#that harpsicord got me thinking things

[barfville]

[quietbluejay]

Sins of the Wreckers 6

This time: some unsettling imagery though honestly that warning should apply to this whole thing, also Tarantulas' choice of words may make people uncomfortable, also he is a giant spider, I did try to cut most of the spider images because they're very spidery but, just putting that warning out there, there are giant spiders present here

it's a maze

it's got noise

what's not clicking

squid guy is cackling loudly

Hubcap is just standing there

Verity: someone tell me what's going on!

yeah. Tarantulas is a giant spider

Tarantulas: No

Tarantulas: Not any more

Tarantulas: Now I'm called Tarantulas

Prowl: what are you? What have you done to yourself?

Tarantulas: Changed, Prowl. You know change; that thing you try and fail to do every few million years

another ???? Tarantulas moment

quoth friend:

also gotta question why he thinks prowl is in an "up" part of this imaginary cycle, since he's deep in the whole "mind control kup/steal evidence/hermit because everyone else is unbearable" grind it's a mental break down off key harpsicord plays even his fight with optimus in that mess was mostly yelling about optimus's garbage more then justifying his own Prowl is pathologically avoidant of justifying himself it's actually a serious problem he has he never justifies himself so no one ever knows what he's thinking or why

Prowl falls

discussion with friend: friend: i know the "struggle to actually change" is a series theme me: it's a continuity theme from phase 2 onwards! (disregarding Roberts who is mainly focusing on other things, but Barber, Roche, Scott, even McCarthy all grapple with it) friend: but also the irony of tarantulas "learned nothing from being trapped in his own torture device" transformers saying it is me: in a different series it could be something about how suffering doesn't make you into a better person me: but SOTW isn't engaging with it

"all the soul staining muck" okay so you got evidence of other Prowl shenanigans why did you not bring it up instead of aequitas which, AS WAS ESTABLISHED EARLIER, has nothing on prowl come on, man if you're going to get him, do it on what he actually did

thought from friend: it's because all that stuff would only affect Prowl personally (and Prowl is currently public enemy #1 so like...hard to make it worse for him lol). So he fundamentally doesn't care about it. Aequitas works because it's something that would affect other people, and the whole cause he's dedicated his life to, whether or not it actually exists any more.

Impactor and Prowl are foils because they both fully expect their job to kill them

there you go (and i'm still not over that everyone thinks this is going to restart the war) (like where???? in all the scattered corners of the galaxy where autobots and decepticons are still stranded? dude they're still FIGHTING OUT THERE, it won't change for them) (on earth? again there's still conflict!) (on cybertron? where starscream is in charge over majority neutral-leaning-autobot?) organics? the organics still don't like and or trust cybertronians of any stripe, they've experienced some of these war crimes, their opinion is already at rock bottom

i just feel like im missing something big in my understanding some natural assumption that leads to why Roche has all these characters think that

Prowl: what do you want, Tarantulas?

Tarantulas: Come…

Tarantulas: I want to show you something naughty

combined thoughts from me + friend again:

yeah aequitas is a compilation but the immediate consequences of all those evils still spun out when they actually happened there's an assumption here that aequitas was contained, in a way? that the horrors were somehow reduced to just the trial and their only legacy is that thumbdrive and not that it's painted in blood over half the universe (which it totally should be) ultimately it's a misattribution to why the decepticons stopped fighting that they're in any way positioned to start fighting again if they want to and not that they basically lost the autobots aren't in a great position for fighting either but they were slightly better, better enough to be the winners (also that the decepticons don't know what the autobots have been up to when they're the perennial victims, but that's it's own can of worms) until further notice i am going to headcanon this as "the autobots will start fighting each other" as the thing people mean when they say "the war will restart"

so we got kup, guzzle and impactor still in alaska

Impactor jumps out of the way of an explosion

Impactor:…cos i bet being inside that thing is a lot easier than being out here. Incoming! "that thing" - impactor that is a person

He starts transforming back into a whale and jumps back to the water

Tidal Wave: …back to the depths, i think that's where I left my morale…

shark dude: this guy…

Kup looks to the side

Kup: through me.

Kup: The cogger had me bugged with a mind-link so he could pull my strings and make me dance to his lying little tune

i mean, springer wanted to save you, impactor

Impactor looks back, panicked

Impactor: Kup, help me get Guzzle back to Debris - now

Impactor: we are all in so much danger

Tarantulas: that's not what's happening, Prowl (he said, like a liar)

also I know I said it already, but not just the Alaskan landscapes, I love the art in general, it's so good very evocative

this is like the opposite of dignified

does tarantulas have to phrase everything in such a creepy way

Prowl: humans…they could even be human…

Tarantulas: Well, it's all a work in progress, Prowl. New breakthroughs every day.

Tarantulas: Onward!

of course it's a giant spiderweb what did I expect

sjdkflSHDFDS ITS UNOBTANIUM ROCHE I TAKE BACK MANY OF THE ANGRY THINGS I SAID ABOUT YOU

look at this it's so beautiful, it's so classical comics

Tarantulas goes bot mode and frees Prowl from his cocoon

Tarantulas: Here, inspect it for yourself. I trust you not to try anything. Hyah!

