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just-my-latest-hyperfixation · 4 months

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We'll give it a shot

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles, day 30/31

Prompt: New year's resolutions

Rated: G

CW: aftermath of injury; aftermath of trauma

Tags: Established relationship; recovery; fluff

Notes: Continued from days 3 and 18 - @house-of-the-moving-image and I just wanted them to be happy after all we put them through. 😭❤️

Steve has always been all movement, all fluid grace, for as long as Eddie remembers. On the pitch, in the pool. Shielding others with his own body, his strength. He was proud of this. It was the one thing he knew he was good at.

And then Vecna nearly twisted his limbs from his body. Broke his arm in three different places, his leg in five.

“They say I'll need to be patient,” Steve tells Eddie a few months after everything, hands tangled over the middle console of the van. It's late December and they're on their way back from physical therapy. “Could be months before I walk without crutches. Years maybe before I'm back to the way I was before… or close.”

Eddie clenches his free hand around the steering wheel, like Steve clung to that stupid handrail earlier. White-knuckled and pale-faced, jaw locked tight as he struggled to take a few shaky steps. Not for the first time, he wishes that he'd been faster, pulled him out sooner-

“Eds.”

He snaps back to the present as if pulled by a bungee rope. Steve’s eyes are warm and soft.

“Stop it,” he says, gentle and firm and so very strong, so very Steve. Eddie needs to swallow against the sudden thickness clogging his throat. “You've nothing to hold against yourself. You saved me.”

“You saved yourself,” Eddie huffs, eyes stubbornly trained on the snowy road. “I helped, is all. You can do this, too. You'll be walking in no time, you just wait.”

“Dunno,” Steve mutters. He sounds so small, so broken, so very much not like himself, and Eddie wishes he could resurrect Vecna, simply to kill him again. Make it more painful this time, let him suffer like he made them suffer. “You saw me just now. Feels like I need to fight forever for every little inch of success.”

“Let's make a deal?”

The words are out before Eddie can think better of it, but the sadness on Steve’s face has given way to curiosity, so he shoulders on.

“We could make it a new year's resolution. If you manage to walk by … July, let's say, I'll quit smoking.”

“Oh, please!” Steve's eyebrow quirks. “As if you could.”

“Of course I could. I'm tired of you whining about my cigarette breath anyhow. What's wrong, big boy? Scared of getting your ass handed to you?”

“Fuck off,” Steve grouses, but his mouth is curling into a smile and his eyes are sparkling. “It's on, dude!”

“Hell, yeah!” Eddie makes no attempt at hiding his smug grin. Count on Steve’s competitive streak to win him over. “It's so on!”

“Oh God,” Steve squawks the second his hands lose contact with the crutches. “It's off. Eds, it's off, give’m here.”

“Nuh-uh!” Eddie dances a step back - not far, still close enough to catch Steve in case he falls, but far enough to keep the crutches out of reach. “Just give it a shot, c’mon. You got this.”

Over the distance between them, their eyes meet.

“I've gotcha.”

Steve's eyes light up and a small laugh bubbles from his throat.

And then he walks.

Eddie makes sure to stay a bit ahead, spouting a never-ending string of encouragement and jokes and sweet nonsense. Just keeps talking so that Steve can focus on something other than the fear and the doubt. Guides him with his voice like he's done before, like he'll keep doing for as long as Steve needs, as long as he wants.

The first steps are unsure and wobbly, but soon enough, Steve finds his footing. They've both kicked off their shoes, and the dry summer grass is brittle under their naked feet, the earth soft and warm. The sound of their footfalls mingles with the whirr of the cicadas in the grass, the rush of his own blood in his ears, their mingled laughter, a gorgeous, wonderful symphony of alive, alive, alive.

When Steve’s legs give out and he stumbles, Eddie is there. He cushions their fall with his own body and they go down in a tangle of limbs and laughter, lips meeting before they even hit the ground. The crutches go clattering somewhere to the side.

“I did it!” Steve gasps against his mouth, and Eddie can't tell if the sound is more laugh or more sob. “Shit, did you- did you see that? I did it!”

“You did it,” Eddie rumbles, hands in Steve's hair, kissing his lips and nose and eyes and anything he can reach between words. Both their cheeks are wet with tears, but they're good tears, finally good tears, and he can’t tell whose they are anymore. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that they’re alive, and here, and together. “Fuck yeah, you did, always knew you would. So strong, so amazing. Love you so much.”

