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Sinric sets the plates aside, taking one of the towel and Hannibal's hand. He leads Hannibal a little into the woods, along the shore of the lake. There's another little patch of sand, a beachlet protected from view by the trees.

He spreads the towel and lays down on it, drawing his tunic up his leg. "Just as we were before."

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"Sinric!" Hannibal moans, thrusting g deep and slow and true.

Sinric moans Hannibal's name, pushing back against each rolling thrust. He takes Hannibal's hands, drawing them up to pin his own against the towel above his head.

Hannibal wraps his deft fingers around Sinric's wrists, holding him securely as he rams into the sweet heat.

"Yes!" Sinric cries, arching as the new angle strikes him just so. He shudders, his voice sweet with joy. His skin glows under sun, gold and warm.

Holding him securely, Hannibal deliberately slows down.

Sinric moans, his head tossed back and his hair fanning around his head like a halo. The gold glow flickers, the warmth of it pulsing with the beat of his hears, the race of his breathing.

He looks up at Hannibal, his golden eyes liquid and hazy as he looks deeply into Hannibal's blood warm eyes. Looking so deep.

The golden flicker is mirrored in the sheen on Hannibal's face, and in his eyes, many images flicker in turn -- an old decrepit castle, the face of Will Graham swallowing a tiny fried bird whole, dogs happily clustering around Hannibal, a black stag with raven feathers, a little girl all forlorn and ragged, a cheap fragrance mixed with motor oil and wet dog into something wholly homely and welcoming, a beautiful young man writhing in bonds like Saint Sebastian, and golden hair spilling over a marble couch.

And blood, blood and blood.

Blood that shines in the sunlight, thick and red. The fall of it, like hot rain, like the moment of orgasm, splashing across pale skin.

Sinric's body clenches around Hannibal, chasing that moment. Chasing the fall of blood and the brilliance of passion and the moment of fall. The golden youth struggling against the bonds because the touch of them on his skin is ecstasy as deep as agony.

There is darkness, and antlers; and fire rising in an arc between Hannibal and Sinric.

Sinric is by no means passive in this. The flames arch across golden skin like the light of discovery over a living statue.

He arches to meet the antlers, crying in pleasure as they impale his flesh.

The fire engulfs them both and Sinric shares in return - a crowed hall, men and women bedecked in jewel toned cloth, draped in decadence, the smell of food and wine and sex and perfumed smoke. The pleasure of music, of dancing. The caresses of a hundred eyes, the hunger of lust directed at him. The power of desire at his fingertips.

And then, Hannibal spills within Sinric, and everything is blood and rainfall.

Sinric falls with him, gasping roughly as he falls with him.

The world snaps back to sand and sun. The only gold left is the shine of his hair.

He looks up at Hannibal, eyes shining with wonder.

Hannibal's reddish eyes are still positively glowing with the aftermath of his please as he looks back into Sinric's face.

Sinric reaches up a shaking hand and strokes Hannibal's face. He can't help but shake his head, a bemused smile on his lips. He has a feeling there will never be normal between them, as it is with other people. There's more with them. A depth of honestly, of sharing that Sinric isn't sure he could open himself so with another.

"Sinric."

Hannibal leans in to kiss him.

"Hannibal." Sinric smiles, returning the kiss deeply. "That was- deep."

"It was sex and magic mixing," Hannibal says. "The intensify each other and feed on each other, too."

"As we do." Sinric nods, stealing another kiss. "Mixing and feeding on each other." His eyes shine. "I don't believe I could go so deep with any other."

"Not even your Vikings, whose story hinges on you?"

He stretches out to be comfortable, fingers trailing over Hannibal's bare shoulders.

He shakes his head. "Not Athelstan. He's still tangled in a darkness of his own. As much as I wish I could free him, he has to make his own way out. With Ragnar's help, I hope. And Ragnar-" He shrugs. "Deep, yes but different. Pleasure, joy, sensation."

He takes Hannibal's hand and runs it up his chest, resting Hannibal's fingers over his throat. "But not the blood and dark places. The hidden heart."

"The hidden heart that we can open up and look into," Hannibal agrees.

"Look into without fear or judgement." Sinric nods, bringing Hannibal's hand up to kiss. "There is a freedom in that."

"A rare freedom that I don't have at home," Hannibal says. "That I hope to have one day with Will, but not like this..."

"Nor I. Nor any man, I think." He acknowledges.

He looks deep into Hannibal's eyes, a rim of gold around his irises. It is a thread he knows and has seen before. He has no fear of being swept away, as the house of glass will one day be.

"The freedom you share with Will will be unique. As you both are unique. The patterns your conjoined dance will leave upon the earth will be like no other, and none but you who share it will fathom it's depth and perfection."

From Sinric's lips it is both prophesy and promise.

"But still, that will not take anything from what we two share," Hannibal says. "One can happen, and the other can happen. There are many forks in reality."