striking with simplicity

Nocturne in C minor, B. 108
Frédéric Chopin
Nocturne in C minor, B. 108

The Nocturne No. 21 in C minor, Op. posth. is a musical work for solo piano written by Frédéric Chopin in 1837. It was the last of Chopin’s nocturnes to be published, and was done so posthumously. It is famous for its striking simplicity and folk-like melody. Among the 21 nocturnes known to have been written by Chopin, this is one of the two that end in minor - another being the Nocturne No. 13 in C minor, Op. 48 No. 1.

Opening bars of Nocturne in C minor,B.108

This is the least known of Chopin’s nocturnes; nevertheless, the piece is as beautiful as the other ones.Performed by Diana Hughes.

archiveofourown.org
Grant Us Peace - Quicksilver Timestamp - Weconqueratdawn - Hannibal (TV) -  Archive of Our Own

Rating: Teen & up
Pairing: Hannibal/Will, Will & Bev
Tags: au, fluff, romance, mild drug use, music, Bach, shopping, gender identity, references to Pretty Woman

Set after I’ll Be Your Mirror

I desperately needed to write some fluff and we can’t really have too much of it at the moment, so here’s a Quicksilver timestamp based on a conversation I had with @samui-sakura88 (why can’t i tag ugh) about a million years ago.

@samui-sakura88 I always meant to do something with it and it seemed to fit really nicely into the timeline right now - I hope you like it :)

Thanks to @wrathofthestag for advising me expertly about American clothing stores and where Will and Bev would likely go shopping, and to @lordofthelesbians and @wraithsonwingsposts for beta :)

For people unfamiliar with this series: Will is a genderfluid psychology student. He lives with Bev, his best friend. Hannibal is crazy in love with him and grows his own cannabis (in case you get confused by that mention). Just… try to go with it.

~~~

Even in the beginning, Hannibal had never been the type to drag Will off to bed as soon as dinner was over. He enjoyed the ritual order of clearing away, and he enjoyed taking time over his pleasures, whether that was cooking, eating, or an unhurried glass of cognac. Will was no exception to this rule.

After their feast would come a cosy, quiet passion which lasted only until it was quiet no longer. Will would curl up on the sofa to read, preferring a few hits of Hannibal’s homegrown pot to a nightcap. Hannibal would never be far away, occasionally sketching at his desk, but tonight allowing Will to use him as a human sofa cushion. He showed no sign at all that he minded. In fact, Will was certain from the firm arm around his middle, holding Will against him, that it also counted amongst his pleasures.

Both of them had books, but only one was reading. Will had lost interest in Wuthering Heights some time ago. He knew it almost by heart anyway and reading was too much effort after a voluptuous meal, especially so deep into the semester. Instead, lulled by the rise and fall of Hannibal’s chest, he listened to his own sluggish thoughts and the rhythmic sound of pages turning behind him.  

Hannibal peered over his shoulder. “Not in the mood for your book?”

“I’ve looked at too many words this week,” Will said. “I’ve pored over them, mine and other people’s, and I’m sick of text of all kinds.”

Hannibal put his own book aside, so he could wind both arms around Will. “At least you are being stretched,” he said. “Maybe you should have a holiday, when the semester is over.”

“Ugh, there’s finals first,” said Will. “I can’t even think about the summer until they’re over.”

“In that case,” Hannibal said, releasing him to stand smoothly, “I recommend music. If you cannot be transported in body, you shall be in spirit.”

Will half-expected Hannibal to sit at the harpsichord but he moved past it and went to the record player on the other side of the room. He deliberated by his small record collection, concealed in a carved cabinet with varnish like treacle, before selecting one. The needle was lowered into place and he returned to Will’s side.

There was a long moment of crackling silence, emanating from hidden speakers. Then the music began. Its effect was immediate, bursting into the room in a sublime rising chorus of voices, strings and brass. He rested his head against Hannibal’s shoulder and closed his eyes to listen. It was hard not to picture soaring spaces of holy stones, of golden light and beseeching praise. After a few short minutes, it ended and all was once more quiet.

“You’re watching me again, I know it,” said Will. He opened his eyes to find he was right, and laughed.

“I wanted to see your response,” Hannibal said. “See if and where you were transported.”

“What was that?”

Dona nobis pacem from Bach’s Mass in B minor.”

“Play it again,” Will said.

So Hannibal did.

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The gentle world of The Return of Doctor Mysterio

Talking about The Return of Doctor Mysterio, I always stumble over the same words. Quietly. Gentle.

There is a striking simplicity in its set-up, as the plot lovingly touches on every cliché in its reach. Between the lines, in the small moments, playing it straight uncovers the small absurdities of everyday superhero life. The result is charming. Delightful, even, as Grant stumbles his way through his life as a nanny (and around expectations of masculinity) and Lucy’s incredibly perceptiveness misses the one fact of her life that is continuously lampshaded as obvious.

It is the fairytale between the two of them that takes over the tone of the episode. We come across tropes that the Moffat era in particular has engaged with over and over again, but they’re not allowed to unfold the same way, bowing under the gentle pressure of the innocent magic that rules this superhero story. The gaps might be just as telling than what we actually see.

The Doctor meets a child, but unlike in every significant previous occurence, this instance does not revolve around fears but around dreams coming true. The Doctor changes the course of the child’s life in an instance, but only briefly grapples with the consequences before the story is already moving on. This is his superhero origin story and the how and the who are entirely secondary to news report of disasters or noises coming from a baby monitor.

And so the Doctor might figure out the (fairly familiar sounding, and utterly evil) villain’s plans and set the clever solution into motion, but in the end, the day is saved because that’s what superheroes do. This is pure escapism and that isn’t an accident. It’s a fantasy which invites to forget, offers to soothe any worries for a while. Appropriate, for a time lord still raw with grief and pain. And for a brief respite from a long hiatus.

Once a person I deeply love told me that if I wanted to know whether a person loves me or not I should close my eyes and ask my heart. The simplicity striked me because it was true. I overthink everything as people are complex, so are their motivations and behaviors, yet that simplicity remains- love is the safest feeling moving beneath your eyelids through your spine when you ask that question. You shouldn’t overanalyze love.
—  existpause