Prowl: "try anything"? What would be the point…

Prowl basically says "ok fine you've won"

I mean dude, you basically said it was

Prowl looks at him in shock

some thoughts on the Carpessa war crime I do wonder about the actual mechanics of setting it off in theory at this point Prowl is in some kind of command position if not on high command but also given we basically see every single character he's supposedly the superior of argue with him and/or don't do things, the one exception being Perceptor making the Kup mind thing, and this happened when he was even lower in the hierarchy than the present... maybe Impactor did it lol Impactor just takes off from work (since his thing with Prowl is off the books) to drive a bomb into a city ...huh, why didn't Impactor spill any of Prowl's secrets at the Aequitas trial what did he have to lose

actually, hang on, to an outside observer, Prowl should absolutely not look like he's going through a conscience heavy stage, if they know about him trying to do the thing with the spacebridge (i.e. GENOCIDING HIS ENTIRE RACE)

(if you're wondering "bluejay how can you be a fan of a guy who tried to do that" well i mean nearly every single character i like in 40k is a far, far, worse person with the exception of Iyanna and maybe Andromeda-17)

[lumiereswig]

What if plumette left the castle shortly before the curse, and then returned after everyone was cursed? (Yeah I saw you wanted to write that)

i did want to write it, ive wanted to write it for years, i’ve never had the balls to write it because it was such a fabulous concept to play with. but here what the hell, why not here it is:

it’s pre-curse times and plumette gets a message from her sister, peregrine, that she NEEDS to be the godmother of her baby and thus has to haul ass to the christening. this is awesome but also fuckkkkkk because her sister lives in Sweden like FUCK thats SO far away in eighteenth century times

so she hops on a plane—an eighteenth century style plane—so that’s a rowboat—and waves goodbye to lumiere and douche canoe prince and mrs. p and all the rest, and she bippity-bops her way up to scandinavia to snack on some lutefisk and hold her first little itty-bitty niece. This being Sweden everything takes ages, like first the baby has to be born and then they have to plan the baby shower and then they have to do all this other stuff, so it’s months and months, all of which Plumette spends sending letters to Lumiere and eagerly waiting to hear back from him.

“mon cherie today the prince spent the entire day taking portraits off the wall and throwing them across the room because the painting style was apparently too ‘swishy’! And now Cogsworth has banned me from every serving him sangria at three in the morning ever again. Please be back soon mon ange, my heart cannot beat without you. Lumiere”

“mon chou today there was a fuss in the village, the prince has raised taxes again, I know, quelle horror!,  Mrs. Potts says a person can’t even afford jam anymore if you haven’t got a steady job! but i really doubt that, I mean how much does a jar of jam even cost, ten dollars? please hurry back mon amour, my breath fades so I can’t hear it, waiting for you to come into the light. Lumiere”

“mon coeur we are holding such a ball tonight! every eligible princess and countess will be there—as well as Chapeau’s little sister, we’re slipping her in with a borrowed old dress of the Queen’s—the lights will glitter and every taper will shine, but none as bright as you. Are you coming home yet? I cannot stand the waiting—I shall go quite still without you to dance with. I wait, eternally yours. Lumiere”

And then silence. Silence for a long, long time.

She writes letters, first funny— “what has happened? has Cogsworth run away with you at last?”—then alarmed, then jealous, then furious. “Why so silent, mon amour? have your hands fallen off entirely, do I count so little to your heart?” But she doesn’t get a response, even though she waits, she waits in the same place for weeks just so the letter will not miss her. but a month passes, and no note. Not even Chapeau responds, nor Cogsworth. she throws her hands in the air and stays on longer, just to show him; if he can’t bother to write, what’s a year? What’s two years?

She doesn’t make it quite two years; her heart throbs with missing him, despite her anger, despite her hurt. she gets on the boat, waves goodbye to little Plume nestled safe in Peregrine’s arms, and arrives back in France so, so long after she left.

The ride to Villeneuve is long. She breathes in the heady air, enjoying France’s roses; she forgot how much she missed this sort of spring! she cannot wait to be home, and hug them all close again. she can make peace with lumiere at last. perhaps some other accident prevented him sending her letters.

villeneuve looks disused, when she hops off the carriage; the taxes must have gone up again, she thinks, but doesn’t worry all too much. She doesn’t like riding, so she walks through the woods, ordering for her luggage to be left at the tavern to be called for later. She’s surprised how overgrown the ordinary road to the palace is. She’s surprised how the people in Villeneuve looked at her.

She’s extremely surprised when she starts walking through snow.

Her little satin slippers are drenched by the time she gets to the palace, and her hair is slipping out of her little summer straw hat, and she’s clutching her arms to keep from freezing in the gray, deep snow. Her teeth chatter as she climbs up the steps. Her little hand can barely push open the door.

She sinks in, with relief, and leaps up again when she realizes the marble is covered in a thin, deadly mirror of ice. The tapers are not lit. Not a sound comes out of the silent hall, but faraway up the stairs she thinks she hears a low, long grumble, like someone pushing a heavy chair across a stone-paved floor.

“Hello?” she calls. “Hello?”

Have they all left? Is it the plague again? she wonders. She tip-toes in, calling, and picks up a candle on the table to light her way. Into the drawing room, into the music room. A new harpsichord in the corner. The dining room sits empty, cobwebs on the chairs.

“Is anyone here left for me?”

“Mon amour,” whispers a voice, too too close, and the candelabra burns scathing in her hand.

she leaps back, clutching her hand, the candle on the floor righting itself and dusting itself off and murmuring soothing nothings, like she stepped on its foot at a ball or accidentally stole a sip from its wine glass instead of hers. It is talking, quite ordinarily, and calling in other furniture, and a hulking harpsicord is coming in and a squeaking tea tray and a hatstand with hammers for hands, and they gather round Plumette to gape and stare and cut off her escape, they don’t stop from crowding toward her until she screams “Lumiere, help!” and then it’s very, very silent in the dining room.

“Mon ange? You do not recognize me?” says the candle from the floor, and she comes close to fainting and then she is, the last thing she sees before falling into the swoon being Lumiere’s face, too little and too close, blazing gold, with hard yellow eyes creased in concern.

she wakes to cold, her hands draped in water, somebody kind laying a cool, wet handkerchief across her face. she relaxes, for a moment, then remembers the nightmare. the yellow eyes, where blue should be. the voice in the last place she expected it.