Steve makes another sound, a raw thing so full of emotion it makes Eddie’s heart flutter, and crashes their lips together again, firmer, longer. Eddie sighs as a hesitant tongue coaxes at his lips, opens up, lets him in.

And then Steve groans and pulls back.

“What?” Eddie asks, insides twisting with worry. “Shit, did you hurt yourself? What-”

“‘m fine!” Steve wheezes, glancing up at him with watery eyes. “You just taste like an ashtray, is all.”

“Oh, c'mon!” Eddie grouses while Steve rolls off him, flops onto his back in the grass. “I had like half a cig this morning.”

“Half a cig too much, then,” Steve beams up at him, all glinting teeth and gold-streaked hair in the sunlight, eyes sparkling with mirth and alive, alive, alive. “I win.”

Eddie pouts. “What though? Can't remember agreeing on a prize, this was all fun and-”

One strong, nimble hand tangles in the collar of his shirt, pulls him in.

“Shut up and kiss me, ash breath.”

Eddie has never obeyed an order more gladly in his life.

All my holiday drabbles

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie brainrot #steddie fanfic #fanfiction writer #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #steddie holiday drabbles #steddieholidaydrabbles #hype's holiday drabbles

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mrs5sn0w · 5 months

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Serenade of Shadows

I : A Dance of Shadows -> II : Whisper of Deceit -> III : A Symphony of Heartbreak -> IV: Fractured Reflections -> V : Shadows of Allegiance -> VI : Echoes of Decent

Series Masterlist

Young!Coriolanus Snow x Fem!reader

warnings: Arranged marriage, MILD ANGST, unrequited love, friends to enemies, enemies to lovers

Reader's surname : Flare

Time frame: Before, during and after tbosbas

Synopsis: In the events of Panem's political dynamics and the 10th annual Hunger Games, Coriolanus Snow and her find themselves entwined. Standing at the brink of an enforced union, 6 years later, their mutual trust unravels amidst a damaging misinterpretation, prompting Coriolanus to believe the wrong. As the glacial barriers guarding his emotions begin to melt, a revelation of profound feelings unfolds, initiating a sprint against time for redemption.

Coriolanus Snow, his mind a tempest of resentment and frustration, watched her retreat from the balcony. The air in the room hung heavy with the aftermath of their verbal clash, a battlefield of emotions where neither emerged unscathed.

As the door closed behind her, the room became a chamber of solitude, echoing with the haunting melodies of a loveless marriage. Snow's inner monologue, a symphony of bitterness, played out in the recesses of his thoughts.

"How did it come to this? A marriage that was supposed to be a strategic alliance has become a suffocating tangle of emotions. She is a woman I married for power, now challenges the very foundations of my carefully constructed existence."

The vivid memory of their confrontation at the balcony gnawed at him. His indifference, a fortress he had cultivated for survival, had been pierced by her words. Yet, the bitter taste of resentment lingered, refusing to be washed away by the Capitol's opulence.

"Lucy Gray Baird, a name I buried deep within, resurrected by her audacious tongue. The mere mention of Lucy Gray unleashes a storm of memories, a Pandora's box of emotions I long thought sealed."

In the privacy of his thoughts, Snow grappled with the ghosts of his past. Lucy Gray, the girl from the 10th Annual Hunger Games, had been a spark of humanity in a world that demanded heartlessness. Mrs Snow, or rather Ms Flare as he calls her, however, was a different challenge—an embodiment of Capitol expectations, a living reminder of the sacrifices demanded by power.

“She challenges me, questions the very essence of what I've become. The Capitol expects conformity, but she refuses to play the obedient wife. Her words sting, and yet, a part of me wonders if I am the monster she paints me to be."

The recollection of an incident, a pivotal moment that almost tipped the scales towards irreversible darkness, flashed in his mind—a rebel attack during a public speech. The President, had shielded his wife whom he hates most from a threat that sought to extinguish his existence.

The rebel attack had shattered the illusion of control, and chaos reigned as panic rippled through the crowd. In the midst of the mayhem, Coriolanus Snow's mind worked with a calculated precision, seizing the opportunity to manipulate the narrative to his advantage.

