#*drabble.

            PITTER  patters fall softly upon woodworkings.   bye,  billy   !      ..      deep within his gut,  something darker wallows and threatens resurfacing.   swiftly,  slender fingertips wrap around walkie talkie and he’s pacing toward the window’s frame.   watching.   waiting.   anticipating.   once yellow slicker omits from beneath sheltered cove,  breath sucks in.   slowly,  talkie arises and he whispers into it.              ❛           ——  be careful.               ❜             a twinge of guilt grips from within.   palm rises and presses against window’s glass pane.   vigorous,  georgie waves and teeters from side to side.   joyous.   excited.   naive.   shifting,  paper boat’s bow makes headway and he watches his brother run  ..  run,  run,  run  ..   as fast as you can   !

             ANXIETY   begins arises deep beneath bill’s gut.   something’s lurking.   something’s watching. something’s waiting.   facade wavers between canvasing remorse and concern.   remorse for what   ?       ..       sad boy,  it’s merely a storm.   illness plagued the eldest denbrough for days.   influenza’s keeper has bedridden his brother.   yet,  looming doubt prickles against the core.   pressing himself against glass,   bill watches as george disappears into vast flooded streets.   wonderment’s playground  ..  it’s hunting ground.             ❛           ——  give him an hour and radio him  ..  one hour.               ❜          treading himself back toward disheveled sheets.   fingertips grasped discarded book and he reads. 

gabriel has lived for millennia in one vessel. gabriel has folded himself inwards from a being that reaches the stratosphere to a quiet confinement of muscles and red blood. gabriel has experienced those millennia in a stagnating suffocation. gabriel willingly chose it. forgot ( no; he’s always been the best at pretending ) what it was like to be a bolt of white lightning cradled in stasis by the universe itself, and how it felt to reach out with a multitude of wings and touch something ancient and watch infinite stars be born into a deep black that enshrined a newly designed existence.

forgot ( ... ) that was how it felt to be free, to be right. right in the sense of purpose and meant-to-be, in an awe inspiring and terrifying beauty that would blind mortal eyes if they glimpsed it.

gabriel willingly chose to abandon not only his own light && grace but the light of his brothers && sisters and of an absentee father. he opted instead to discover a lie of his own creation; it was better than deceiving those he adores and would have died for, once, like michael did. like raphael did. like he did. there was an ending to what once was, though, however unwilling the recipients of that end were, are, will be.

he fled.

now, all of a sudden, he’s not so sure. there was a moment, a brief heartbeat of centuries, where he wouldn’t have stood tall no matter who came begging, not after everything. now, that certainty is gone. he’s not sure. it feels like and it sounds like a vicious degradation but it’s upward mobility. it’s a change in the bedrock, a once solid foundation built from betrayal && misery. it only took two persistent humans. two humans who didn’t care for the thousands of years he’d lived among other humans and did so in blissful avoidance of anything too real and was never changed or shaken by. and none of it was real. some of it-   some of it cut deeper than most, dug its way deeper into borrowed bones to nest a little too close to his nonexistent soul. but none of it ever reached his heart, he, himself; gabriel. some of it was love, and some of it was hate, but none of it ever reached into the bottom of the abyss. there was always a final obstacle that offered him protection.  

he despaired.

and then the winchesters caught him. two impermanent boys who feel all too permanent, who reminded him that he loves. it’s something he will always claim he never forgot ( he did, and thats what he wanted in the first place, but it wasn’t ),  even as the growing pains begin. because-      he’s changing, like he’s always been meant to. electricity isn’t supposed to remain motionless or burrow into the earth, like he did. it’s a harsh reminder, but one he’s grateful for. or is furious for;  the space between those two feelings is microscopic. 

and he wants to hate them, but he doesn’t. he wants to hate michael, and lucifer, and raphael and even castiel, but he doesn’t.  he’s been reminded that he’s a warrior, and he’s going to fight. this time, on his own terms. he’s waking up, stretching out again into the cosmos and while it’s uncomfortable, still sparks a panic in him and makes him want to recoil into the darkness again, away from life, he’s not going to stop. he’s gabriel.

          Vital would be the first to tell you that, and with such passion that one could almost believe it as strongly as he does. There is no such thing as that brand of longevity without the loss of something, anything that makes one alive. 

                        That makes one human.

          What about your friends? Any family? You say you wouldn’t mind just leaving them behind, but it’s cowardly isn’t it? To push them out of the picture instead of confronting the idea that you’d have to watch anyone close to you rot away, slowly claimed by time and the inevitable. No matter how much you love you received in their lifetime, it’s all empty promises and hollow words once they’re gone, and there’s no amount of memories that could fill that void you begin to experience.