“look at me slow, now, dearie,” says Mrs. Potts, just beyond where she can see her. Another cold compress is laid on her hands. “I turned away from mirrors plenty of times before I got used to it. Slow, now, and breathe in—in through the mouth and out through the nose, that’s the way I used to tell Chip to do it.”

She looks, slowly, and then realizes turning slowly only adds to the horror of it, and she looks quick and bites back the scream before Mrs. Potts can quite pretend she hasn’t heard it. They both recover, fast, and look away. Mrs. Potts busies herself pouring hot water into a dish, and nudging the dish to Plumette’s fingertips until she can smell the lavender wafting gently up.

“Soothing,” Mrs. Potts murmurs, but Plumette notices she doesn’t look at her again.

It takes a long time to explain it. They all do it, in stages—Mrs. Potts, and then Cogsworth, so funny with his little clock face staring up at her, Cuisinier with a rattle and bang and Chapeau with tidy words, sparse but clean, painting a picture of the hag’s hand stretching toward them, the spell hovering on her fingertips. But Lumiere does not come to explain. He does not want to frighten her. He does not want to cause the pain.

Only when she can look at them evenly does she let him come in. He comes slowly, shyly, and her heart breaks—her Lumiere, shy! Her Lumiere, heavy and slow, his golden feet dragging him along, his candles barely flickering. He’s hot and ashamed and brave, looking her up in the face, love pouring out of him as he whispers, “you have not changed a day.”

they are frightened to show her the Beast, but they have to; he knows she’s there, his was the deep and wounded growl she heard from the first, echoing down the halls from his hiding place behind the stairs. She thinks she will be terrified, but then she sees him and oh!

the prince is terrified of her—of seeing his face reflected in the eyes of someone who knew him in his pride. terrified of seeing that someone shriek and run away in fear.

She reaches out and strokes the matted fur. “Do you know,” she says to him, “you have blonde hairs here, right in the pattern of the sun blaze I used to paint on you for special occasions.”

“I tried to do it myself that night,” he rumbles, the sound coming from deep in his chest through what sounds like miles of hair and thorn and tusks and teeth. “I didn’t do as good a job as you do, though.”

She brushes the fur with her hand and smiles at him, the curls descending down her cheeks, her battered straw hat still trickling snow.

She stays with them for days before they mention anything about her choice. She busies herself with tidying, in attempting to bring order to the darkness—“If only one of you could fly, we could get that dust out of the topmost chandelier,” she complains—and spends time with Lumiere, tentatively finding him out again, catching herself laughing at his bizarre jokes. She almost thinks he’s really there when he comes into a room behind her, and she looks up to the wall and sees that human-sized shadow drawing up....and then the disappointment when she turns, and he’s only there in soul, so tiny behind her she has to crouch to catch his face.

But the days cannot wear on forever, and soon she notes the looks the servants give her, and one night as she climbs up to bed she hears the stark sounds of an argument ringing up from the kitchen below. The next day, they corner her—much as they did her first day, but now she knows the names to match the faces, even the new ones she never knew before, like kind Madame de Garderobe and finicky Mr. Cadenza.

“Why so serious?” she teases Cogsworth. His hands tic-tic gloomily across his face, and his eyes search the room, and her eyes follow. Lumiere isn’t here. Cadenza paces near the door.

“It’s just...well, we don’t know how long it’s been on the outside,” says Mrs. Potts. “But here inside the palace, we’ve kept careful track of the days, and it’s been like to ten years. Not quite, you understand, but it’s been ten years almost to the dot. And we’re not figuring she’s ever going to come.”

“Who?”

“In the curse, when she laid the curse, the witch mentioned true love for the Prince,” says Cogsworth. “Reckoning, I suppose, that a parade of eligible young ladies would come lining up to the palace every morning looking to play croquet with the unfortunate Master. Well, there hasn’t been a one. Not even enough to invite in for a glass of water and a game of piquet. And if it goes on much longer like this I don’t fancy we shan’t become antiques.”

“What do you mean, antiques?”

“Never mind about that now, dear.” Mrs. Potts nudges Cogsworth aside and went on. “What he’s trying to get at, I think, is that we’re worried there won’t be anyone for the Prince. No young ladies have really stopped by once it snowed.”

“And if it goes on like this,” moans Cadenza, “I will never see my wife again. The spell will be complete. I’ll go kaput, coda, to resting beat; the symphony ends, no one applauds. The rose sits in silence. The diva, likewise.”

“This is—what will happen to all of you?”

“We’ll fade,” says Chapeau. “We don’t know what that’s like, exactly; it’s not quite death, but it isn’t living.”

“And why are you telling me this? So I can go get help?”

“There isn’t time,” says Mrs. Potts, gently. “There’s only a few petals left on the rose. We need...we need you to do something else.”

And then Plumette realizes why Lumiere isn’t allowed in the room.

She lies in her bed that night, cradled in the spot in the mattress where he used to sleep—his slippers still sit right next to the bed, covered in cobwebs, the gold brocade barely blinking out from the dust. She stuck her foot in one of them when she first arrived, but took it out in a hurry; the webs felt cold on her toes.

I have to fall in love with the Beast. She could hear them telling it to her, over and over, and she’d retold herself the same story so many times she could hear it in each of their voices, whether or not they had truly said so. “If you don’t fall in love with him, dear, Chip will remain a cup forever. My dear, that is my son.” “You’re the only eligible young lady we’ve had, Plumette, though I doubt the Prince will care much for your rank; but we can scrape up a baronetcy for you, it shouldn’t be too difficult, and then add some ranks and qualifications once you’ve married—” “Plumette, I know it’s hard. But help isn’t coming anytime soon. You’re the only hope we have.”

