I Think The Most Tragic Part Of Law’s Character Is That For So Long He Didn’t Believe In Unconditional

tw // blood

    There is a quiet, fleeting, moment, when the blade sinks itself into his ribcage and just below his heart, where the world whites out at the edges. He feels his lungs rattle in his chest, feels the metallic taste of blood well up from the back of his throat. He feels Phil’s shaking hands, tremors running down the metal and into his spine and his throat and the lips he so lightly twists into a smile. 

    “Hey, Phil.” Wilbur says, feeling his father slip further down, head bowed in grief. “It’s cold.”

    Phil keens low and quiet into his chest, singed wings draping over Wilbur, trying their best to block out the cold he knows comes from somewhere within him. He appreciates the gesture nonetheless. 

    He hears fireworks in the distance, and sees blue and red through the feathers. L’manburg colors. He silently thanks his brother for the last reminder of his symphony, his unfinished verse. He wonders if his death will be a finishing bar, or perhaps a catalyst for a new measure. He wonders if Tommy knows that the mantle has been passed, and that he’s sorry for the weight that ties a noose around his younger brother’s neck. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, he wants to plead, you’re not supposed to carry the weight of my failures on your shoulders. He hopes Tommy runs away, that he leaves this unfinished song and go write for himself a new one, a happier one. 

    “Are you proud of me?” Wilbur finds himself whispering, half hoping Phil doesn’t hear, and finding himself feeling too tired to care. He supposes death did that to a person. Leaves them tired and cold and strangely light. Phil’s hands don’t stop shaking, and red paints his palms and fingers and the hem of his cloak. Wilbur huffs a laugh at his father’s silence.

    “You don’t have to answer that, I think I know what you’re gonna say anyway.” Wilbur says, swallowing back a lungful of blood and air, bringing a hand up to card through the man’s blond hair. Phil shudders. “I wouldn’t be proud of me either.”

    Phil lets out a broken sound at this, and somewhere in Wil’s bleeding chest, he feels a twinge of shame. 

    “Forget about me, Phil.” Wilbur says into the air, feeling sweat and blood and tears drip down his chin. It stains the tips of Phil’s hair. “It’ll be easier that way, I think.”

    Phil brings a hand up to clutch at Wilbur’s arm, head still burrowed in his fast reddening shirt, and Wilbur stifles a gasp at where the movement jars his wound. The elder’s breathing is shallow, he opens and closes his mouth, words caught in his throat, like he’s choking on them.

    “Don’t cry, Phil.” Wilbur hums, voice thready and thin in the ash filled air, “I don’t want that to be the last thing I hear.”

    Phil sobs, and his back shakes with the weight of his grief and his loss. It must be agonizing, Wilbur thinks, to mourn your son while he still speaks. Then again, that won’t last for much longer.

    Wilbur strokes his father’s head, though his fading strength only allows him to curl his fingers, helpless as it falls wayside to the ground. 

    “You’ll be fine, dad.” Wilbur whispers, “You did the right thing. You got rid of the big bad, like the hero in the stories you used to tell.”

    Phil wails harder, and Wilbur thinks that maybe being a hero isn’t as appealing when it causes good men to cry. 

    “I’m tired.” He sighs, feeling his eyes slip shut, “I’ve been awake too long.”

    Phil reaches out with trembling fingers, bloodstained palms cradling his cheek.

    “I l-love yo u.” He chokes, the words broken and jilted, like a song through a broken speaker. 

    Wilbur feels his smile slip a bit, and bites back a strangled laugh, because Phil doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve to have to paint the floor red with his own son’s blood. Another tally on his faults, he thinks, another red name for his ledger of wrongdoings. Even on his dying breath, he hurts the people he loves. 

    “I love you too.” He says, instead, because he refuses to leave without letting his father know that he loves him. That whatever happens, whatever consequences he’s left blazing at his wake, Wilbur soot does not hate his father.  That this isn’t some sort of cruel punishment or last hurrah. He thinks that maybe he just wants to be held, and that sleep comes so much easier when he’s safe in the arms of his childhood hero and protector. “I love you so much.”

     The static in his head grow louder, and he feels his heart give a shudder, and a beat, and the dark encroaches quickly, and through the gauze he hears a broken scream. Then, nothing.

What if Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had written about John Watson? Everything is the same, except that we are reading Sherlock Holmes’s observations about his new flatmate Doctor Watson.

