheus steps up beside him, hands in his coat pockets in the searing sunlight. 

“It’s nice,” Hob looks from his friend back to the tree. “I know I’m not the oldest thing in the world but, still. Sometimes it’s nice to be around things that are older than me. Especially something living. Feels…normal.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Mm, old as the universe, are you.” Hob teases, tilting his head as he takes in the dappled shade falling on the trunk. 

There is a distant roll of thunder muffled by heavy clouds. A laugh that is clamped down in the back of Morpheus’s throat. “Several.” 

“Yeah, you look it.” Hob buys in, rolling his eyes and swaying an elbow towards Morpheus’s side without making contact. “They say it’s four thousand years old,” he says, finally turning to face him. 

Morpheus shouldn’t look so comfortable in the sun, he thinks. Not because of his heavy coat, double-breasted and fully buttoned. But because he looks like an alpine flower. A delicate, sharp pointed edelweiss, built for thin air, meant to be bathed in blue snow-tinted light. He is, in many ways, quite literally a creature of night. Yet here he stands, swathed in the heavy gold Mediterranean light like a stone sculpture, like he belongs there. Like he’s always been there. 

He is looking at the olive tree, as if trying to read something within the bark of it. 

“I believe I once came by here, with my son. I confess I did not think to commit the place to memory in any fine detail. There was, perhaps, a sapling there.”

“Son.” Hob repeats, a weak echo, as he watches the stoic profile of his friend. He thinks he sees his eyelashes twitch. Hob takes a deep, and hopefully silent, breath. Forces it into his stomach, down to his toes. He looks back to the olive tree, following Morpheus’s unerring gaze, as he asks, “So, how old's he now?” 

And truly you would think after six centuries Hob would have developed anything approaching a frontal lobe, but apparently not. He bites his tongue as the words fill the air between them, wishing he could reach out and snatch them back. 

The sun itself seems to dim. “He is not.” Morpheus intones. His chin raises slightly, but Hob doesn’t dare look over. 

Hob's stomach is hollow and leaden. “It doesn’t, uh,” his hands flex at his sides hopelessly. "It doesn’t ever really go away, does it?”

“No. No, it doesn’t.”

Hob isn’t sure if the contraction is intentional. The words sound like they stick in Morpheus' throat. 

“It is beautiful,” he says, addressing the tree. As if finally having seen enough to pass judgement. 

“It still produces fruit,” is all Hob can think to say. 

“A wonder.”

“Sounds exhausting, personally. Amazing though, right? Thousands of years and it’s still providing food for people.”

Morpheus looks at him.

Hob meets his eyes. “I know it sounds like I’m trying to make some kind of metaphor here, but honestly, I just really like the tree. I swear.”

Morpheus swallows, his Adam’s apple a sharp thing in his throat, struggling against the motion. But some of the tension eases. And he smiles. An impossibly small thing. Fond and drifting somewhere between the corner of his eyes and the curve of his cheek. “Wonders never cease.” 

“Tell me you haven’t ever been moved by the beauty of a tree, then mock me. In the meantime – what say you to finding some little hole in the wall that will serve us some truly ancient vino? I mean something that tastes like dirt and blood.” He looks at Morpheus’s unimpressed expression and shrugs, “You know, in a good way.”

There is a breath of silence between them, in which Morpheus does not retreat, and Hob takes heart that this means he has not overstepped, yet. Maybe one day there will be time for them to talk more about this. Maybe it'll take hundreds of years. But in the meantime there is good wine waiting for them somewhere around the corner.

[ao3]

[drjholtzmann]

“Can I ask a stupid question?” There was a brief time when Edwin would respond to such queries with various affirmations about no question being stupid, and about the merits of curiosity above all else. Now he just gives a little puff of breath and glances at Charles as though he is trying, good naturedly, to not roll his eyes. There’s no heat in it though, and Charles knows its more of an act than anything else. Edwin is impatient with many things, but rarely ever with Charles. Not really. “And if you hate it just tell me and I’ll drop it.”

“Very well.” 

“What would…” Charles glances at the ceiling, steeling himself while trying to remain casual. “What would being in love, what would that… look like? If we…” 

“Charles, you don’t have to –”

“No, I know. But I just, um. I just, like…it would – would it… change,” he scoffs in frustration at himself, eyes returning to the ceiling as if it has cue cards that will help him say what he wants. “Things would change, yeah? Isn’t that the point?” 

Edwin, though still, seems far calmer than Charles had anticipated. “I… don’t know. Charles, I didn’t tell you to make you feel like you have some kind of obligation –”

“I know.”

“It was just important. That you knew. I don’t want to keep secrets from you. And it also… it seemed important that you know, that you are loved. It doesn’t have to be requited – that was not the point.”

“I know.” Charles whispers, trying with everything he is not to start tearing up. “But let’s just say,” he clears his throat, “hypothetically… what would it be like?”

read on Ao3

[drjholtzmann]

Took some gouache to my petsitting gig and made this while watching mean girls. A+ use of time. I'm still learning this medium so the struggle was honestly fun 🤣

[drjholtzmann]

Why is nobody talking about Dreams slutty heels yet?

Like hello??

Source:

[drjholtzmann]

Skara Brae Buddo, human figure carved from whalebone, dated c. 2,900 – 2,400 BC. Discovered at Skara Brae, a Neolithic settlement located in the Bay of Skaill on the Mainland, an island in the Orkney archipelago of Scotland.

[drjholtzmann]

It's White Claw mixed with red wine. It's white wine.

Justin McElroy

[drjholtzmann]

toot

[drjholtzmann]

[drjholtzmann]

part one

part two here

[drjholtzmann]

[drjholtzmann]

ADHD time blindness be like "oh, today is the 30th? that's fine, December is still next month, that's forever away!

...what do you mean tommorrow?"

[drjholtzmann]

Anyway if you see this you have to reblog and tag with a delight from ur day -- even the littlest thing counts

[drjholtzmann]

I'm but a simple idiot wizard.

Taako

[drjholtzmann]

reblog this and tag with a food you no longer have access to (closed restaurant, state you moved away from, ex’s mom’s cooking, etc) that will haunt you until your dying day, mine are the spicy chicken sandwich on the employee menu at the fine dining restaurant I was a prep cook at, and the onion bagel from the kosher place down the street from my house when I lived in the city

[drjholtzmann]