although weirdly enough out of all the people i can remember pete interacting with in the show, as far as i can tell, hes only taller than sonny and daniela,, which is weird to think about, he just seems really tall because he literally only stands by tiny tiny sonny
even so! he’s the perfect height,,
the perfect height difference for hugs and forehead kisses,, how lucky we all are
do you ever think about the fact that you sat in front of your computer screen and watched one direction do skits, try and spectacularly fail at world record attempts, make pottery, and have a wrestling match and a runway show, and other random shit overrun with technical difficulties and a dash of jerry springer for 8 hours straight
and then do you ever start crying when you think about how you’d literally give one of your own organs to have a 2k17 repeat
you know what pisses me off
the fact that makeup is so ridiculously gendered
i know I’m starting to occasionally pass as male w the people in my course, i know at least a couple of them think I’m a guy
sometimes i wanna wear makeup!!! be sparkly and pretty!!!! but I’m afraid that if i come to class wearing makeup the few people who think I’m a guy will change their minds!!!
if i end up getting more masculine looking i wont have this problem bc I’d be more confident that people thought i was a guy, but I’m kinda straddling the line atm and it’s making decisions like this more difficult and basically
i hate that this entire worry is based on societal expectations and perception n shit and just
Summary: During Digestivo. Hannibal prepares himself & an unconscious Will for their final conversation.
Hannibal carried him inside. Chiyoh offered to help. He was tired, after all. Frozen and bloodied, hair mopped to the side of his face, shoulders tense and stiff from having been tied back. But he refused, a silent shake of his head and Chiyoh backed away. Walked to the field, rifle in hand. He allowed himself a moment to appreciate her. How, wordlessly, she knew. This was something he must do alone.
Will lay slumped in the backseat, arms limp on the floor. Dead weight. Hannibal felt the same strain he had the night before when he carried him, though he no longer had adrenaline fueling his body. He brought Will, slow, up the steps, across the porch, over the threshold, reveling in every second of pain the twinge in his back sent lighting up his spine.
Hannibal laid Will down delicate onto his bed. Careful not to wake him with too much movement. Fearing he might break.
He’d need some time to think. Prepare. More time than Will’s body was unconsciously willing to give, so he gave two gentle flicks to the syringe, a steady gentle pressure on the plunger, and Will’s sleep took on a far more tranquil rhythm. He drifted deeper. Hannibal, finally, exhaled.
He took a step back, took a moment. Contemplated the door. It stood open behind him, winter chill seeping in through the gap. And then there was the car. Chiyoh. The ease with which he could disappear. It was, he knew, the most practical option. He could make his way to the coast and set sail, heading someplace quiet and obscure, somewhere Will would surely never find him. He’d have to leave quickly in order to get far enough. He’d have to leave now. Hannibal’s eyes, resting on the doorknob, flicked back to the bed. To Will’s pillow flattened curls, the iron streaks of dried blood along his jawline.
He shut the door quietly, though he knew Will was sedated. Nodded to Chiyoh through the window and set to work.
He took care of himself first, Will’s shower rattling to life, blood peeling off him here and there, ripping off soaking bandages. Ignoring, as best he could, the cold and awful weight inside his chest. The feeling of his lungs filling with water. Water stinging sharp against the brand on his back, the burn raw, white hot pain in every corner of his body.
Deep, drying breaths. Hannibal redressed himself, his wounds. Turned his attention to Will. He undressed him as slowly as time would allow, fingers gliding over skin with each gentle tug of fabric. Placed a cloth over what Will would not want him to see, wrestling down the urge to look. He’d never looked before and he wouldn’t now, Will was worth more than that. Although.
Hannibal sat up straight and felt, all around him, a tension. An uncomfortable air of finality. A penultimate afternoon. He looked back down at Will.
This could very well be his last chance to look. Admire.
Still, he didn’t. He did allow himself one thing, though, face in the crook of Will’s neck. A deep, slow inhale. Committing the scent to memory, locking it in its own room near the center of his mind, before he began with the water.
There were parts of Will still caked in blood from days prior, places Mason’s men hadn’t taken care of. Patches of rough blood stuck to the skin on his chest, stomach, spilt from where Hannibal had opened his head. He couldn’t deny the bizarre amusement he felt cleaning up the fallout from something he had inflicted, though of course, with Will, it wasn’t the first time. His eyes narrowed as his musings led him to the terrible realization that this would, in fact, be the last time.
Dabbing gently with warm water, watching close as beads of it rolled across Will’s hips, dripping off his waist. Hannibal changed the bandages on Will’s shoulder. Cleaned the wound across his forehead. Slow and somehow far too quick. He took his deliberate time pressing Will dry with a towel, dressed him up again in warm and comfortable clothes. Smoothing the hair across his forehead, resting his fingers against Will’s face.
He knew this would be the last time. Of course he knew. The last time his hands would grip his face. The last time he’d lay him down onto a bed. Hannibal closed his eyes and lived, for only a fraction of a second, in a world where the opposite was true. Where these actions were the first of many times.
…It was still possible. A tiny sliver of possibility rested inside Will, the chance that his journey sparked a deeper understanding of the truth of him, the truth of Hannibal. How those truths fit together.
But then there was the truth of the bullet wound in Will’s shoulder. The ugly scar across his head. The reality of their situation sat thick at the back of Hannibal’s throat, cold in his stomach.
This was the last time.
So, he cleaned up. Discarded old bandages, positioned Will comfortably, carried a chair to his bedside. Hannibal flipped to a new page in his journal, pausing to open the levy, let icy dread flood through his veins and into his pen. Worked, diligent, at solving the problem that teacups and time had laid out before him.
a thing where RNJR is travelling to wherever and having to make camp for the night-
Ren decides to take the first shift of watch
as everyone catches much needed sleep
Nora- refusing to go to sleep unless Ren sleeps- stays up with him
they both go on about talking about the routes they’ll take- Nora mentioning they’ll have to pass through their old village again to get to Mistral if they want to get there faster
Ren easing her mind on it with some soft quiet words and comfort
Ruby wakes up to Ren humming to himself as Nora’s next to him already fallen asleep
Ruby taking the second shift of watch for the night-
Ruby watching quietly alone in the dark- shadows flickering around her slowly start growing towards her as the fire she’s tending to starts to die out
Ruby getting deep in her own thoughts-Penny, Yang, Pyrrha, Beacon- but stopping and catching herself before she thinks herself deeper and attracting grimm around
Ruby building the fire up for the next shift- it’s Jaune’s turn
maybe they have a little talk-
Maybe some brief mention between the two of singing and how it calms the nerves- Ruby bringing up songs and fairy tale ballads her mom and Yang would sing- Jaune following along and trying to learn Rubys songs as Ruby sings herself to sleep
then it closes and fades out to Jaune humming to himself