#i see ur dolce hannibal and raise u my dolce will

[empathyeatings]

   CRIMSON MOVES ME. CRIMSON MAKES MY HEART BEAT LIKE AN ADOLESCENT’S.

   This seemed uttered almost distractedly; a focus on the air before him rather than the red mass just beyond. Will’s artistic flair was unconventional in its apparition, its coalescence, and Hannibal had come to feed upon it. This time he’d elected to sit back, busy himself with observations and a small, blank sketch pad, and record the triumph and installation at work.

   His own rendition of the scene, as Will worked to unfold it, could never match the realistic beauty. But he worked his pencil into it with life, attentively capturing every movement.

        “Would that I could live vicariously through you, Will.”

   He spoke not of the blood upon hands, the red wash of coppery smell, the clean line of sight as a heart slowed its pumping. He spoke of the opposite.

   Heartbeats. How many times had he watched, inward and outward, a heartbeat slow to a stop? How many times had he expected his own to speed in reaction, in exhilaration? How many times, since the fear had thrummed through him that final time (in that stand of trees, his sister’s flesh stuck on the insides of his throat, his own life undoubtedly coming closer to its end with every breath), had he hoped against all hope that the next struggle, the next kill, would inspire his own heart to beat as though it lived? But time and again his own body fought to continue, wounded, or the knife buried to its hilt in a deserving throat.. his heart remained steadfast.

   It only ever came close in Will’s proximity, but still, it was not the same. He could not remember the sensation of a racing heart.

             “Will you describe it to me?”

there is a rendition of their fortune before them, swept up in fell dynamic by the grasp of date oils and the taught scream of canvas. so deep these colors move him, and so deep he feels the need to voice it and grant it escape. because it weighs heavy on his heart that this is the peak of human creation and he is bereft of any sense to ground himself within it. therein comes a rhapsody, as, though this all sounds clumse, it is the rapture that numbs him rather than a critique of distaste. 

and breathing steady, the slow incline of his eyes stroll along the edge of the painting’s dimension. he fears if he moves to much, says too much, thinks too much, it will cease to exist. as if he has lured something in only to shy it away into the dark waters. these men who bend and bare before him are drenched in a heat of fever and flux and will wade into nothing as if his existence has introduced a second liquid state that does not permit them to remain.

hannibal has had such a profound effect on what he sees here today, never before would he walk through echoing halls of sculptured, beautiful men and fallen monuments to the greatest and feel touched. they now look back, finally, and he can understand what art is. for he has seen it live and breathe before him, in the smooth and angular curvature of a gilded three-piece, and be brought to life by every stroke of graphite, bleeding shade into one another like plumes of a hungry mind on paper.

immortalized on something that can be set fire to so easily by the hands of a man who plays god...it is quite the lapsing feeling of remembrance and of melancholic sobering. it is a loud silence to be shown yourself through the eyes of another. a mnemonic uprising that they are tangible and temporary, they are volatile and bound to flights of catalyst and compulsion, driving always, towards cataclysmic ends.

such honest and tender a reply grants the birth of a smile so soft it contends with what mona lisa knows, livening the jaded mist that had come to settle on vision clouded by ardent whimsy. it only ever takes one statement: hannibal could bring him to tears beneath one look, beneath one word, beneath one sword. they are effortless in the presence of their binding, red string wraps around their feet and tethers their palms to one another. 

only then upon request would his eyes liven. he searches for words, picks them carefully as the other does. will graham is romanced by the idea of introducing his companion to what a century-old revolutionary of the heart has dared to show his mind. of wilting gardens and chalk houses, a splendid sun basks a balmy exhale over his skin and he tilts his head up and to the side, receiving it. his are eyes shut, wholesome. 

something that ignites the will of his veins and something he dominates. knowing hannibal to have no concept of personal civilization beyond the chemical spurs the arousal of disrobing him to his own. they share an awakening and this provides victual but it does not satiate him, rampant to gorge on the unfettered and unblossomed areas of hannibal’s soul. he seeks out a second home to place himself within, with hope of collecting everything that spills and runs.

     ‘ i feel as if i’ve swallowed the rumble of thunder. and opened up heaven beneath my rib-cage. lightning...seems to strike behind my larynx and...crawl across every bronchial. branch and expire into my lungs. it’s fast. it mimics my inner anatomy as if an electric current has duplicated my form and suspended itself somewhere between my bones and my skin. only once. it’s...it’s almost a surreal revelation. that i’m feeling my soul respond — and so vividly. my soul...quivers like a last breath. ’