#these posts be like here's some history now excuse me while i wax poetic about leading tones because i cannot be normal about anything

[thebaffledcaptain]

Music of the Revolutionary Century: Roslyn Castle

Perhaps tied for my favorite Haunting Revolutionary Tune, Roslyn Castle was used throughout the Revolutionary War as a British march, though it frequently takes the form of a dirge, becoming associated with funeral affairs (in one copybook from the period it is indeed labelled as "a Dead March"). The tune is named for the existing Roslyn Castle in Scotland—perhaps its somber air comes from the fact that the castle was evidently damaged multiple times from the 15th to the 17th century and lay mostly in ruins by the time the 18th century came around, when it was supposedly composed. Allegedly the British played this march in low spirits when they marched out of Hempstead Harbor, Long Island after the war.

My favorite version of this tune is not necessarily a particularly historically accurate one, but it is another instance of a rendition I find captures the tone of the melody so well. Melrose Quartet's version is a supremely emotional one, in the most comprehensive way possible: it is mournful, yet majestic—tragic, yet triumphant.

For my fellow music nerds out there (forgive while I get technical):

Interestingly, as my fellow fifer pointed out to me when I first mentioned the tune, the fife-and-drum version of the tune excludes the raised leading tone because fifes are tuned diatonically to "folk B-flat" (it's... complicated, I can't explain it fully myself—they're essentially played in the key of D, tuned in the key of Bb, and, like... actually pitched in Ab... it's not important) and aren't capable of playing that D#, which they substitute as a D natural. The result is something rather modal, a little less acute and a little more poignant—all that tension is gone, and that half-step alteration feels, somehow, profoundly resigned, without that painful pull toward the tonic.

[borderlinedennisr]

fic: mac/dennis, dennis-centric

i started thinking about what dennis would do if ur heard that ms kl*nsky had just passed, and i got carried away

warnings: csa mentions, suicidal ideation, self harm mentions, alcohol abuse

.

Dennis is drunk. It’s not out of the ordinary. What is, however, is the fact that he’s wearing a half-buttoned suit, Italian leather shoes, and he’s sat in a waiting cell with three other arrestees.

His head is swimming. Every noise reverberating through the police station is starting to chip away at his patience. Could someone just get him some fucking ibuprofen? He’d happily comply to anything for 400 mg of Advil and a cup of hot coffee.

He tries to focus. He taps a steady rhythm on his knee. His vision is cloudy. He had a lot to drink tonight. And this afternoon. And this morning. His stomach gives a wrench and he involuntarily groans.

“Turn the other direction,” someone hisses at him. “I just bought these shoes.”

Dennis wants to laugh, but everything hurts.

“Hey, this dude’s ‘bout to hurl! Can we get a trash can or something.”

“I’m fine,” Dennis protests. He holds up a hand, but it trembles.

“Dennis Reynolds?”

He points his head in the direction of the voice, but closes his eyes against his blurred vision. He might actually throw up if he doesn’t get it under control.

“It’s time for your phone call.”

Dennis is hoisted upward involuntarily. He’s glad he doesn’t have to think about who he’s going to call. His head is pounding.

.

Mac’s woken up by the sound of his phone vibrating against the coffee table. The sad part is it’s only 9:30 P.M. He’d clearly fallen asleep watching some ... game. His hand grabs the phone and answers it automatically.

“What’s up?”

“Mac? It’s Dennis.”

Mac’s heart stumbles a little. Dennis sounds weird.

“Dude, where are you? Are you okay?”

Dennis heaves a long sigh. “Look - I’m a little bit drunk and I, uh - well - just come to the police station, okay? I’ll explain in person, when ... when I’m more sober.”

Mac blinks. “You got arrested?”

“I’ll explain when you get here,” Dennis insists.

“Dennis, are you okay? What were you doing tonight?”

“Mac, I’m kind of on a tight schedule, here.”

Mac doesn’t seem to register that, because he continues waxing poetic.

“It’s just - you’ve seemed off lately.”

“Mac,” Dennis says sharply.

“Yes?” Mac asks

“Just come to the police station. I have to go.”

He hangs up, leaving Mac listening to the dial tone. Mac sighs.

.

Nobody at the police station knows how to do their goddamn job. Mac just needs to make sure Dennis is okay. He seemed spooked on the phone. In that way that Mac knows to associate with dissociative episodes.

“I’m just looking for my roommate,” Mac presses, pleading with the officer currently on desk duty.

“Sir, you’re gonna have to wait a minute; I’m on in important call,” she snaps out.

“You don’t understand,” Mac retorts. “He’s - he’s vulnerable. I need to make sure he’s okay.”

“Sir, if you just give me one second - “

“I can’t wait a second. I need to know he’s okay. He - he gets in these moods sometimes, and well - I don’t really know what he did to end up here, but he’s usually more of a danger to himself when he’s like that, and - “

“Dietrich?! Get over here, and get this man out of my face.”

Mac watches an officer at least a foot taller than him round the desk. He falters.

