(no subject)

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric's new room is up a floor from his old one and at the east end of the corridor. Inside they arefrankly ridiculous. Romanesque with vaulted ceilings with edges with frescos of animals, rich tiled floors that are warm underfoot.

The cross shaped layout and columns create discreet niches - one with a large bed; another lined with books and a map of the world as known in his time painted on the wall, a third holding several large couches circling his harpsichord.

The east side opens onto a glassed-in portico with a stunning view of the snow speckled garden.

A door off the bed chamber leads to a more modern but still Romanesque bathroom with a bath easily large enough for three.

Comments

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric moves, stepping to a different spot that changes the texture of the sound, making his one voice sound like three.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal listens, not making a sound.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric lets the last note fade, its echoes holding past his own breath. He smiles at Hannibal, clearly very happy in these wondrous rooms.

[cook_the_rude]

"This is amazing," Hannibal says, smiling openly and holding out his hand to Sinric.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric goes to him gladly, sliding his hands up Hannibal's arms to lace them around Hannibal's neck. "I've been looking forward to sharing this with you."

[cook_the_rude]

"It is perfect," Hannibal says. "It shows how much you have grown, and how large your potential is."

[thewidewideworld]

"I have been discovering my potential. Learning what I can do. What I enjoy."

He sings a handful of notes - a sweet, breathless tune. Stoking Hannibal's cheek as he does. It sets off a ripple of pleasure. A warm sensation that gathers in the loins.

[cook_the_rude]

"Notes of pure eroticism..." Hannibal murmurs, stepping closer as if by instinct.

[thewidewideworld]

"Perhaps." Sinric smiles, molding himself against Hannibal's chest, standing on tiptoes to drape himself around Hannibal's shoulder. "Or perhaps it's the gift of sharing what I feel with another. Sharing what that person makes me feel."

[cook_the_rude]

"You can do that now?" Hannibal asks, pulling him in and dipping his head to kiss him. "Mirror your own sensation? That is an amazing gift."

[thewidewideworld]

"Share my pleasure. Share my desires. Yes." He kisses back, sloe and warm against Hannibal's strong lips. "And with you, I think if I concentrated, I could show you what they felt too. The other versions of me."

[cook_the_rude]

"Whatever you have to share," Hannibal says, "I will taste and take. Anything."

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric purrs a pleased little sound. "You put yourself in my hands? Be careful, Hannibal. I may rather too much enjoy the power."

He kisses Hannibal again before pushing him gently toward one of the deep, comfortable couches that surround the harpsichord, forming an intimate little performance space.

"Undress for me." He turns them around, sprawling on a lounge so he can watch. "I want to be able to see what effect I'm having on you."

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal sits smoothly on that couch and discards his tie, a pale one with red splashes in intricate patterns of flowers and paisley, as on some of the textiles Sinric might have seen in India.

He hangs it over the back of the couch, opens the collar of his shirt, swallowing as he does so.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric sprawls, very feline in his posture. Right down to licking his lips as he watches.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal sheds his plaid jacket, placing it over the back of the sofa as well, and then starts unbuttoning his shirt, baring his chest.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric purrs his pleasure at the view, leaning in to stroke a caress down the centre of Hannibal's chest. "These too." He rests his palm on the waistband of Hannibal's pant.

[cook_the_rude]

Slowly, Hannibal opens them.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric resists the urge to stroke Hannibal. But only just.

"Will you permit me to bind you, Hannibal?" Sinric asks with a breathless purr. "Your eyes and your hands. Do you trust me in that?"

[cook_the_rude]

"Without hesitation," Hannibal says.

He sheds his trousers, shows, socks, underwear, and sprawls naked, holding out his wrists to be bound.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric fetches two lengths of fine silk. He sits, still clothed straddling Hannibal's thighs to bind his hands. The knots are comfortably loose, more symbolic than binding. Hannibal could slip them in a moment of he felt he needed to.

Sinric leans in to kiss Hannibal deeply before covering his eyes. "Allow the music to wash over you, to take you. I promise you pleasure."

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal nods and leans back, knees slightly apart.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric goes to the cupboard and fetches out a violin. It's not as grand as Sherlock's Strad. A little battered, a little flimsy but playable. And it's own way, lovely for being less that perfect.

He lifts it to his chin and starts to play. Not as himself, but as another self.

The the first notes open slowly. A beautiful young man stands alone on the stage of an empty recital hall. A single light embraces him, holding him apart from the echoing silence.

He plays a piece of his own composition. Voiced by the mournful notes of that single violin. The music carries his thoughts and feelings, each note and chord a nerve - exposed and vulnerable.

The music speaks of loneliness, or self imposed solitude. The weight of guilt and shame, the fear of a past so near to his shoulder that he dare not look back. This is the song of a young man pining for a new start, for light and freedom, even as the black tendrils of his past menace his shadow.

and like the violin, it's all the more lovely for being battered.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal can see the vision clearly, and feels it should feel familiar, even though it isn't. He knows the place it evokes, in Florence, though.

[thewidewideworld]

The scene changes with the music. A piazza, bathed in sunlight and as thick with tourists as it is pigeon. A group of young people busking against a fountain, laughing at each other as they play.

The music is upbeat; fast and tripping klezmer that has the players dancing as much as the crowd. The young man's worries drop away and for a moment he allows himself to feel happy. To let joy past the shadows. His laugh is as bright and lyrical as the tune, as warm as the Florentine sun.

The young man looks up to see a familiar face - a man in black leather, leaning on a motorcycle as he watches. The blood warm eyes make the young man's heart skip a beat, cycling through a dozen emotions in that brief moment their eye meet.

Confusion, concern, thrill. Desire and fear. Hope and sadness.

And lust. That also.

He can't help but imagine the man in his bed - touching him, holding him.

Too swiftly the scene in his head shifts to violence and force. Visions of the man holding him down, using him without care or kindness.

More frightening still is that the thought arouses him.

The vision swims and the young man misses a note and his fellow places turn on him with concern and protective natures.

When he looked again; the man, the bike and the vision are gone. His friends crowd around him, helping him to sit, offering him water and fanning him to cool him down. But still he feels the fever under his skin.