Things start out impersonal, intellectual, but fall right off that cold, craggy cliff before the first page is done with. The detective deduces the doctor from top to toes but by the second paragraph he’s forced to admit having a blush surprised out of him by Watson’s unlooked-for wonder and admiration. For accuracy’s sake and perhaps with a pinch of pride, he details everything that Watson had said in his praise, and ends up confessing to the pages how very agreeable it was to be met with applause instead of derision and doubt for once.

Holmes is later pleased to be written about in turn, but disgusted with the overly romantic tone Watson’s tale-telling takes. In a pique, he begins a paper on the man’s latest conquest, intending to show his flatmate how the wrong tone can ruin a story by using a cold, scientific tone to describe a passionate scene. Alas, the great brain meets a puzzle it cannot solve. Try as he will, his prose will not stay unmoved by its subject. Watson’s looks, Watson’s manners, Watson’s honesty and humor and curious mixture of humility and hubris; they poison Sherlock’s pen with admiration, and he throws the papers into the fire in the end, and tells himself it is proximity to the flames that heat his cheeks.

Doctor Watson has regular hours, but illness and injury do not. Holmes watches his flatmate dash away at all hours and in all manner of weather, leather satchel in hand and shoulders set for battle. He amuses himself by deducing the difficulties the doctor has ahead of him and predicting the hour he will return. If he foresees a particularly trying case for his friend, he ensures that Mrs. Hudson will send refreshments up at the proper time, and that he himself will be in the middle of playing one of Watson’s favorite airs to welcome him home. Between cases, Holmes assists by deducing diagnoses from symptoms related to him, and sometimes even accompanies Watson when he admits that an additional set of hands will not be unwelcome.

Their vocations even overlap now and again. Both Watson’s books and Holmes’s notes will at times mention the same names and places, with the doctor stitching up a man’s leg while the detective interrogates the other end of him. Their lives, their work, their stories grow more deeply intertwined as time passes, and what began as a scientific observation ends up as what can only be called a love letter.

c!wilbur has spent so much time trying to be this grand figure, trying to prove his worth, trying to be worthy of anything, to prove that he's worth remembering and being loved!! he spiraled down so so far that he thought life wasn't worth living anymore! and in the end, after everything, he decided that the only thing he wanted was to go home! that's everything to me!

12 museums that you can visit online

www.hermitagemuseum.org

britishmuseum.org

www.louvre.fr

www.museodelprado.es

collections.vam.ac.uk

www.moma.org

www.khm.at

www.digitalsculpture.org

www.tnm.jp

artsandculture.google.com

collections.lacma.org

collections.rom.on.ca

the only acceptable post-s10 continuation of the show without steve would have been a danny-centric sitcom spin-off in which he’s navigating life as a retired single dad while steve is away. steve never comes on screen, but danny is constantly on the phone with him for half of every episode, and while we don’t /hear/ steve, danny does enough indignant repeating of whatever steve just said that we can always follow their conversations perfectly. one episode is about a school camping trip charlie goes on that steve promised he’d join as a parent, so now danny has to sub for him and he’s very mad about it because camping, steve, camping. one entire episode is just about danny learning to fake steve’s signature because technically steve is still the head of five-0 because he never officially retired before he took off, so now the team needs his name on some paperwork and they plead with danny to do it because he knows steve best. (turns out the paperwork that danny thought was super important was to get an espresso machine in the office.) one episode is about danny wanting to have a quiet day to himself and read a book, but steve keeps frantically calling and texting him because steve is at chin’s place and is trying to make a pavlova but has no idea what he’s doing and needs baking tips. all of the other cast (lou, tani, junior, quinn, lincoln, adam) are still on the show, and in every single episode you see them running around in the background of wherever danny is, doing their five-0 jobs, but completely out of context because we have no clue what their actual case of the week is. they’re usually seen in the middle of dismantling a bomb or arresting an international diamond smuggler or ducking to avoid getting hit by bullets while danny is in the foreground, ignoring the possibly literal fire behind him because he’s busy buying malasadas while attempting to get steve to tell him why they suddenly can’t facechat anymore (the answer, as it turns out at the end of that episode, is that steve accidentally died his own hair orange). 

Little things

All those little thing that you don’t care about are the whole word to me

One last time, Blood for the blood God

Love is a simple thing, we are the ones who make it difficult by loving what can't be loved

But I don't regret loving you

Columbia student reporters are showing more bravery and integrity than Shafik. The protestors are embodying democracy more than the fucking president of their university.

Listen to Columbia’s student radio here or on FM radio at 89.9 WKCR.