Condonare (5/18) Warnings: murder, mentions of cannibalism, dubious morality, dubcon, language
anonymous
October 25 2011, 08:07:53 UTC
Hannibal stared at him, his mind slamming shut to him for a second. (Not even Raven could do that.) Charles waited for his judgment, fork poised above his buttered asparagus. What now? Would he silently leave, or would he dice him up as well, for being impolite? (Rudeness is epidemic, Hannibal had once said, in a world not so far away.)
But Hannibal said to him, will you let me draw you?
Draw and quarter? Drawn along a chariot, as Hector's corpse had been? Charles focused his gibbering mind. "You mean, like, sketch."
The dimple on his left cheek deepened when he smiled.
"I have class, you know."
I don't need you to sit for me, Hannibal said. Just your permission.
Asking, Charles figured, was a huge deal here. "Sure."
Hannibal was good. Hannibal was very, very good. While Charles was away, he produced fifteen or so sketches of Charles- sleeping, eating, studying, in the bar- and one where he was sprawled out, cheeks dark with pleasure.
I hope you don't mind that I'll be taking all but one of them, Hannibal said. I have someone to show them to.
--
Hannibal stayed with him for three days. Charles never told him to leave, and Hannibal never offered to go. In between them lay a deep, inhuman gulf, and the duration of one's stay, and what common etiquette dictated it should be, seemed too petty to be discussed across it.
Hannibal was gratuitous about sharing his memories- he was not ashamed of them. Charles briefly received impressions that Hannibal thought (thoughts running in trails so alien to his own) that Charles' abilities marked him out as uniquely suited to bear testimony to Hannibal's actions, as Hannibal's experiences suited him for murder. So Hannibal did not hide- was not ashamed- and on the second day curled his body around Charles', handed him a cup of cocoa, and waited it out until Charles reached out without being prompted.
It was like a sore tooth. Dreadful, and agonizing, but somehow compelling- hurt yourself on me...
The first man Hannibal killed- a fish, retrieved from a leather satchel- a cook, telling him the cheeks were the most savory part of a carcass-
half rotted heads with holes torn double on their
Hannibal broke off at one point and asked him, solicitously, if Charles were about to throw up. "No," Charles said. There was little danger of that. Charles was no stranger to vicarious violence, and Hannibal's own perceptions and memories were so untinged with regret or disgust that Charles felt disembodied, as if he had become the scientist Hannibal was.
"Tell me," he said, emboldened. "Everything else you splay out for me, but what's the thing you aren't telling me? What's so much more terrible than the murder and- and consumption of your sister that you actively seek to distract me with other images?”
Hannibal's thumb stroked along his jugular in warning. Charles shut up. But a part of him thought, do you expect me to sit horrified and be an empty confessional booth for you? Dear chap, despite appearances, I cannot be that person.
Will you listen to the end, Hannibal asked him.
Charles could not say no.
--
I know someone like you, Hannibal told him at the door. There was no accompanying picture of a man, but there were sensations-: muscle under scars, gray-green eyes, an anger quite different from Hannibal's. A leather jacket... I will bring him next time. I think you might like him.
"Someone like me- next time?" Charles said.
Hannibal gripped his chin and drew him close. Charles thought he was going to be bitten or kissed, and squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation of either. But there was nothing. Hannibal traced circles around his left eye with a thumb that was more accustomed to knife hilts than human skin.
But Hannibal said to him, will you let me draw you?
Draw and quarter? Drawn along a chariot, as Hector's corpse had been? Charles focused his gibbering mind. "You mean, like, sketch."
The dimple on his left cheek deepened when he smiled.
"I have class, you know."
I don't need you to sit for me, Hannibal said. Just your permission.
Asking, Charles figured, was a huge deal here. "Sure."
Hannibal was good. Hannibal was very, very good. While Charles was away, he produced fifteen or so sketches of Charles- sleeping, eating, studying, in the bar- and one where he was sprawled out, cheeks dark with pleasure.
I hope you don't mind that I'll be taking all but one of them, Hannibal said. I have someone to show them to.
--
Hannibal stayed with him for three days. Charles never told him to leave, and Hannibal never offered to go. In between them lay a deep, inhuman gulf, and the duration of one's stay, and what common etiquette dictated it should be, seemed too petty to be discussed across it.
Hannibal was gratuitous about sharing his memories- he was not ashamed of them. Charles briefly received impressions that Hannibal thought (thoughts running in trails so alien to his own) that Charles' abilities marked him out as uniquely suited to bear testimony to Hannibal's actions, as Hannibal's experiences suited him for murder. So Hannibal did not hide- was not ashamed- and on the second day curled his body around Charles', handed him a cup of cocoa, and waited it out until Charles reached out without being prompted.
It was like a sore tooth. Dreadful, and agonizing, but somehow compelling- hurt yourself on me...
The first man Hannibal killed- a fish, retrieved from a leather satchel- a cook, telling him the cheeks were the most savory part of a carcass-
half rotted heads with holes torn double on their
Hannibal broke off at one point and asked him, solicitously, if Charles were about to throw up. "No," Charles said. There was little danger of that. Charles was no stranger to vicarious violence, and Hannibal's own perceptions and memories were so untinged with regret or disgust that Charles felt disembodied, as if he had become the scientist Hannibal was.
"Tell me," he said, emboldened. "Everything else you splay out for me, but what's the thing you aren't telling me? What's so much more terrible than the murder and- and consumption of your sister that you actively seek to distract me with other images?”
Hannibal's thumb stroked along his jugular in warning. Charles shut up. But a part of him thought, do you expect me to sit horrified and be an empty confessional booth for you? Dear chap, despite appearances, I cannot be that person.
Will you listen to the end, Hannibal asked him.
Charles could not say no.
--
I know someone like you, Hannibal told him at the door. There was no accompanying picture of a man, but there were sensations-: muscle under scars, gray-green eyes, an anger quite different from Hannibal's. A leather jacket... I will bring him next time. I think you might like him.
"Someone like me- next time?" Charles said.
Hannibal gripped his chin and drew him close. Charles thought he was going to be bitten or kissed, and squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation of either. But there was nothing. Hannibal traced circles around his left eye with a thumb that was more accustomed to knife hilts than human skin.
Expect me.
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