As the glass hurtled through the air towards the First Lady, Snow's eyes widened, not in shock, but in a calculated realisation. In that split second, he saw an opportunity—an opportunity to position himself as the saviour, the protector, and to ensure that she remained alive, at least until he could extract the full potential of her family's power of railroad business.

“Coryo ?" Her voice trembled, the fear in her eyes reflecting the disarray that had befallen the once-controlled environment, calling him by his nickname out of fear.

In response, Snow, a cunning puppeteer manipulating the strings of the situation, took decisive action.

“Get down!"

His command carried an authority that transcended their strained relationship. It was a directive, a calculated move to both protect her and reinforce his image as the authoritative figure in the face of rebellion.

As she hesitated, caught in the crossfire of rebellion, the glass sailed towards her. Snow, swift and deliberate, stepped forward, positioning himself between her and the imminent threat. The trajectory of the glass changed, its intended victim now obscured by the President himself.

The glass collided with Snow, and a shard found its mark, leaving him with a light but visible injury. Yet, the pain, though physical, was a small price to pay for the strategic advantage he gained.

"Sir, we need to evacuate! There might be more attacks!"

A voice from his security detail shouted amidst the confusion.

Snow, gritting his teeth against the pain, nodded, his eyes never leaving her.

"Get her to safety."

His order was concise, the words carrying a weight that hinted at a complexity beyond the immediate threat.

As she was ushered away by the security detail, her gaze locked with Snow's.

"Are you alright ?"

Her words held a genuine concern, a question that demanded a response beyond the physical injury.

Snow, his mind already spinning the narrative in his favour, managed a curt nod.

"I'll be fine. Just ensure your safety."

His words, though seemingly selfless, were laced with a subtle reminder of the debt owed.

"We can't let these rebels disrupt our way of life, sir. We need to show strength against such threats." Another member of the security detail chimed in, the sentiment aligning with Snow's own agenda.

"We'll make an example of those who dare challenge the Capitol. But first, tend to the wounded." Snow's tone was authoritative, his gaze still fixed on her as she was led away.

The rebel attack, though quelled, had left its mark. Snow, now nursing his injury, knew that this incident could be melded into a powerful narrative—a tale of sacrifice, resilience, and strength against dissent.

As they retreated from the grand hall, the echoes of the rebellion still lingering, Snow's mind was already at work, weaving the incident into the grand tapestry of Capitol politics. The rebel attack had been repelled, but in its wake, Snow had gained not only a strategic advantage but a hold on the fragile threads of her fate. It was a victory, not just against the rebels, but in the silent, shadowed game of power that played out behind the dazzling facade of the Capitol.

The air was thick with tension as security personnel rushed to secure the area and attend to the wounded. Coriolanus Snow, nursing his injury, moved with a calculated grace as he made his way to a more private space, away from the prying eyes of the Capitol.

His wife, guided by a concerned security detail, followed closely. The gravity of the situation hung heavy between them, the unspoken acknowledgment of a debt owed and a connection forged in the face of rebellion.

In a secluded room, she took charge. The grandeur of Capitol politics faded, revealing the vulnerability beneath the carefully constructed facade. Snow, despite his usual air of authority, allowed her to tend to his injury.

"Coryo?" Her voice, a whisper in the hushed aftermath, carried a note of concern. She dared to address him by the nickname, a gesture that hinted at a shift in the dynamics between them.

Snow, though still stoic, acknowledged her presence with a subtle nod. His eyes, usually guarded, betrayed a flicker of vulnerability as she inspected the wound. The shard had left a superficial but visible cut on his shoulder.

"You should've let me die,"

He remarked, the words heavy with the weight of disdain for the woman who held the potential key to his aspirations.

The first lady, focused on her task, responded without hesitation.

"I won't let you die."

Her hands worked swiftly, cleaning and dressing the wound. The air was thick with tension,

"Why?" Snow's question, uttered with a hint of curiosity, hung in the air. The complexity of the moment bore down on them, the rebel attack a mere backdrop to the intricate dance of power and vulnerability.

With her gaze steady, she met his eyes.

"Because I'm not like you. Despite everything, I can't just stand by and watch someone I care about suffer." Her words, though tinged with the pain of their strained relationship, held a conviction that made Snow pause.

"You could have let me die and taken advantage of the chaos," Snow mused, his tone a mixture of contemplation and resentment.