“Look, I’m not trying to cause, trouble. I’m just worried about my friend - “

“Mac!”

He turns, a grin of relief spreading across his face. Dennis is walking down a hallway, hands cuffed, being lead by the arm of another, nicer-looking officer.

Mac makes a dash for it, skirting the freakishly tall Dietrich, and heading for Dennis. The officer holding his arm grips tighter.

“Excuse me, sir. Please take a step back.”

Mac does. “I’m his roommate. Just tell me what his bail is, so I can get him out of here.”

The officer sighs. “He doesn’t have a bail yet. We’re on the way to his initial hearing right now.”

“What? What are you charging him with?”

“Indecent exposure - “

“It’s not what you think,” Dennis immediately protests. “I - uh - “

“Disorderly intoxication.”

“That’s just downright - “

“And grave desecration.”

Dennis just purses his lips in respond.

“Not to mention your priors.” The officer tugs him roughly. “Now let’s go.”

“Wait - “ Mac starts.

“Boyfriend! You can come too,” the officer says. “Now, quit wasting my time.”

Mac pulls out his cell phone as he follows after them.

“I’m calling Frank,” he tells Dennis. “We’ll figure this out.”

.

“Mr. Dennis Reynolds.”

“That’s me,” Dennis mutters.

“You’ve been brought to council under the chargers of indecent exposure, disorderly intoxication, and grave desecration. Do you understand these terms.”

“Yes,” Dennis says shortly, “but if I could just explain - “

“You’ll get your chance in a minute. Now, - “

“Ayooooooooo!”

The doors to the room fly open, and through them walk Frank, Charlie, and Dee. Dennis groans. He’s still way too drunk for this.

“Uh - excuse me - who are you?” the judge asks.

Dennis wishes he could break out of these handcuffs. Just to give Frank a good neck-wringing.

“Not. Now.” he hisses through his teeth.

“I’m here to pay my son’s bail.”

“Right,” the judge says. “Well, that is what I’m trying to decide. If you could please take a seat and allow me to do my job, we will get there.”

She clears her throat.

“Mr. Reynolds, when you were brought in, your blood alcohol content was .25.”

Somebody whistles. Dennis doesn’t want to know who, but he has a feeling it’s his dumbass father.

“I was drinking today, yes.”

“That excessively?” The judge’s gaze bares down on him over the rim of her wire glasses.

“It’s been a hard day,” he forces out. His throat is suddenly dry.

“Mr. Reynolds, it would be easy to assume the ramifications of grief in your incident, had we only the public intoxication and the presence of yourself in a graveyard, yet -“ She makes a show of checking the police report. “You were found urinating on a grave.”

Dennis clenches his jaw. “Did you get a name on the grave?”

The judge checks the file. Her eyebrows crease together. She glances to someone off to her right, who then approaches her. They whisper something Dennis can’t hear.

“We did not get a name, Mr. Reynolds. However, the owner of the grave has no relevance to - “

“Klinsky,” Dennis interrupts.

“I beg your pardon,” the judge says.

“Klinsky,” Dennis repeats. “The name on the grave was Klinsky.”

Dennis doesn’t have to look to know that behind him, all members of the gang have become rife with tension. The judge clearly notices it too, because her expression changes. She glances at the members of his support party.

“I take it you know this person,” she says, awkwardly clearing her throat.

Dennis laughs, darkly. It probably doesn’t help his case.

“She was my school librarian.”

He lets the silence ring for a second. He doesn’t know exactly where he’s going. He doesn’t like sharing, but it feels almost involuntarily.

“When I was 14. She - “ Dennis swallows hard. This better fucking emancipate him. “She molested me, several times.”

After a long, agonizing second, the judge takes a deep breath and collapses against the chair.

Dennis feels impatience buzz under his skin. “What, you don’t believe me?”

The judge shakes her head. “Mr. Reynolds, I’m dropping all charges. You’re free to go.”

A couple odd claps ring out. Dennis doesn’t care. He shoves his wrists to his public defender, who motions for the attending officer to join them. He unlocks the handcuffs. Dennis glances at his long-fading scars while he rubs his tender skin.

Mac is the first to reach him, placing both hands on either of Dennis’ upper arms. “Den, are you okay?”

Dennis chuckles. “Why wouldn’t I be? I just got off scott-free. I don’t even know why she believed me.”

“Because you’re crying, Dennis.”

His eyes snap up to meet Mac’s. An involuntary hand feels his face. His fingers come away with tear stains.

“Oh.”

Mac wipes a fresh tear from his cheek.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Dennis shrugs. “It was just a chance I saw that Facebook post. Everything after that was rage.”

Mac cups his jaw with one hand, keeps the other on Dennis’ bicep.

“Let’s go home, get you sobered up.”

Dennis doesn’t really like the idea of sobering up, but at least if he’s with Mac, there’s a silver lining.

.

Dennis falls asleep with ease, lying comfortably in his bed. Pleased, Mac passed out beside him, foolishly reassured.

