"I'm Sorry."

There’s a peculiar suspense to watching your fiercely held contempt slip away with a touch.  Somehow, beneath the swirl of emotion surrounding that hand on his shoulder, Will felt cheated.  He covered that hand with his own and gave it a light squeeze before gently sliding it off his shoulder and heading for the door.

"I'm sorry."

“Are you, now?”  Maybe another glass in he’d have been more ready; but they were doing this now.  He downed what he had in his glass.

Will watches the flex and roll of Hannibal’s muscles for a few moments; the suggestion beneath his shirt, the tightening sinews of his arms.  He removes his own jacket, folding it over one of the kitchen stools.  Instead of rolling up his sleeves, he undoes the buttons of his shirt and discards it the same way; he stretches his arms, now feeling a little freer in just his undershirt.

“You think this’ll be enough, then?”  He stirs the chocolate with a wooden spoon, turning it over to keep the temperature even.  It occurs to him that, at a previous time and place in their lives, Will might have had an issue with Hannibal having an entire bowl of chocolate ready for this.  It also occurs to him that he is no longer the Will that would have that issue.

He dips his finger into the chocolate, about up to the second joint, covering it in thick syrup.  He walks over and brings the chocolate up to Hannibal’s lips.  “Tell me how it is.”

// if u wanna // [runsonfear]: "I assume this is a food."

“You’re not hesitating are you? I assure you, it’s delicious.”

Lomographa Temerata - Pistetuomimittari, male above

I already knew what a- what did I do? Is this because I went fishing without you last weekend?

shoutout to margot verger for teaching will what a clitoris is— i am forever in your debt

Will curled his fingers into the blanket, the softness of it seeping through the numb in his skin.  He watched Hannibal’s back as his host got the coffee going.

He was beginning to feel bleary.  The whites in the kitchen were melding into blobs of light in his vision. “No.  What time is it?”  He took the coffee with a ‘thank you’ and took a sip.  Damn miraculous, that coffee.

Once inside, Hannibal found a throw blanket for Will and placed it around his shoulders before starting on coffee.

“Do you know how long you were standing out there for? Your hands look as though they were beginning to turn blue.”  He doesn’t ask Will how he takes his coffee, but took the liberty of adding a single teaspoon of sugar before handing it to him. 

Ten minutes. Ten friggin minutes slowly creeping over to this guy, including s l o w l y edging my way closer on my elbows and knees to get some nice close-ups. The results made me happy.

So sex

@runsonfear this is how Hannibal French kisses

The problem with art, Will always thought, is that the success of any artist is based entirely upon being the taste of another person.  Being another person’s taste, then, falls into a category of whimsy that either lasts for an eternity, or fizzles and dies in the wink of an eye.

Will didn’t know if he was the eternal kind or the fizzling kind.  What he did know was the feeling of dry paint under his fingernails and the smell of linseed oil and turpentine.  He knew that when he looked at a canvas, something had to claw its way up and out of him to fill it.  What that something was he wasn’t always sure.

Art shows always put Will on edge.  Being so close to the consumer body - that fickle animal whose hunger was the fashion and whose purse was the grace - was a risk to the art.  Once a person meets the artist, no longer does the person see the Art, but the product of the artist.  It kills separation.  Without separation, there is no perspective.

This was the idea behind his latest piece.  It had no name - the wall bore no plaque next to it.  People always try to place meaning in a name to place meaning in a painting.  To place meaning into no meaning at all.  Will wanted to break rules; confound them at the most basic level.

Will stood by the refreshments table, fingers tapping gently against his plastic wine cup.  There was one man standing in front of that new painting, Will saw, staring like a love-struck child into the brushstrokes.  Will wondered what he must be getting from it.

He took a deep drink of the wine and walked up next to this ‘fan.’  He peered at his own painting - a mimic of the casual observer.  In that north-east kind of hum-haw, he asked: “What do you think it means?”

Never Paint Dreams or Nightmares │runsonfear

“A painter should begin every canvas with a wash of black, because all things in nature are dark except where exposed by the light.”  -Leonardo da Vinci

   An art show, showcasing the most popular up and coming artists from all over the world. Names like Yamashita,  Grzanka, Parla, Harvey and among them Graham. Hannibal was here for Will Graham.

 Graham owned a rather small website with a short bio and a couple of his works, but despite his skimpy upkeep of his website, Graham was an immensely popular artist. Magazines and fanpages raved about him, yet getting an interview with him seemed rare if not impossible. Having just poked around his website for a few moments, Hannibal was captivated. He had to meet this man, and discovering his presence at a upcoming art show was just the chance he needed.

Hannibal walked around the art show,with a glass of red wine in his hand, casually admiring works of others. He didn’t need to actively seek out Will Graham, he had a feeling he would run in to him. 

He came upon one of Will’s paintings, beautiful as all his others. He wondered what inspired this particular piece. Lecter looked for a plate naming the painting but, unlike the other paintings, there was none. Ceased looking, Hannibal sipped his wine and closed his eyes. Tasting the wine, he imagined he was tasting the colors of Graham’s paintings, finding the flavor and passion and muse. He imagined that every intricate stroke carried an almost sensual intimacy, not dissimilar to how Hannibal himself created his masterpieces.

“I’m not sure either but I assume it has something to do with American Beauty.”

// ignoring the choco-sex thread sitting like a neglected child in my drafts for daayyyyysss // [runsonfear]: "Do you ever feel like a plastic bag?"

“I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean…” 

“Any particular theme to these thoughts on me, in general?  That’s quite a look on your face.”

“You in general, yes.”