"Taken advantage how and why exactly ?"

She finished the dressing then locking eyes with him, discontinuing her question, she then added

"Besides, that's the difference between us, Snow. No matter how much you've hurt me, I can't turn my back on someone I once cared about. I won't let them strip away my humanity."

The conversation lingered in the air, a testament to the fractures in their relationship. The rebel attack, though thwarted, had exposed the vulnerabilities beneath their Capitol personas.

As they exited the room, the unspoken tension between them trailed like a shadow, a reminder of a connection strained by power and the remnants of a once-deep bond. The rebel attack, a mere catalyst, had unraveled a complex web of emotions, leaving them to grapple with the aftermath in the corridors of Capitol authority.

The incident, a turning point in their entangled narrative, injected a dose of ambivalence into his feelings. Hatred and gratitude danced a precarious waltz within him.

The Capitol's demands grew more stringent, and her defiance became a thorn in the carefully cultivated image of President Snow. The public appearances, the forced smiles, and the facade of unity clashed with the internal turmoil.

"The Capitol revels in the illusion of perfection. Our loveless marriage is a spectacle, a tragic play that demands flawless performances. Yet, her refusal to conform threatens the very script I've authored for our lives."

In the quiet moments of introspection, Snow found himself grappling with a question that refused to be silenced

"Could it have been different if Lucy Gray stood in Flare's shoes? Would the Capitol's expectations have been met more effortlessly with the girl from District 12 by my side?"

The answer, elusive and shrouded in the complexities of his own psyche, haunted his contemplations.

"Lucy Gray, the one who saw through me, the one I couldn't control. Ms Flare, the one who challenges me, who refuses to be a puppet. Each a reflection of a different truth, a truth that makes the walls of my carefully constructed world crumble."

As the days turned into weeks, the cracks in their marriage deepened. The refusal to share a bed, the bitter exchanges, and the persistent defiance painted a portrait of a union hanging by a fragile thread.

He had fully forgotten who took care of his injury.

Amid the ruins of their marriage, Snow found himself haunted by a realization. She, for all her defiance, was a constant presence he couldn't escape.

"She challenges me, defies the Capitol, and yet, she remains. A thorn in my side, a reminder of the compromises demanded by power. The Capitol may revel in perfection, but our imperfect dance continues, a discordant melody in the grand symphony of Panem."

In the quiet stillness of the night, Coriolanus Snow stood at the threshold of their bedroom, watching her sleep on the solitary refuge of the sofa. The grand bed, adorned with memories now tainted by bitterness, seemed to mock him with its empty expanse.

As moonlight cast a delicate glow upon her features, Snow couldn't help but be captivated by the peaceful slumber that graced her. The tumultuous lines of defiance, etched upon her face in waking hours, faded away, leaving behind a serene vulnerability that was impossible to deny.

A pang of guilt crept within Snow's thoughts as he observed her in the soft embrace of sleep. She was a constant presence he couldn't escape, even in the solitude of their shared residence. The realization haunted him—a thorn in his side, a reminder of the compromises entwined with the pursuit of power.

As the Capitol slept in the deceptive allure of its opulence, Snow found himself wrestling with conflicting emotions. She challenged him, defied the Capitol, and yet, she remained—an indelible presence that lingered in the shadows of his contemplations.

Snow, restless in his thoughts, couldn't escape the haunting image of her. There she was, on the sofa, shivering in the cold embrace of the room. Her beauty, undeniable even in the vulnerability of sleep, tugged at something buried deep within him.

A twinge of remorse settled in his chest for relegating her to the sofa while he occupied the grand bed. The inappropriateness of their positions mirrored the fractures within their marriage, a reflection of the sacrifices demanded by the Capitol's unforgiving expectations. He questioned the decisions that had led them to this point, the choices made in the pursuit of power and control.

Unable to ignore the stirring within him, Snow rose from the bed. His steps were quiet, deliberate, as he approached her. The soft glow of the moonlight outlined her features, and for a moment, he saw beyond the politics, beyond the manipulations.

Gently, he lifted her figure, cradling her with a care that seemed at odds with the ruthlessness he exhibited in the daylight. The weight of her in his arms felt both burdensome and strangely comforting. He carried her to the bed, laying her down with a tenderness that contradicted the harsh realities of their world.

