PER CRUDA BELTÀ

CARRD.          AESTHETIC SIDEBLOG.          PINTREST.

@cadisfly

   Behind Will, the hearth spits its crackling resentment, giving voice to the bitterness that squeezes Hannibal's heart. The strength of the emotion surprises him, and he detaches from it so that he can examine it, turning it over between his hands. It throbs through his body, tugging at the corner of his mouth and tightening the sturdy line of his jaw. This delights him.

   Even after all this time—perhaps more so because of it—the two of them are uniquely equipped to wound each other. Will finds the soft, fleshy paunch of Hannibal's vulnerability and sinks his teeth into it, and Hannibal throws his head back and groans like Saint Teresa each time an arrow finds its mark.

   He smiles contentedly, stretching satisfaction taut over the shape of his rancor, and does not break Will's gaze. Their presence here in Will and Blanche's house is an indignity to Hannibal—a reversal of power he can scarcely abide. Will stands in front of the fire, and Hannibal sits behind him, beneath him, on Will's hideous, poorly manufactured couch, in Will's dominion—this purgatory Will inhabits with his spouse—because he is not physically strong enough to stand.

   An image comes to Hannibal of one of Will's dogs, staring its master down in a display of dominance it cannot hope to manifest.

   He dismisses it.

   "Oedipus, too, sought to escape himself," Hannibal says into the silence between them. He wonders whether Blanche is listening to their conversation, whether she is perceptive enough to feel the warm, wet spread of mistrust. Perhaps the feeling is familiar to her already, having set down its roots somewhere tender and dark. Three years, after all, is quite a long time to pretend.

   Hannibal smiles as he tightens the strap securing Tess's right forearm to the chair. He cinches it at a tension that will cause her discomfort but not serious injury, as long as she has the foresight to stop her incessant wriggling. It's human nature to test one's restraints, but like an unruly puppy, Tess has exceeded the bounds of reason and gnaws defiantly at the bars of her cage, to equally unproductive effect.

   It's a shame, really, that they've come to this. For as gruff as she can be, Hannibal has come to enjoy the brief flashes he has been granted of Tess's company; if nothing else, she's proven to be quite a reliable distraction. Entertainment, he supposes, if he's going to be crude about it. He has no real interest in her beyond the superficial—the intrigue that clings to her is the same as that of a brightly colored moth. Something surprising and beautiful, a momentary curiosity that just as quickly overstays its welcome. Hannibal will keep Tess in his carefully crafted jar, will feed her sugar water and milkweed until he tires of the game and crushes her within the warm cradle of his palm. Until then, though, he looks forward to watching her throw herself against the glass.

   She makes quite the picture already, her dark brunette hair mussed artlessly around her face. Small clumps of it cling to the sweat beading on her skin, and Hannibal reaches out to tuck a few stray strands behind her ear. She jerks away before he can fully manage it.

   "Do you?" he asks, amusement thick in his voice. He picks up the syringe he had placed on the tray beside Tess's chair and checks the level, ensures the vial is free of air. "In that case, you'll be relieved to know I'm under the care of a very capable psychiatrist." Hannibal casts Tess a playful look, his lips tugging up into a smile. He can scent her excitement and agitation, her loathing a dense, bitter thing. Hardly any fear clings to her now, though Hannibal has not decided whether to admire or pity her for her bravery. He wonders whether she knows that he doesn't intend to kill her now or whether she has simply not grasped the severity of her situation.

   "Are you familiar with Dr. Du Maurier? I can't praise her highly enough." He flicks the syringe and, satisfied, eyes Tess's arm for a suitable vein. "Perhaps you'll get to meet her one day." Despite Tess's struggling, Hannibal lines the needle up and slips it smoothly in. "This will only hurt for a moment," he says as he depresses the plunger. "There we go. That's a good girl; try not to fight it."

@cadisfly

   Sea salt licks the air that hovers over the open terrace, curling up from the water and settling against the villa's east-facing wall. If left untreated, its searing fingers will cause the paint to blister in no more than a few years' time. The wounds will need to be sanded down, the broken skin shorn off to ensure that the new finish will lie flat. To ensure that it will stick. Hannibal wonders idly whether he and Will will be here long enough to see the building reborn or whether they will have moved on by that time—perhaps even before the first imperfections show.

   He lifts his chin and draws the scent of the morning into his lungs, coating his soft palate with the thick brine of marine life and the filmy aftertaste of decomposition. It makes an interesting complement to the lemon tang of their sherry cobblers, which spit crisp-scented fizz from tall glasses dripping with condensation. A marvelous choice of cocktail, Hannibal reflects with pride; the citrus cuts delightfully through the viscous air, like stirring blood into melted chocolate.

   "'Suffer not thy mouth to cause thy flesh to sin,'" he recites. With the insinuation of a smile, he reaches out and twists a plump grape from the desiccated vine on his plate, relishing the wet snap that the fruit emits as he pries it from the half-eaten cluster.

   He would promise Will the world, should he feel it to be within his power. But the laws of nature bend to no man, and there are some feats that exceed even Hannibal's capabilities. Still, that loss doesn't weigh too heavily on him; he and Will can content themselves with the ache of old wounds, the easy peace of their seaside villa, and their oft-replenished storeroom.