Fall in love with the Beast. Fall in love with the Prince. Fall in love not to love him, but to save every friend that had ever counted for her, every person who had ever treated her as family. Fall in love, and not with Lumiere.

Fall in love, to save Lumiere.

[d00dt00nz]

This song is going to be the theme for the sky levels in my game. I’m not sure why, but apparently cloud-land has this theme of the music being in 3/4. I guess that’s cool. Kirby Superstar has cloud music that’s in 3/4.

The groove for this song just popped into my head. Originally I was thinking about it being closer to the aforementioned kirby superstar song, but I thought “haha wouldn’t it be cool if I swung it?”. From there it kind of spiraled into something far different. By the time I’d finished showering I had the little opening segment with the bass and piano and drums thought out. This one was mostly pretty fun to write. I put a lot more care into the bass and drums than I usually do. Check out the pitch bending on the bass! I don’t usually don’t that kind of thing because it’s a big pain, but I think it adds a lot in this case.

Remember in the previous song how I mentioned that I’d watched a video about voicings? Yeah I was back trying to focus on that in this song. I tried to voice the piano in a more interesting way than I usually do (among other things).

Eventually I had things sounding pretty good in the midi file. I created various parts out of each midi part and went to mix it all together, only to find that it actually sounded pretty flimsy and weak with the higher fidelity synths. The drums sounded out of place. The hi-hat on the chorus sounded like crap. I tried for a little bit to EQ it into sounding good, but for whatever reason there was no good combination.

With that failure, I figured that maybe I could fill out the chorus - add some more high frequency “noise” to make the hi-hat sound a little more blended and less flimsy. Some kind of bells or something that would blend with it. Anyway, this makes sense. Bear with me here (bare with me? Neither of those make sense (I said I ate like garbage!)) I initially went to add a vibraphone for that specific timbre, but thought to maybe use it to add some rhythmic intricacy instead (that was another pet peeve of mine with the song). So then I added a harpsicord on the chorus which is essentially playing a “bells” part. I think I like it more than I would bells because it’s a little bit more tonal, and it sounds a little sharper to cut through all the sound.

Anyway, it’s nice! I like how it turned out. It was fun to write, and pretty quick. The mixing process was weird and frustrating, but it’s not like mixing is ever fun. It’s kinda weird, it sounds to me like something I might have written in like 2011 - the kind of song I’ve since stopped writing - it’s got that corniness in it. I don’t think that’s a bad thing, I think it’s how I wanted it to be. I also did a MUCH better (and more interesting) job than I would have in 2011.

[williamshakespaw]

A Night At The Theatre

A short fluffy story I wrote about Felix meeting his sire, Yuliana, all of those years ago.

The heavy falling snow deafened the cacophony of carriages and horses arriving to the theater for the opera performance that night. Felix stood outside on the steps with his two friends Ivan and Alexander laughing, smoking, and watching the well dressed women walk by. “Were you at Ippolitt’s party the other night?” Alexander asked to the group. A large groan escaped Ivan and Felix laughed at his friend’s misfortune and before taking a drag of his cigarette. “Yes, sadly. I saw Katya with Pavlov again. I mean, look at me! Any woman would be glad to receive my letters of affection.” Ivan boasted loudly and gave a passing woman a wink. She giggled and her escort shot Ivan a nasty look before pulling her along.

“Perhaps the women simply can’t read your terrible handwriting.” Felix said with a cocky grin and Ivan gave him a short jab to the ribs with his elbow. “Do you want to box again, pretty boy? I wouldn’t want to break your sculpted nose twice.” Ivan sneered pushing at Felix’s buttons. “Hey!” Alexander said before the two friends could escalate their playful fight. He shook his head defeatedly and added with an amused smile “I swear, I can’t take you guys anywhere.”

Felix chuckled at Alexander’s statement and Ivan looked over curiously at the side of the opulent building. “Hey? Do you think we can convince a nice lady to let us in the actors entrance?” Ivan suggested with a mischievous grin. The group grew silent as each member thought about the idea. “They did have champagne in there last time.” Felix said breaking the silence with a small shrug. Alexander thought it over for a moment and his eyes darted between the side door and the main entrance. “Ah, what the hell. That champagne was good.” He finally said and made his way to the side of the building beckining his friends to follow.

-------------------

“Oh, come on. I’m positive we’ve met before. Perhaps at one of Count Popov’s soirees? I wouldn’t forget pretty eyes like that.” Ivan said to a blushing stagehand at the entrance to the building. He gently put a finger on the woman’s chin and tilted her head up to look him in the eyes. Ivan gave her a sweet smile and the woman began to melt under his gaze. It wasn’t long before the stage hand took a keyring out of her pocket and unlocked the door behind her. She bit her lip in a mischievous smile and grabbed Ivan by the sleeve of his jacket and pulled him inside.

“Come on. Let’s hope they didn’t run out of caviar.” Alexander said and beckoned Felix to follow. As he began to tail behind his friend Felix heard the quick sounds of rushed heels clicking against the pavement behind him. Turning around he came face to face with a pale woman that had a panicked expression on her face. Felix grunted at the impact of her smashing into him and closed his eyes as the two fell to the ground in a tangle. He opened them to see the dainty faced woman with a look of horror on her face. “Oh my word. Are you alright, sir? I’m so terribly sorry I-” She said and began to ramble before immediately cutting herself off.

Felix shifted under the woman’s weight and tried to stand up. Under her? The woman was straddling Felix and she quickly scurried up onto her feet when realizing the awkward situation. “Yeah, I’m fine. Didn’t your mother ever teach you to never to run in the snow with your dress shoes on?” Felix said with a sheepish grin as he got back up on his feet and straightened out his jacket.