The duvet, a luxurious fabric that spoke of Capitol excess, was drawn over her. He paused for a moment, watching her sleep with a sense of guilt and obligation. It was a quiet repayment, an acknowledgment of the debt owed when she tended to his injury during the rebel attack.

As he stood by the bedside, a wave of conflicting emotions washed over him. The Capitol demanded sacrifices, but in the stillness of the night, he grappled with the notion that perhaps some sacrifices were too steep.

His thoughts, however, were interrupted as she stirred in her sleep. Confusion clouded her waking eyes, momentarily disoriented by the change in surroundings. Snow, ever the master of composed demeanor, waited in the shadows, his mind racing with unspoken questions.

She blinked, adjusting to the dim light, and the confusion in her eyes gradually gave way to recognition. Yet, instead of questioning her altered surroundings, she shrugged it off with a nonchalant dismissal. It was a testament to the resilience she carried, a defiance against the oppressive weight of their world.

In that moment, as she settled back into a peaceful slumber, Snow found himself questioning the narratives that had shaped his perception of her.

Was she truly the one who had betrayed him to Dean Casca Highbottom during the 10th Annual Hunger Games, or were there layers to her that defied the simplicity of his assumptions ?

He couldn’t escape the thoughts of her family, the influential figures in the railroad business, their wealth intricately tied to the veins of Panem’s transportation. The clinking of metal against metal echoed in his mind, a symbolic resonance of their family’s vast empire, built on the tracks that connected districts.

His contemplations lingered in the shadows, torn between the duty to power and the unspoken complexities of a connection that refused to be silenced.

The room, once again cloaked in silence, held the answers to questions he hesitated to ask. Love, power, and the enigmatic dance between duty and vulnerability continued to weave their intricate patterns in the quiet hours of the night. As Snow retreated to his thoughts, the moon casting its glow on a world steeped in complexity, the Capitol slept on, unaware of the turmoil playing out behind the facades of opulence and control.

The fractured reflections of his emotions mirrored the complexities of the world he navigated. Love, power, and the price paid for conformity converged in a tumultuous dance, each step revealing the intricate patterns of a life entangled in the expectations of Panem.

The weeks unfolded like a series of calculated movements on a chessboard. Her role as the First Lady demanded appearances at public events, alongside Snow, where their carefully orchestrated display of unity clashed with the underlying tensions. The Capitol's eyes were always watchful, scrutinizing every gesture, every smile, seeking flaws in the flawless facade.

As they attended meetings, her decisions sparked silent discontent in Snow. She navigated the political landscape with a subtle authority, making choices that reflected her individual agency. The unspoken resentment simmered beneath the surface, an undercurrent that threatened to pull them further apart.

During one pivotal meeting, she proposed a policy that diverged from Snow's expectations. The exchange that followed became a community of their strained partnership

"do you think it wise to make decisions without consulting me first ?"

"Coriolanus, my role as the First Lady extends beyond decorative appearances. I have a voice, and I intend to use it for the betterment of Panem."

The tension in the room mirrored the growing distance between them. Snow's control over the narrative of their union was slipping, and he felt the weight of his vulnerability.

"She challenges not only my authority but the very foundation of Capitol norms. Is this rebellion or naivety? Regardless, her decisions amplify the fractures in our marriage, exposing the delicate balance we precariously maintain."

Yet, amidst the clashes, there were moments when their shared history surfaced—a glimmer of the connection that had once been more than a political alliance.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day of Capitol duties, they found themselves alone in the residence. The silence hung between them, heavy with unspoken words and unresolved tensions.

"Coriolanus, we can't keep living like this. Our marriage, our partnership, it's unraveling."

"Perhaps it was never meant to be more than a facade, a marriage of convenience."

"But we were more than that once. There was a time when our dreams defied the Capitol's constraints."

Her words, a plea for acknowledgment, echoed through the room. Snow's gaze softened momentarily, the hardened exterior revealing a glimpse of the man he used to be.

"The Capitol changes people. It demands conformity, and we, too, have succumbed to its influence."

The admission hung in the air, a confession of the price they paid for power. In that vulnerable moment, the invisible threads that bound them tightened.

"Can we reclaim what was lost, or are we forever tangled in the web of Capitol expectations? her plea lingers in my thoughts, a haunting reminder that beneath the layers of bitterness, there remains a shared history—a history that refuses to be erased."

