If Will shared his observations about the parallels with marriage, Hannibal would be taken aback. He has never thought of marriage as anything but a facade. After all, one of his contingency plans had been to bring Bedelia with him in Will's place, to play the role of her husband, and her of his wife, even though their true relationship bore no resemblance to marriage. There is some degree of satisfaction in the notion of a mutual promise, a mutual dedication, but at the moment marriage is still just a show, a shadow play. They will publicly be companions and lovers because they are in private companions and lovers, not as a show. Declaring himself "married" to Will, or even just wearing wedding bands, doesn't really cross his mind. Perhaps in the future he will come to realize that it is a natural extension of what he and Will have, the friendship, desire, loyalty and love, but it will surprise him, just as this true friendship surprised him, just as this true love, both likewise sinking past the mere outward appearance.
For the moment, though, Hannibal's desires to shop for these things together stem from his desire to share the finer things with his friend, to get a sense of Will's taste and coax it gently in more refined directions. He wants Will to appreciate the particular shade of blue on a particular set of china, to find a measure of joy in the swoop and curl of the wood of a baroque style chaise lounge. These motivations are entirely internal, entirely speaking to the reality of their relationship rather than to any metaphysical classification.
When Will's fingers brush against his hand Hannibal glances down for a moment, a faint smile on his face. He looks up again and moves his own fingers slightly to brush against Will's in return. The contact isn't relief from his torment; quite the opposite. It makes him ache all the more to drag (or be dragged by) Will into an alley and shove him to a wall, or be shoved to a wall, and make frantic, furtive love to each other, penetrative or no, perhaps even without removing their clothing save for unbuttoning and unzipping their trousers. It would be messy and hard to hide when the taxi did come, when they got to the airport, clothes stained, the scent of sex detectable by anyone. It would be a very, very bad idea.
But that doesn't mean Hannibal craves it any less. He just pushes the craving forward, letting their first encounter in the flat in Paris carry more and more weight. They will abandon everything but their long-denied lust and rut until they climax, probably more than once, until there is no strength left in their bodies, until they have fucked each other weak and senseless and sated.
no subject
For the moment, though, Hannibal's desires to shop for these things together stem from his desire to share the finer things with his friend, to get a sense of Will's taste and coax it gently in more refined directions. He wants Will to appreciate the particular shade of blue on a particular set of china, to find a measure of joy in the swoop and curl of the wood of a baroque style chaise lounge. These motivations are entirely internal, entirely speaking to the reality of their relationship rather than to any metaphysical classification.
When Will's fingers brush against his hand Hannibal glances down for a moment, a faint smile on his face. He looks up again and moves his own fingers slightly to brush against Will's in return. The contact isn't relief from his torment; quite the opposite. It makes him ache all the more to drag (or be dragged by) Will into an alley and shove him to a wall, or be shoved to a wall, and make frantic, furtive love to each other, penetrative or no, perhaps even without removing their clothing save for unbuttoning and unzipping their trousers. It would be messy and hard to hide when the taxi did come, when they got to the airport, clothes stained, the scent of sex detectable by anyone. It would be a very, very bad idea.
But that doesn't mean Hannibal craves it any less. He just pushes the craving forward, letting their first encounter in the flat in Paris carry more and more weight. They will abandon everything but their long-denied lust and rut until they climax, probably more than once, until there is no strength left in their bodies, until they have fucked each other weak and senseless and sated.
The idea makes Hannibal's smile deepen.