The woman put her hand up to her mouth to try and hide a laugh but it was unsuccessful. “My name is Yuliana Zharkov.” She said with a quick curtsy. “I’d love to stay and chat but I’m terribly late for my make up and dressing. But please, come by after the show. I’d love to have a moment to chat with my saviour.” Yuliana said with a charming smile.

Felix returned Yuliana’s smile and gave her a lavish bow. “Felix Gagarin. And your saviour would be more than happy to.” He responded with a hint of teasing in his voice. Yuliana stood there for a moment looking over Felix’s slightly disheveled and snowy form before giggling to herself and running off through the backstage entrance. Felix turned and looked for Alexander but didn’t find him. He figured he must have seen the display and decided to find a damsel of his own to save.

-------------------------------------------

Felix stood at the door to Yuliana’s dressing room with a bouquet of flowers in his hands. Her performance had been phenomenal and Felix couldn’t help but notice Yuliana’s flirting glances from on stage. He softly hummed one of her songs to himself and knocked on the door three times. After a moment it cracked open slightly and Yuliana’s green eyes could be seen peeking through the crack. She swung the door open with an excited smile and Felix gave her a deep bow and handed her the flowers. “These are well deserved, my lady. Your voice could summon angels.” Felix said with a charming smile. Yuliana accepted the bouquet and took in a deep breath to smell the arrangement. “These smell wonderful, Felix. Thank you.” She said and walked back into the room.

Felix followed closely behind and closed the door behind himself. The flowery scent of hibiscus wafted through the room and the bitter sweet sounds of Rachmaniov could be heard through a phonograph sitting atop an elaborate table. Yuliana’s large vanity was covered in cards and gifts from other fans of hers as well as various styled wigs and make-up containers. Felix admired the well refined space and his eyes lingered on Yuliana’s beautifully gilded harpsicord for a moment before turning back to her. It truly felt like her own traveling sanctuary.

“The audience should be the ones cheering you. Not me.” Yuliana said and broke the silence between the pair. Felix cast her a curious look as she took the bouquet and placed the flowers in an elegant blue vase. “If it wasn’t for you cushioning my fall the lead actress might not have been able to make it to her performance.” Yuliana said and looked over at Felix with a soft smile. “If it means almost cracking my skull for us to have met it will have been worth it.” He responded with satisfied look.

Yuliana laughed at Felix’s comment and glanced over at her harpsichord. “I saw you looking at it earlier. Do you know how to play?” She asked as she gracefully moved toward the instrument. Felix followed Yuliana and watched as she lifted the decorated key cover. “A little.” He lied as he sat down on the bench and adjusted his posture. Felix’s fingers naturally set on the keys from muscle memory after years and years of practice.

Felix gently began to push down on the keys as Yuliana turned the phonograph off. Her eyes lit up in recognition of the tune and she gave Felix a knowing smile. “This song is for two people.” Yuliana said as she made her way behind Felix and softly placed her hands on his shoulders. “Then it’s a good thing there are two people here who know how to play.” He responded cheekily as he continued to expertly work the piano keys. Felix looked up at Yuliana with a victorious smile on his face and she leaned forward behind him and placed her own hands on the ivory.

It didn’t take long before Felix and Yuliana’s fingers began to move in perfect synchrony and their melodious harmonies resonated throughout the intimate space. Their actions became one as the two continued to flawlessly play a song both of them had heard and performed countless of times before. Only this time it was different. It meant something. Something that Felix hoped would be a start of many more duets together.

As the song came to a close both Felix and Yuliana’s fingers lingered on the ivory keys. Both of them too afraid to make a move. As if they did it would break whatever spell was cast upon them and this whole night would have only been a dream.

Just like when they were playing, Felix and Yuliana both slowly turned their faces toward each other at the same time. His lips brushed against hers and they felt… cold. As if they were still outside and laying out in the snow. Yuliana quickly pulled away before Felix could process the why of the situation and she gave him an apologetic smile.

“A proper lady never kisses unless courted accordingly.” Yuliana teased and wagged a finger at Felix. She gently intertwined her gloved fingers with his hand and pulled Felix from the bench of the piano. “Tomorrow night I have another performance.” Yuliana said quietly and softly tugged Felix closer never letting go of his hand. “I’ll tell them to let you and your friends in the back door. I expect you here at 6PM sharp.” She demanded and caressed his face delicately like she was handling fine porcelain.  

Felix tilted his head into her palm and put the scent of Yuliana’s hibiscus perfume into his memory. “Of course, my angel. Just make sure you don’t slip when I’m not around to catch you.” He said and grabbed her waist pulling her closer. Yuliana giggled as Felix briefly lifted her off of the ground and she put a firm hand to his chest. “I’ll make sure they save the champagne.” She responded with a playful smile.

[elfnerdherder]

Magnum Opus: Chapter 10

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Chapter 10:

           When Will got to Hannibal’s, another car was parked in the driveway. Although it wasn’t as new and conspicuous as Hannibal’s, it was far newer than Will’s –at the very least, it had an auxiliary plug in it. He knocked on the door and noted the Hawaiian floral car freshener wrapped around the rearview mirror and decided that it had to be a girl. He thought of Hannibal’s questions regarding his dating life, and he had to wonder –did Hannibal date? Although he’d only seen small portions of the duplex, there was no sign that another person frequented the place.

           “Will, come on in,” Hannibal said, opening the door. Will glanced at him, then past him where he heard the unmistakable sound of talking in another room.

           “If I’m early, I can wait,” he said, glancing to his watch.

           “No, you’re on time, they’re late.” He ushered Will into the living room where a small group of what had to be college students sat, notebooks and textbooks strewn about in a chaotically organized fashion. At the center of the table, an artfully prepared plate of some form of food rested, sprinkles of herbs accenting the air with a sharp spice across delicately curled meat that looked like the petals of a rose. He recognized Alana Bloom among the crowd. She smiled when she saw him and waved, a pencil tucked behind her ear.