It’s still dark outside when Mac wakes up to an empty bed. Panic floods Mac’s bloodstream. He unceremoniously de-tangles himself from the blankets and stumbles upward. He hears a violent fetching sound and hurries to bathroom.

Dennis is pale-faced on the floor, and in the fluorescent light from overhead, Mac can see the excessive damage he must have done to himself in the past 24 hours. He makes a mental not to keep on eye on the state of the wounds while Dennis regains his composure.

“I drank . . . a lot.”

Mac eases himself to his knees.

“How much are we talking?” he asks, placing a hand on Dennis’ clammy forehead. “Should I be worried?” He grabs Dennis’ chin and forces it up, trying to get a better look at Dennis’ eyes.

Dennis clears his throat. “Nah. I always thought alcohol poisoning was pretty much how I would go anyway.”

Mac frowns. “Don’t do that - “

Dennis laughs, darkly. “It’s not like I have a history or anything.”

Mac’s expression flips, and he looks at Dennis with glassy eyes and a trembling mouth. “Were you - ?”

Dennis shrugs. “Who knows.”

Mac grabs his neck, almost roughly, and cradles his hand against Dennis’ skin. “Talk to me,” he begs.

A warm, disruptive tear slips down Dennis’ cheek. He sighs. He’s tired of involuntarily crying. He’s still blasting chunks, but god does his hand itch for the bottle.

“What do you want me to say, Mac?” he asks, voice low and gruff, barely above a whisper. “That I’m angry? That I’m sad?” He offers a crooked smile. “That I’m furious at that bitch for fucking me up beyond repair? And maybe I wish I could have gotten even just a word in edgewise before she decided to croak? That now I’m so fucking depressed that I want nothing more than to just kill myself so I can stop feeling this horrible and endless hurricane of emotions?”

He spits into the toilet. “Because I’m fine. I’m glad that perverted old bitch is dead. I’m ecstatic.”

Mac heaves a deep breath. “Dennis - “

He’s saved the trauma of continuing the conversation by another wave of vomit forcing its way out.

.

When dawn breaks, Mac hears his name in a soft voice. It takes him a moment to register that Dennis is awake in the bed beside him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks earnestly.

Dennis’ voice trembles. “If our situations were reversed, I would remove everything sharp from our apartment.”

Still a bit bleary, Mac takes a second to digest the words before fully realizing what Dennis is saying. Then he’s on his feet.

“Is your secret blade stash still in the loose floorboard under the sink?”

Dennis blinks. “I - “

Mac nods. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

By the time Mac has packed every knife, blade, and vaguely edgy kitchen utensil in a plastic bin and dropped it off at Dee’s, Dennis is asleep again.

Mac doesn’t disturb him.

.

It happens when they’re eating breakfast. Mac looks up to discover Dennis crying into his eggs. He makes a move to get up, but Dennis shakes his head.

“Den?”

And he laughs. He laughs and he wheezes and his eyes start to water even more and Mac just stares, confused.

“Mac, you should have seen everyone’s faces when I walked into the funeral home drunk as shit and grabbed the mic. I made up a touching story about how I babysat her cats once and may or may not have stolen a family heirloom in a crime they cannot prove.”

Mac stares at him, half horrified, half amused. “You crashed funeral?”

“And I flirted with her grandson. Sorry, babe.”

“It’s fine. Clearly, it didn’t work out.”

Dennis heaves a stuttering breath the tears starting up again.

“I always hated you guys for bringing her up, but you were always right.”

“Dennis - “

“And, I know I’ve done a lot of bad things, and - “

He presses a shaky hand against his chest. He might be hyperventilating, but he can’t stop babbling now.

“Dennis, you don’t have - “

“Sometimes I think - sometimes I think I deserve it.”

“ . . . Dennis.”

He smiles at Mac. “You can’t argue that, and you know it.”

Mac shakes his head firmly. “You were a kid - “

“And look at me now.”

“Dennis Reynolds, stop being fucking stupid. You were a kid. You did not deserve that, and you still don’t. And I’m sorry.”

Dennis looks up, curiously. “For what?“

Mac shrugs. He’s crying. Dennis doesn’t comment on it.

“That that happened to you, man. It’s like - you know how you and everyone else kept trying to get me to come out of the closet and admit who I was to myself?”

Dennis nods, uncertain where this is going.

“It was killing me. Keeping everything bottled up, not letting myself feel things, forcing myself to live in fear everyday - it made me hate being alive. Dennis, you’ve been suicidal since we met. You have to let go of everything you’re holding inside, and this is the start. I know it hurts now, but it’ll change.”

Dennis looks to the ceiling and squeezes his eyes shut. A sob chokes it’s way out of his throat.

“I don’t even know where to start, Mac,” he whispers.

“Anywhere,” Mac tells him.

Dennis wishes he has the energy to smile, but he’s so tired. He pushed his plate away. He wipes at his eyes and sniffs.

“Can we call in today?”