Days turned into a relentless cycle of public appearances, meetings, and forced smiles. The masquerade of their union continued, leaving them both entangled in the performance of a lifetime. The Capitol's grip tightened, and Snow found himself increasingly isolated, grappling with the conflicting emotions that surged within.

"Isolation, a consequence of power. The higher I climb, the lonelier it becomes. Her presence, both a comfort and a source of conflict, underscores the delicate balance between love and duty.

TAGLIST : @cookielovesbook-akie @rosewine-5 @princessloveweird @randomgurl2326

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blueiskewl · 7 months

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The Aztec Death Whistle ‘The Most Terrifying Sound in the World’

For those who want to celebrate Halloween like it’s 1399: Scientists are sending shivers down the internet’s collective spine by recreating an ancient “Aztec Death Whistle” that’s said to emit the “most terrifying sound in the world.”

The macabre kazoo is detailed in a new video produced by the Action Lab, a group of proud internet nerds who specialize in mind-bending experiments.

“The sound that the death whistle makes innately strikes fear into your heart,” intones presenter James J. Orgill in the clip while holding a 3D-printed version of the instrument.

The Brigham Young University engineering grad then plays an audio clip of the scream machine, which evokes a bloodcurdling, bansheelike shriek resembling a sound effect from a haunted house attraction. (We dare you not to jump!)

Orgill points out that this is not a “human scream” but rather the sound emitted by the replica of a skull-shaped artifact originally discovered in Mexico City in 1999 by archaeologists.

It was reportedly found clutched in the hand of a headless skeleton in a temple dedicated to the wind god Ehecatl — one of many sites where the Aztecs conducted human sacrifices.

Initially thinking it was a toy, per Orgill, scientists didn’t blow into it until 15 years later, whereupon it emitted a terrifying sound.

“‘It was a startling discovery because it sounded like a screaming human,” said the burgeoning YouTube star, who dubbed it the “most terrifying sound in the world.”

The Aztecs were able to create this nightmarish noise by modeling the death whistle after the human larynx.

When the user blows into the instrument, the wind divides in two, producing oscillating sound waves that bounce around a large chamber before leaving via a second hole.

While the purpose of the instrument remains unclear, experts have several theories, with some believing this fright flute was used to scare enemies in battle.

Others postulate that the whistle was a defense talisman used to ward off evil spirits during a sacrificial victim’s journey to the afterlife.

In order to resurrect this symphony of screams for our listening “pleasure,” Orgill blew into different Tim Burton-esque whistles that were 3D-printed by US tech firm HeyGears.

All told, they made the raptor larynx from “Jurassic Park” sound like a kazoo.

No 3D printer, no problem: Interested parties can buy their death whistles on Amazon, which offers duplicates made of materials ranging from resin to carbon fiber.

Many advertise how closely their decibels match that of the most bone-chilling human screams.

By Ben Cost.

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symphonybracket · 6 months

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YouTube links: Mahler 2, Tchaikovsky 6

Comments:

Mahler 2

Have you ever wanted to feel like you're going to shake apart into a billion pieces if someone so much as looks at you. That's how I feel after listening to this beast. This symphony changed my life for real. It's famous for it's ending and for good reason!! It truly feels like your soul is getting blown up and steamrolled. Listening to it live was like getting peeled by god. It calls for 10 horns which is how you know it's going to fuck severely. It comes in 5 movements: good lord oh my god, hehe teehee, oh so that's why they call it the death shriek, crying on the floor for 5 minutes, and I Have Died. The part known as the "Death Shriek" is shown below! And if you're interested in learning more about the symphony, here's my favorite analysis website!

It's an everything in the universe piece and when I sang in the choir for it I think I actually ascended to a higher plane of existence for 15 minutes

I came across (imo) a good video giving a summarised background of Mahler 2, it’s called ‘Gustav Mahler - Symphony No. 2: Explained in 3 Minutes’ by orchestra of the music makers on YouTube

There is also a piano arrangement!

Tchaikovsky 6

Everyone bangs on about the 4th movement but it's the 3rd movement that really hits

tchaik 6 is what i would listen to if i had an hour to live

the 5/4 movement of the tchaik lives rent free in my mind and i think about it every day

It’s beyond gorgeous. The melodies soar, the orchestra swells, and you just need to lie down for a while after listening to it. It’s Romanticism at its zenith. You want to weep and sigh, and it’s impossible to listen to it without literally feeling something.