           “It’s good to see you again, Will,” she said.

           “A new study partner?” another girl asked.

           “Everyone, this is Will Graham,” Hannibal said. “Will, you’ve already met Alana. This is her friend and my new acquaintance, Judy Halpert, and a fellow grad student, Frederick Chilton.”

           “You’re rather young, aren’t you?” Frederick noted. While Judy was the antithesis of Alana with bleached blonde hair and brown eyes, Frederick looked to be the poor man’s Hannibal. Whereas Hannibal’s jaw and cheekbones were accentuated and sharp, Frederick’s cheeks were soft, his brown hair the owner of too much product. His nose was long, mildly narrow, and hawkish, set above shrewd, calculating hazel-blue eyes. Will scanned his clothes and noted that though he was well-dressed, there was a somewhat flamboyant fashion to his checkered vest and striped tie, almost an ode to Hannibal’s striped vest and chevron tie. Hannibal idled by the chair near Frederick and cast Will an apologetic glance.

           “I’m old enough,” Will said with a shrug.

           “Oh, leave him alone, Frederick,” Alana said. “You’re just upset that you’re the oldest one here.”

           “Everyone just looks so young these days. I swear the freshmen gallivanting about the commons look like they’ve barely hit puberty, let alone graduated from high school,” Frederick said sullenly.

           “Maybe that’s just your age showing, not theirs,” Judy teased.

           “Will, if you’d like to wait in the study, I’ll be with you in a moment,” Hannibal said before Frederick could reply. Will nodded and headed towards the spiraling staircase, not needing to be told twice. As he ascended the stairs, he heard Judy whisper in a not-so subtle voice,

           “He’s legal, isn’t he? I’ll snap him up if he is.”

           “You’re already seeing someone, Judy,” Alana reminded her.

           “That can change,” Judy said with a snort.

           “As fascinating as that is, if we could get back to the task at hand…” Frederick’s voice carried away, and Will hurried up the last few steps, eager to get away from that conversation. He entered Hannibal’s study, and he turned on the light, looking about the warm and comforting room with unease. He was horrible with confrontation.

           When Hannibal didn’t immediately follow him upstairs, Will perused the room, tucking his hands into his pockets as he peered at the spines of the elegantly embossed books, reading the titles. While most of them were psychiatric in nature, Will was pleasantly surprised to find books on Greek mythology, fantasy, and history. There was a small corner by the window whose shelves housed poetry, and Dante’s works were also present alongside Milton and Chaucer. Each book had been set with care, as though he’d measured just how many books it’d take to fit each shelf without having to cram them. If there was one thing Will would describe Hannibal as, it was meticulous.

           A table that set away from his desk held sheets upon sheets of paper, and Will peered down at a sketch, surprised to see a park with various people in it, the architecture of the city rising up in the distance. Everything was realistic, from the swaying trees to the curving sidewalk, and he smiled, taking his hand out of his pocket to caress it.

           “See something you like?” Will gave a start and turned, guilty. Hannibal stood in the room, surveying everything as though he could track Will’s progress through the space by sight alone. Will stuffed his hands back into his pockets and shrugged, looking back to the picture of the park.

           “It’s lovely,” he said.

           “Thank you,” Hannibal replied. “I love art. It has the power to evoke emotions, even if you don’t know the context of what it is that you’re seeing.”

           “What is it I’m seeing?” Will asked. Hannibal crossed the room to look down at the picture, passing a hand just above its surface.

           “First, what do you feel?” Will looked down to the drawing once more, studying the smooth, confidant lines of the pencil, the shadowing delicate and precise. The lines were fine, as though he’d taken a single hair and dipped it in ink before working.

           “You’ve been to this place before,” he said. “It’s as familiar to you as your home, as comforting as an old friend. You know just how many trees, just how many benches and monuments. This place is special to you.”

           “That is a park twenty minutes from here that I enjoy going to just before sunset,” Hannibal said affectionately. His fingertips touched the skyline beyond the park, and he nodded. “You are absolutely correct.”

           “Did you do this from memory, or were you there?”

           “This is mostly from memory, although I embellished the crowd of people moving about. When I close my eyes, I feel as though I could blend right into the spaces between that seem to exist at times like twilight and dusk. There is an almost ethereal presence in that place, although I could not say why. I think we make things that way, with the emotion we give them.” Will nodded and studied the faces, their heads downturned or away from the picture, as though he wanted them to have the potential to be anyone at any given time.

           “I think it’s beautiful,” Will said.

           “Is that why you keep your hands in your pockets? You prevent yourself from reaching out to touch something beautiful?” Hannibal asked. Will shrugged, although the question stung and buried deep.

           “I don’t want to ruin it,” Will replied.

           “That says far more about your perception of yourself than it does about how beautiful you find the art,” Hannibal said kindly.

           “So you study psychiatry, you play the harpsicord, you make apparently grand and lavish food, and you draw. What else do you do?” Will asked, ignoring Hannibal’s observation. Hannibal laughed and when to the small pitcher of water, pouring two glasses of it.

           “At the risk of sounding like I’m bragging, I play the Theremin as well.” He offered a glass to Will, then set his own on the end table by his chair, next to the notebook that had Will’s notes. Will studied it and wondered why he hadn’t opened the book to see what was inside. What sort of notes did Hannibal keep of him? Better yet, did he want to know?

           That is impressive,” Will said seriously. “And I’d say that you can dance just as well as any, and you speak several languages?”

           “If I say yes to both, are you going to think differently of me?” Hannibal flashed him a small smile.

           “Seeing this house, no.” Will took a sip of water, but as Hannibal sat down, he couldn’t bring himself to do the same. He slid his thumb along the edge of the glass and studied the water, contemplative. He was aware of Hannibal’s eyes on him, waiting, but instead of crossing over the rug to sit down, he paced, walking along the bookshelves to find his words within the letters on the spines.

