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[personal profile] nepharious
 Collapsable as we go:

Date: 2017-04-05 10:29 pm (UTC)
operapaintingandmurder: (☕ pic#4902878)
From: [personal profile] operapaintingandmurder
What phrasing? He used words, correctly, like always how dare she? If Hannibal didn't feel a small burst of self-satisfied smugness every time he made Neph laugh, he'd surely be more testy about what's so hilarious about pledging his allegiance to her.

She leans away, to look above him in the dark, and that must be a good sign. For all that Hannibal enjoyed that indulgence of feeling painfully, distressingly needed, Neph being able to sit up on her elbow for a better vantage point suggests a Neph that's feeling a little stronger.

The gleams of light off her eyes seem to widen, the whites and pupils reflective almost equally in the semi-dark. Hannibal's own eyes are locked on her with predator intensity despite the cracked-open vulnerability of his that Neph is currently wrist-deep into. He's avidly watching for the next step of what could be his own vivisection.

And then she gives him--

Hannibal is silent for several long seconds. His increased heart rate beats syrupy in his ears. "That's very selfish of you." What does he want? How does he express this? He wishes, suddenly, that there was enough light to give him a scene of Neph's face to memorize. He wants to be closer, somehow, wants a way to make Neph know what's blossoming across his mind with deep colors and deeper roots.

Neph likes him so much she would rather risk losing him entirely than know he was safe and not near her. She'd rather destroy what she has than let anyone else take it, and that is such a gift to know.

In absence of another outlet, he finds his left hand disengaging from Neph's, freeing itself to glide up to her cheek. Hoarsely: "Thank you for telling me that." Energy that he isn't sure how to place is surely vibrating through his words. It rattles through his mind, his ribs, makes his fingertips electric as they touch Neph's face in the dark.

Date: 2017-04-08 11:46 pm (UTC)
operapaintingandmurder: (☕ sitting calmly)
From: [personal profile] operapaintingandmurder
Hannibal's face, exposed only to the dark but close enough to Neph that he can phantom-feel the expectation of hair grazing against his forehead, is like an open wound. There's nothing blocking it, even if he isn't the most expression person. His mouth is parted slightly, not that he's aware until he reflexively swallows and his jaw closes with an audible click.

Breath smooths across his wrist and lower palm. Hannibal just blinks at the space barely separating them, a blacker smear on black.

Should he say that he'd happily find out that Neph would hurt other people, hurt him even, to keep him around? That being needed in a selfish way is letting bones slot together smoother in his chest, letting him breathe easier than ever before?

Even he's aware he can't quite say that. Even he's aware that he might, someday, be glad she's willing to give him space if he wants it.

But not right now. Right now, his palm flattens against her cheek, his fingers by the soft spot right at her temple, his thumb nearly touching the side of her nose.

"I do want to be here." That's safer to say. That's equally true. Hannibal considers the darkness between them, the way he wants it to disappear like smoke and leave them somehow closer. He moves his free arm to the side, works an elbow into the mattress so he can lean up. His forehead taps the end of Neph's nose, eyes sliding closed to complete the blackness around them.

"I feel just as selfish as you do, Neph. What you want from me doesn't frighten me."

Date: 2017-04-10 11:21 pm (UTC)
operapaintingandmurder: (☔ pic#4902917)
From: [personal profile] operapaintingandmurder
There's different kinds of hunger, and the most obvious meaning isn't the only one that gives some people - children and adults - a gaunt, lonely look. A hunger for affection burns acidic in the stomach of thousands, millions of people every day, but it's an invisible illness. It kills just as surely, but the killing is metaphorical and so no one notices. It's harder to campaign against it.

You can't throw money at it and solve it. Lecter, will all his degrees and wealth and investments and knowledge, had still lacked something so basic that most people wouldn't have even given thought to what he'd been missing. Who wants to acknowledge that one of a person's most simple, integral needs can be so subjective, unmeasurable, nontransferable? If you can't take it and redistribute it until equity is reached, how do you even campaign to solve that sort of problem? And how can a single isolated person ever be expected to climb out of that pit themselves?

It's not glamorous to admit to. It's uncomfortable to notice.

But it feels wonderful to have the antidote suddenly delivered. Neph touches his wrist, lets him stay so close he can feel her breath against his closed eyes, and he floats along with the reminder that he has someone dedicated to him, who doesn't mind his own possessive dedication being latched back onto her.

By the time Hannibal has processed what Neph says, he's smiling, lips pulled away from teeth in the dark. "I would say I don't care, but you know that isn't true." Hannibal is fastidious about his grades, but much less so about his actual attendance - when skipping is possible. Practicums, however, mean one absolutely needs to be present for any credit. "But given the choice, I would rather you woke me up than resisted the urge."

She leans into him more heavily, and Hannibal has a second to decide - prop himself up more sturdy, or let himself drift back to his mattress? He chooses the latter, elbow easing out so he can slide vertebra-by-vertebra into a more horizontal position. Hopefully she takes the cue and follows him back to laying down. If not, one of his hands finds its helpful way to the back of her head, cupping it and coaxing.

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