@vylingas sent for a starter: lean in to give my muse a tender kiss
𝙷𝙴 𝚃𝙸𝙻𝚃𝚂 𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙲𝙷𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙾 𝙳𝙴𝙻𝙸𝙱𝙴𝚁𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙻𝚈 𝙰𝙲𝙲𝙴𝙿𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙾𝙵𝙵𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙳 𝙺𝙸𝚂𝚂, even as it’s being delivered to him with the expectation of acceptance. The confidence with which Hannibal extends his affection isn’t unexpected, though the outward degree of this physical intimacy is new for them. Inwardly, Will cannot judge if a kiss feels drastically more intimate than their eyes tangled together, than a hand on his shoulder, than the near involuntary way Hannibal would learn towards him as he spoke before, when he was a hot oil spit across the water of his own mind, as if tethered and drawn by the invisible cord of Will’s words. He can be drawn towards Will’s mouth in the same way, winched in by an intestinal fission low in the gut. Desire.
It takes very little to induce it. A slant of his face, an angling of his mouth. The most minute flicker of his tongue across his lower lip, and Hannibal is coming down deliberately, fightless, to imitate that physical gesture himself. Like he’s absorbed Will’s own affinity for performative mimicry. They’re past the flash of tail, past the initial sipping approach. Hannibal has emerged from the sleek of the current’s seam, struck the lure hard and swallowed—and the hook is worked deep in the bony crevice of his cheek.
Briefly, Will has to consider the legitimacy of it. If the bait is genuinely artificial, or if the fight is so easily won because the prey smells the flash of real hormonal urging that can only come from a truly organic bait. The consideration is short. Will already knows the answer. Hannibal does as well. Otherwise, he would taste Will’s false heart in his mouth. He’d smell it on him. They’re both adaptively aware of the state of the lie, but that isn’t where it lives.
Will smiles faintly against Hannibal’s kiss, and sets the hook harder with the barest parting of his mouth. Hannibal tastes clean, ozonic. Wonderful. When he draws away to turn back to the stove, Will interrupts the motion with a second press of their mouths together—this one short and sweetly misaligned.
He’d been in the middle of opening the wine. Will finishes it once the distraction is past, pulling the cork free with an audible ‘pop’ that alights in a physical flash of excitement down the center of his spine. The sound had never meant much to him before. Now, the association with Hannibal is impossible to ignore. Will brings the cork to his nose and breathes its smell in softly. “Disapproved of the wine in the basement, I guess.”
He’s never taken Hannibal to the bare-dirt cellar beneath his house, but they both know that doesn’t mean Hannibal hasn’t been there. It’s an amiably veiled accusation. Will assumes that Hannibal has seen the cases stored there. That Bâtard-Montrachet is the only wine Will buys, and one of his few significant monetary indulgences.
His tone is light, almost playful—accompanied by a quirk of one dark brow. Of course, a Chardonnay wouldn’t be an ideal pairing with the lambshank that Hannibal is currently turning delicately in a bath of butter and pomace on Will’s stovetop, in Will’s own cast-iron skillet. The one he uses to prepare the dogs’ food. Will withholds that information with another smothered smile, the sharp and nearly vindictive pleasure of it plain in his face. Even in play, Will both paints and passes the polite line. It’s the illusion of boundaries that excites them both. Leave my evasions alone, stay in the boundaries I’ve drawn. Laying them, erasing them. Easing gradually across them, like a kiss in the kitchen. Two kisses. The invisible invitation in Will’s loose posture for a third.
Play is the earliest origin of sadism in animals.
𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙿𝚁𝙴𝚂𝚂𝚄𝚁𝙴 𝙾𝙵 𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻’𝚂 𝙼𝙾𝚄𝚃𝙷 𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙴𝚁𝚂 𝙱𝚁𝙸𝙴𝙵𝙻𝚈, a phantom sensation that buzzes over hannibal’s lips and chin. that second contact between them is a punctuation of touch—a physical snatch at the last word—and amusement catches like kindling in the glassy depths of hannibal’s eyes. he regards will openly, observing with undisguised pleasure the restrained theatricality of his movements as he sets about uncorking the bottle of wine hannibal had brought, his actions showy in the way conscious competence often is.
without the haze of illness to muddle his composure, will is admirable in his precision and radiant in his depth. he has slipped past the iron bars of others’ expectations and continued the work that hannibal instigated, clawing his way out from beneath the soft loam of his self-imposed decency. where he emerges, the true shape of him is radiant and dark, like a rich walnut floor freed from the peeling linoleum beneath which it absconded.
and yet—not totally freed. the sharp, astringent scent of will’s aftershave burns bright in hannibal’s sinuses, soothed only slightly by the aromatic sweetness of browned onion and dusty saffron, the pungent warmth of thyme. in the ancient world, smell was seen as a uniquely incorruptible sense—a form of intuition superior to sight and sound. and by his smelling in awe of the lord, and not by what his eyes see, will he judge, and not by what his ears hear, will he decide. hannibal considers the old testament now, as will uncorks the wine and releases its spicy red-berry tang, which surges up and out of its smooth glass neck like incense released from the steady swing of a thurible.
there is a familiar and nearly welcome petulance to will’s obstinacy of fragrance—the same brand of delightful provocation that is evidenced in the accusation nestled between his words. in response, hannibal allows the apples of his cheeks to rise, lips twitching into an insinuation of a smile.
“spice is difficult to pair with wine,” he says, turning his attention fully back to will’s stove. a mediocre instrument, but one he handles without complaint; there is something of conquest in mastering this space, too. he smiles down at will’s cast-iron skillet and tilts it slightly, scraping a spoon through the sauce bubbling on its bottom so he can baste the lambshank he has just turned.
“a red côtes du rhône will be a far better complement than bâtard-montrachet—though it is otherwise an exceptional choice.”
hannibal sets the spoon down on the small dessert plate that is playing the role of spoonrest and wipes his hands neatly on the dish towel lying atop the counter. only then does he look back to will, brows lifted in a veneer of open placidity that is at odds with the glint in his eyes, the slight upward curl of his lips. will’s own expression is contrived much the same—it bears a keen yet muffled pleasure whose roots lies buried deep below the surface. twin souls, we two. to deceive and be deceived—it is a reciprocity that thrills them both. the question is simply: how deep do either of them intend to dig? which evasions will be allowed to sprout and which will compel them to pick up the spade?
hannibal tilts his chin to the side. he watches will for another moment, expression unreadable, before his gaze flicks down to the empty wine glasses on the counter. he picks them up, one stem held between the fingers of each hand, and crosses to will.
“this particular wine is a vinsobres,” he says, holding out one of the glasses so that will can begin to pour. even before will does so, without looking away from will’s face, hannibal envisions the constant stream of rich red liquid pooling in the bowl like blood. “one of seventeen rhône crus that meet the most demanding level of distinction and are thus allowed to be recognized by their village name alone.”
he glances down to the bottle in will’s hand, gaze lingering appreciatively on the matte, textured label and the confident spread of will’s fingers over it. the easy way the bottle fits in the cradle of his palm. “they are characterized by their freshness, and boast an exceptionally well-balanced palate. it will stand up nicely to the lamb’s complexity of flavor.”