           “Is everything alright, Will?”

           “No…not really.” He frowned and took another sip of water.

           “I apologize for the study group running late,” Hannibal said. “Frederick has a knack for debate, even in the smallest of circumstances.”

           “Why did you lie to me?” Will asked, turning to look back at him. His tongue was like sandpaper, rough against the roof of his mouth. He took another sip of water to try and wash down the feeling of grit on his teeth.

           “I wasn’t aware that I lied,” Hannibal said. A flash of concern, followed by confusion passed over his face, and he shifted in his chair to better observe Will.

           “You gave me photos of a crime scene where a man was growing fungi off of bodies, and I found a gravesite just like that five miles into the Wolf Trap forest,” Will said. He scowled and looked out of the window, noting that the car that’d been previously parked there was gone. “You said that the man had been found.”

           “I said no such thing,” Hannibal objected. He crossed his leg over his knee and leaned back into his chair, hands resting casually on the arm rests. “You said that you were comforted by the fact that he was behind bars, but I never said that he was behind bars.”

           “You allowed me to assume that he was behind bars,” Will countered, walking over to him.

           “Because it gave you comfort. You put yourself into a stressful position in order to better understand yourself as well as your connections to Jared Freeman, and I wasn’t going to shatter the safe space you’d created for yourself in the assumption that he’d been detained by the FBI.” Will opened his mouth to argue, but he found himself flustered, caught off guard. His eyebrows drew down, and he looked to Hannibal’s impeccably shiny shoes.

           “You allowing me a ‘safe space’ for comfort made me feel like you were lying when I found those bodies,” said Will.

           “I apologize for that. I had no idea or reason to think you’d find a new set of bodies from the killer, so I felt that it was harmless. I can see that you’re upset, though. Are you used to people willfully lying to you for profit or gain?” Will started to lie, but he stopped. He looked down at his worn, fraying belt, and he nodded. He couldn’t very well tell a lie when he was angry at someone else for the same.

           “My dad has a habit of lying if he thinks it will buy him time or buy him a way out,” he said. He had to force the words out, a crowbar prying them off of his tongue.

           “I had no intention of buying time for myself or buying a way out, Will,” Hannibal said lightly. “I feel that in our study of your mind, I’m going to find myself apologizing a lot –to not abuse or overuse the word or the meaning behind it, I will use it sparingly in order to not sully it by repetition. That being said, I do apologize for making you feel that I was lying to you in a manner that was reminiscent of your father’s behavior.” It wasn’t the most emotional apology Will had ever heard, but it somehow rang truer because of it. Hannibal wasn’t going to overexert himself with flowery or poetic words, and it occurred to Will that it was because Hannibal respected him that he wouldn’t. He nudged his shoe over the intricate, exotic design on the rug, and he sat down in his chair.

           “Thank you,” Will said honestly. Hannibal nodded and took that as a sign to open his notebook and begin.

           “Before we interviewed the students of your classroom, the FBI agents had us go through the files of each student to see if Dr. Du Maurier or I could spot something among the notes and behaviors. Your file was by far the largest, and I’ve never seen a student transfer so much. You stayed at that particular school for almost four years, but that wasn’t normal.”

           “No, my dad had a habit of moving a lot,” Will said snidely.

           “What would cause him to move so suddenly?” Hannibal asked. “That many different instances of uprooting you from your education must have made connections to people difficult.”

           “Something at work would happen, and we’d move. He’d pay the rent late, and we’d move. He’d get into a fight at a bar, we’d move. I’d get in trouble at school, we’d move.” Will tacked the reasons off on his fingers, setting the glass down. “He’d get wind that maybe my mother was in town, we’d move. He’d get wind that maybe my mother left town, we’d move.”

           “With each move, did a new beginning become easier for you?”

           “It’s easy for my dad…I already don’t have an interest in people. I don’t…connect the way that others connect. I can’t grasp the mode of conversation or the tone, but I can see exactly why and how she covers arms with her jacket to avoid suspicion. For him, each place is a chance to change out the mask he’s placed over his face, and everything else just falls into line.”

           “But not you,” Hannibal noted. “Does he struggle with your lack of social abilities?”

           “Oh yes,” Will laughed. It was the kind of laugh that cut short too soon and left room for misunderstanding. He started to say more, but somehow the sound echoed in his ears, and he lost his train of thought. He looked down at his shoes.

           “Do you want to be able to socialize with your peers on a level closer than what you feel that you’re capable of?”

           “Sometimes,” Will said. “I know that sooner or later, though, I’m going to see something that pulls me right into their head, and I’m not talking to them anymore, it’s like I’m speaking with myself except I don’t exist anymore. When I can finally separate, I have to pick apart what is left of them that clings to me and what I truly am.” His voice lowered with each word until it was only a breath above a whisper; Hannibal had to lean in to catch it.

           “Did that happen when you found the bodies in the forest?” Hannibal asked. “Did you go to run, only to be stopped by the chilling sensation that it was you who put them there?”

           “No. I thought that I was seeing things, so I kept telling myself that what I was seeing wasn’t real.”

           “When did it occur to you that it was?”

           “When I kept trying to ground myself in the present situation, and it didn’t change. Then, when the police verified what I saw, I realized that all of it was real.” Will bit his lip, thinking of the horrific call to the police, how he’d stammered and stuttered until they were able to piece his string of thoughts together to understand the horrors that he struggled to convey. The operator made him stay on the line, promising that help was on the way. There was a dull ache in his head, something reminiscent of the day before.

           “You don’t trust your mental state, so you rely on others to create the parameters of what is real and what isn’t,” Hannibal said, neither condemning nor agreeing. “Do you trust the average, day-to-day person to accurately create your reality?”

