Will Gayham

We discard our soggy clothes, neither of us conscious about our nudity around the other. Why bother with modesty? We killed a man together; we’re practically merged. My body is his, his is mine. Hannibal tends to my wounds with the meagre first-aid supplies onboard. He improvises with a sewing kit and does a good job of closing my wounds. After, he talks me through removing the bullet in his side and patching him up. I’m a decent study, albeit the end result is sloppy. He seems pleased in the way one is of a novice; props for trying. We raid the fisherman’s kitchen, sharing bread and cheese and ham. Hannibal won’t drink the wine: it’s ‘worthless piss’, apparently.

I can feel our ordeal starting to weigh on my eyes and mind. Adrenaline betrays me at long last. Hannibal’s keen gaze tells me he can see my exhaustion. We both look toward the bed at the back of the cabin. Not quite a single, but clearly meant for the comfort of one man…

“Ah. Only one bed,” Hannibal smiles at me, mirth glittering in his eyes like sunshine on water, “A timeless trope.” I roll my eyes and climb in, he follows. Our bodies press tight together. A perfect fit. Sleep comes quickly as my body surrenders to pain and Hypnos’ coaxing.