Nothing was more dangerous than a person discovering their religion. It sparked a fervent allegiance, fanaticism in its most raw form. Hannibal had drifted into sleep with the metallic taste of blood lingering on his tongue, seeping into the pores of his skin like a macabre perfume. Another night at a motel, another thieving mongrel that wanted nothing more than to slit their throats and paint the wet pavement.
Hannibal relished the role of the observer, though there were moments he could not resist joining in. It was akin to a hunt, where he led until the instinct to merge became irresistible. The memory of the bathroom's pale green tiles was etched into his mind, limbs entwined, blood smudged like grotesque art. It was hard to discern where the wounds lay; the brain's flood of endorphins numbed any pain, masking discomfort with an intoxicating rush.
The bed with the worn sheets held no stability, every movement was amplified. When Will's body slid away from his own, it was felt by both lack of warmth and the jostling involved. Hannibal was sure there was plastic somewhere within the layers of the mattress. Something that made his mind ripple with repulsed with knowing the reason why.
His muscles ached with the aftermath of exertion.
His hair was a tangled mess, clinging with dirt, sweat, blood. He let out a low groan as consciousness crept back in. A sliver of sunlight pierced through the heavy, timeworn green curtains, illuminating the swirling dust particles in its beam. "I tend to be nowadays," he murmured, acknowledging the toll of a life perpetually on the move, the lines of age beginning to inscribe themselves into his features.
"I'm not a young buck anymore," he conceded, perhaps more a seasoned predator. Squinting, one eye squeezed shut, he appraised his companion. "I believe that's mine," he noted, though ownership had long ceased to matter. They shared everything, from their meals to their very existence. The coffee held the scent of cheapness, an easy detection on where they were. "How bitter is the coffee?" he asked in a resigned tone, his body remaining ensnared in the prison of twisted sheets.
the afterman @humanstray
Will never was a man of faith, but in Hannibal he found his religion. There was little telling where the traces of blood across their skin came from - from Hannibal - from Will - or from a kill Will wouldn't remember or the high it gave him. Hannibal may have control of his own human urges but that was just another aspect they differed. Even now, Will was still so painfully human. Perhaps that humanity is still rubbing off on Hannibal. As Will tosses his legs across the bed, his eyes land on his clothes that were simply thrown off last night. Didn't even make it into the hamper ( and it was an easy guess who did the clothes ). He grabs a robe ( it wasn't plaid; must've been Han's ) and tied it loosely around his waist before he stood up. The least he could do was dispose of the abandoned clothes in their proper place and start the coffee. He's able to rejoin him, sitting on the edge of the bed while a look of amusement dances across his lips. "Tired?"