           “I try to choose that person carefully…people of authority, government figures, teachers, peers with a stable head on their shoulders. That sort of thing,” Will said wryly. Hannibal nodded, pen artfully turning end over end along his fingers as he thought.

           “You sometimes fall into dark places with no end in sight. You need a person that you can trust to help you out of those spaces when you find yourself led in.” Hannibal said at last, closing his notebook.

           “I’m trying to trust you,” said Will. “That’s why I wasn’t comfortable with the thought of you lying to me.”

           “Do you trust me to tell you reality versus what your mind conjures?” he asked. “Do you trust me to give you the truth of the world, rather than my own truth? Sometimes that line for any person is difficult to find.”

           “I’ve been told that that comes with time and experience together. I get to know you better, and it helps me trust you to be that guiding force. I’m trusting you to treat me, and that’s more than what can be said for anyone else.”

           “I don’t dismiss that as a crucial step,” Hannibal replied. “I appreciate that you’ve given me such a chance.”

           “You say that like it’s a gift.” Will laughed and scratched his neck. Hannibal’s eyes tracked the movement, and he nodded seriously.

           “From what I have observed and heard from you, I am of the opinion that any form of attention or consideration from the closed off and unsociable Will Graham should be seen as a gift and handled with care.” Hannibal’s stare was intent, unmasked in its attentions, and Will had to look away; he didn’t want to misunderstand, and he was certain that he was two seconds away from such a thing.

           “How old is Frederick Chilton?” He asked when he trusted his voice. He gulped down his water.

           “He is twenty-eight, I believe –why?”

           “Alana said that he was the oldest in the room…how old are you?”

           “I’m twenty-four years old,” Hannibal replied.

           “You’re going to graduate from grad school so young?” Will asked, surprised.

           “I graduated at seventeen from high school, then finished my undergrad a year early. It was grueling work, but certainly possible.” Hannibal stood and went to the pitcher to refill his water, and Will stayed put, turning the glass around and around in his hands. He pressed his palms to the sides, and he stared down at the distorted whorls and curls of his fingerprints through the water.

           “How did you get your hands on FBI files of a man that hasn’t been caught yet?” Will asked.

           “Dr. Du Maurier has consulted with the FBI, as you know. If she feels that I can give special insight, she allows me to accompany her to their headquarters. She’s spoken with them on the case, and I merely took the files from her office.” Hannibal crossed back over and sat down once more, setting his glass down beside him.

           “Is she going to be angry that you have the files?”

           “They’ve already been returned without her ever knowing of their absence,” Hannibal reassured him.

           “Is Jack Crawford going to find out that you had them?” Will pressed.

           “Only if you tell him,” he replied. He smiled slightly, a crafty twist of his lip that lit up his entire face. “Will you keep our secret?”

           It wasn’t lost on Will that Hannibal called it ‘their’ secret. He bit at his bottom lip and considered the toe of his shoe before he gave a short nod. Hannibal nodded with him, and he leaned back in his chair, contemplating Will.

           “I’m sure you heard Alana Bloom’s friend comment on your appearance. Do you have such issues at your school, too?” Hannibal asked.

            “Not really,” Will replied. “Then again, I don’t put myself in a position where people just walk up to me and start a conversation.”

           “No? But you expression is so amicable,” Hannibal stated with such a serious expression that it took Will a minute to realize he was teasing. He stared, and he let out a short laugh, reaching up a hand to wipe it away.

           “I have that reputation,” he said, and he peered up at the ceiling, shrugging. “I think relationships like that are just as dangerous as seeing into a killer’s mind.”

           “Oh?” Hannibal’s brows lifted in curiosity.

           “I bleed into them…people talk about love where you become one in the same, and it’s the ultimate goal for couples, isn’t it? Metaphorically, they are one in the same. Two halves of a whole.”

           “It is believed soul mates were once one person that was split apart because the gods feared them. People search their entire lives to find their soulmate; the one that connects to them on a level that defies all forms of logic,” Hannibal stated, folding his arms across his chest.

           “Well they’d have a hard time finding theirs because I’d slowly become whatever it was I perceived them to be. They’d think they found their other half, and I’d have an existential crisis trying to put myself back together day after day after day.” Will sighed, shaking his head. He’d been asked out once, by a shy boy who’d written his number in a lovely shade of green ink. Will tried to explain why it was such a terrible idea, but the words came out wrong. He’d ended up apologizing to the trash can, unable to even look at him.

           “Believing that you’d have an existential crisis implies you believe in God. Do you?”

           “Well someone has to be getting a kick out of what’s happening to me,” Will replied. “Don’t you think?”

           “I think God is phenomenally moved by many ironic things. Just last week, he dropped a church roof on over one hundred and sixty followers in Nigeria. Just like that.”

           “Do you think he laughed, though?” Will asked. “Do you think he…felt saddened by it?”

           “I think he felt powerful,” Hannibal replied. “Anyone in a position of power over another will sometimes push just to see how far they can go while maintaining the same imbalanced relationship.”

           “Which is why I won’t date,” Will said with a cold, crippling laugh. “If someone found out that they could literally mold my perception of them as well as my realities, they’d probably play God and drop a church on me.” Hannibal smiled with him, and he nodded, making another quick note on the paper.

           After their session, Will turned his collar up to the wind that tossed rain at his back, and he wasted no time hurrying to his car and climbing in. He exchanged the sodden napkin for a dry one at the base of the windshield, and he fired the truck up, windshield wipers unhelpful on the first setting and utterly terrifying on the second. He drove through the rain, squinting past the glass, and he thought of Hannibal’s lie by omission, and his request for ‘their’ secret to be safe. He figured that out of anyone that he’d met in his life, Hannibal was one of the first he’d ever consider keeping secrets for.