          So you start to distance yourself, not seeking to repeat the mistake, that’s right, mistake of developing a connection with someone to watch their light fade, smothered by the darkness of death over the years. It’s a lonely, thankless existence, empty of meaning and purpose until you give yourself one, bowing your head and hunching your shoulders to commit to that purpose you’ve scrounged up. A job, a task, a mission. But what if it doesn’t stand against the test of time and is soon made redundant? 

          Not to mention that you’re watching new technologies and shifts in societal attitudes, and after a point it literally feels overnight. You’ve got to learn about these updates, to adapt and blend because who would believe that you’re immortal? Your next option is to try to travel freely, to remain untethered in every aspect of your life. No friends, no family, no risks, no work, and no commitment.

You live every day like it’s your last.                                      You’re living a lie.

          It’s exhausting. It makes one crave some sense of normalcy after oh-so-many years of trying out new things, and you begin to fear that you’re running out of those new things to try out. Maybe you can find a place to settle down, start your own business, get comfortable for a few years or decades before moving on. But it’s when you catch your reflection in the side of a skyscraper in New York as you pass by that your steps come to a halt. This isn’t the same person who had set out so long ago to achieve their dream -- for there is no dream, no hope, no vigor or passion for what you have in front of you. There is no life in you.

You’re an empty shell, a pebble cast to try to float in the vastness of the sea.

you’re five when you try on mother’s favorite pearls and decide that you can be pretty too. ‘

(you’re eight when mother’s favorite pearls are all you have left of her and you wish you could be her, wearing those pearls. maybe that way--maybe then--you could have saved mischa.)

masculinity is under attack. your head is shaved and you do drills and don’t cry, you little queer, boys don’t cry. you don’t know if you’re a boy--you don’t even know if you’re a person anymore--but you’re going to be a soldier. you’ll die for the motherland, whether you’re a boy or human or not. 

you move to france. 

(you taste blood for the first time.)

you wear lipstick for the first time. 

you’re going to be a doctor, hannibal vilheimas lecter. you’re twenty and top of your med school class and at the prime of your life. you like cigarettes and black coffee and corsets, too. they give you pleasure--the same warmth you get from sipping at wine--and this isn’t just a fad, unless it’s lasted your whole life. you’re not a boy. you’re not a girl. 

gender is a skin you can switch as much as you’d like, and perhaps people don’t understand--you don’t expect anyone to. 

(in fact, you’re forty when you meet someone who does understand. she understands you better than you understand yourself.)

labels aren’t as much of a comfort as they used to be.

(human or monster? boy or girl? you don’t think about it.)  

GEMEDES IS BEAUTIFUL.

valeriu has known that, he’s always know that but now, for some reason, it’s finally struck him just how beautiful the angel is. their beauty as a physical being is much different than their beauty in their true form... but still holds ethereal qualities that draw valeriu in without him even realizing. he catches himself thinking about them, staring at them; sometimes, when he speaks to them, his tongue dries up and he’s at a loss for words.

the elf can’t look at them today. he can’t look at them without his face heating up. the way their dark hair falls over pale shoulders barely touched by the sun, their even darker eyes shining with ages-old wisdom. thin lips are turned upwards into a knowing smile at times---though other times they look quite severe. and the curves of their body... gods, couldn’t they have picked a less attractive form?

though he remembers gemedes telling him once: “the women in many of the novels i have read have been very beautiful. i suppose i wish to be beautiful like that too.”

don’t they know they’re beautiful no matter what?

to him, at least...

and they’ve seen the way they look at him, as if he’s the only thing in gehennam that really matters. he’s seen how they look away bashfully when he catches them staring. valeriu has to wonder just what they see in him. he isn’t anything special... is he? actually, he’s just an awkward, nervous wreck. small, scruffy, shy...

but this angel, his patron angel, seems to be quite taken with him.

or maybe he’s seeing something that isn’t there.

when he catches gemedes singing, it is something he can compare to that of a siren’s song. alluring, mystifying... it is in a language he does not understand, one that he can only figure has been lost over millennia. but it is wonderful. the elf steps into the room further, listens to the angel sing with a soft smile and even softer eyes.

but gemedes spots him, their voice catches in their throat and their eyes widen like saucers. the angel moves to leave, moves to rush past the elf before he can speak but is startled when his calloused hand curls around their wrist, tugs them back gently but remains loose in case they wish to pull away.