Symphony No. 6, titled “Pathétique”, was Tchaikovsky’s final symphony. It is an intensely emotional piece, and to many scholars demonstrates the emotional turmoil that characterized much of Tchaikovsky’s life. He died about a week after its premiere, a fact which leads many scholars to debate about whether the content of the piece itself reflects the possibility that he may have committed suicide. The title itself is often translated to mean “impassioned suffering”, although this was most likely a later addition by Modest and not actually part of Tchaikovsky’s vision. Given these facts, many scholars interpret this piece to be about death and suffering. However, this piece can also be seen to represent life and all its contrasting moments. This interpretation is more holistic and inclusive of all of the moments captured in this piece, and also serves to break down the common narrative of Tchaikovsky as a tragic figure.

More comments about Tchaikovsky 6 below the cut (length warning):

Scholarship surrounding Tchaikovsky’s music tends to focus heavily on the ways his confliction over his homoerotic desires appears in his writing. However, his personal letters reveal a much more balanced understanding of himself that goes beyond the common narrative. In one letter written to Modest describing a new relationship with another man, he writes: “I awoke today with a feeling of unknown happiness and with a complete absence of that emotional sobriety that used to make me repent in the morning for having gone too far the day before.” Many of the letters he wrote regarding his relationships demonstrate no shame and no anguish beyond what can be expected of a man living in a homophobic society. It is important to take this information into account when listening to a piece such as this one that has been discussed so frequently, and to understand it beyond the turmoil and strife that it is seen to represent. Like many of Tchaikovsky’s works, this symphony displays a range of human emotions. It is not only representative of tragedy and “impassioned suffering”; it is a depiction of what it is like to live. It is also interesting to note that this piece is used as a signifier of queer desire in the novel "Maurice" by E.M. Forster, a novel also notable for its radical portrayal of a queer man who gets a happy ending. Much to think about there.

The first movement begins with a lone bassoon soloist playing a plaintive minor melody, which later comes back in the strings. As the movement progresses, it grows in intensity and texture. More instruments are added, and the music becomes more frantic, building and building towards the dramatic trumpet fanfare. Throughout this piece, Tchaikovsky continues to make significant use of contrasting dynamics and melodies, reflecting the emotions he hopes to convey through the music. Dramatic, tumultuous sections are interspersed with pastoral woodwind melodies, and the angry brass fanfares give way to a quiet ending.

The second movement is reminiscent of a waltz, and uses the strings and woodwinds more than the brass to achieve its floating melodies. The dynamics ebb and flow to build tension, but this movement never reaches the same levels of anguish that the previous movement does. Tchaikovsky makes use of pizzicato in the strings to convey a lighter, more cheerful mood, and features the upper woodwinds prominently. He also repeats themes frequently, giving the audience something familiar to listen out for as the movement progresses.

The third movement begins with frantic energy in the strings and woodwinds. As more instruments join the rush of music, the underlying eight note accompaniment does not let up, continuing the vivacious beginning through the whole movement. Instruments pass the melodies between each other and engage in conversations across the orchestra. Like the first movement, the brass play a prominent role in creating dramatic climaxes in the music, as well as supporting the march-like conclusion. Conductor Myung-Whun Chung describes the deceptively dramatic ending as, “one of the greatest, most thrilling, but most empty of victories in musical history,” observing that this movement has the energetic finality of a final movement. The reversal of having the true finale be a slower movement represents a shift away from the “Beethovian model of light over darkness” common in most other symphonies of this time period.

As mentioned before, ending on a movement with a slow tempo was a significant shift away from the standard of the time. This innovation inspired many other future composers to use the same technique, most notably Mahler in his Ninth Symphony. The quiet beginning builds up towards a chaotic rush of fast runs throughout the orchestra, only to stop abruptly and continue in halting, cautious bursts of melody. The movement continues with this cycle of rushing up to a climax and backing away as the movement progresses. Tchaikovsky highlights the horns in this movement, giving them both angry, blaring notes which cut through the string melodies and the flowing, lyrical lines that are passed throughout the orchestra. As the piece ends, the instruments fall away until all that is left are steady repeated notes in the basses, bringing this lament of a movement to an understated close.

#Spotify #mahler #tchaikovsky #round 4

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