` don’t go. `

a soft plea. gemedes looks down at the other in confusion, brows knit together. their arm is given a gentle tug, and they lean forward just slightly to look the other in the eye. entire body tenses the moment arms wrap around their neck, but they find their own hands falling onto his waist and drawing him closer. it’s all instinct. they don’t really understand what’s happening until it’s happened.

lips mesh together. it’s hardly anything you could qualify as good. it’s sloppy, a little awkward. their noses bump together and gemedes can’t seem to keep their eyes shut because they’re too caught up in valeriu’s face so close to their own.

when the kiss---if you could call it that---is broken, gemedes stares at the elf who is visibly flustered, stuttering over his words when he says, ` s-sorry, don’t... don’t know what i was thinking, i--- `

but gemedes only draws him closer before he can finish, causing him to grunt in surprise, and their lips meet again. it’s a little better than their first one, but not by much. at least their lips are fitted together less sloppily now.

valeriu melts into it, gemedes finds their eyes fluttering shut and they can feel the elf smile into it.

it might not be the best kiss, but to gemedes?

i.

a garden, tucked away safely on the balcony of the apartment, bathed in sunshine. mischa, still speaking in the coos and cries of a one-year-old, makes a noise of delight when he takes her to the flowerbed—where spring has started to show and the flowers have started to bloom. she wriggles in the grip of his lithe arms, excited.

not for the flowers, though—but the plants beside them. the boy approaches them, holding her carefully in one arm in a way motina certainly wouldn’t approve of. taking one of the aubergine in hand, he leads her palm to touch it gently. she tries to pull it out of the roots with her feeble strength, eager to hold it and investigate on her own. he pulls her away before that’s possible.

“be careful. they are not ready to be picked.”

he’s met only with baby gibberish and a pinch to the nose.

ii.

like every other year, mischa falls ill with pneumonia in the winter, right around the christmas season. she’s kept in her room, resting and constantly drinking fluids, too ill to do anything besides that.

despite how contagious she is and how much he’s warned to stay away, he doesn’t. instead, he creeps into her room around an hour or so before her designated bedtime, a copy of the snow queen tucked under his arm and a sack in his hand. hannibal is both alone and lonely, and needs something besides the solitude of his own mind—needs someone. mischa provides him something that his parents cannot, that chef cannot. that caesar cannot.

he hears her wet cough when he enters, sitting in the chair beside her bed. in the dark, he sees glassy aubergine eyes staring wide in his direction, hears a familiar but raspy “anniba?"

hushing her, he turns on her bedside lamp, showing his copy of the children’s book. he’s met with a wide grin, and outspread and eager arms. taking the aubergine out of his sack—stolen from the kitchen, chef will hardly notice it—he hands it to her to hold. she hasn’t seen one in months, and her eyes shine the color if it as they always do.

when he begins to read in low, practiced russian, she whines.

"sit with me, anniba,” the two-year-old demands, making space in her minuscule bed for him to slide in. “sit. please.”

because she uses her manners, he slides in, taking up as little space as possible with her shaggy blonde head tucked under his arm and arms wrapped around him, fists clenching the fabric of his pajama shirt. he’s not even halfway through the first chapter before she’s asleep, breathing heavy and wheezy on his chest, the eggplant forgotten. he runs his fingers through her hair, smiling, feeling the burn of her feverish skin on his fingers.

it’s a strange thing, love. but hannibal knows he feels it for mischa. if he had to, he would tear the whole world down for her. there would be no question.

but perhaps that’s what love is.

iii.

it is not often that hannibal turns to god.

but when he does, he’s met with nothing, and mischa is gone. he’d prayed and mischa is gone, only her baby teeth and femur left. he knows the femur from the anatomy books he’d devoured, back in the library. with the swing of an ax, she’s gone.  

the vibrant palace forming in his mind with its vast gardens bathed in sunshine and blooming with spring flowers and aubergine goes grey, turns to sand.

mischa is gone.

i.

he’s eight when he first tastes blood.

his mother, lying in his arms, and he can taste blood. it’s everywhere, too: all over his hands, clothes. blood spurts out of his mouth as she gurgles, struggles to say her last words before she’s gone.

it tastes coppery, and he throws up after. he can’t get the taste out of his mouth for hours afterward.

ii.

he’s twelve when tastes his own.

he doesn’t talk, doesn’t do much except stare, write, and sometimes grunt. least of all does he sing.

they’re in the midst of the usual morning routine of singing about the supreme ruler lenin when he’s taken outside. it’s october. he’s beaten for his silence until he tastes blood in his mouth.

“maybe he’ll sing now!” they yell.

when he doesn’t sing like how they want, they leave him there, pressed up against the faded portrait of stalin on the brick wall, his own blood and the rain becoming one common stream.

iii.

he’s fifteen when he tries it himself.

paul the butcher cuts like butter over his blade and he has a lot of blood to give. it seems like it never ends, even after twenty minutes of bleeding out from a headless neck.

he’s curious, though—and he licks some of it off his fingertips. it’s metal and copper on his tongue—exquisite in its own way, but not something he would try again.