(no subject)

[thewidewideworld]

(ooc: from here.)

Sinric's room is exactly as he remembers it. Exactly as he left it. The cross shaped room with it's high arches. The bed cove spread with decadent silk sheets and soft furs. The library and music nook with it's deep leather couches.

He walks over to his wardrobe, running his fingers over the soft cloth of his many outfits. All so rich compared to the rough wool and sackcloth he wears now. "There were moments I feared this was a dream."

Comments

[thewidewideworld]

"A very good idea. These rags need to be burnt." He heads to the bathroom, peeling off the sackcloth peasant's clothes.

[cook_the_rude]

"I'll take care of that," Hannibal says, collecting the offensive garments as Sinric discards them. "What would you like in your bath? Something fizzy?"

[thewidewideworld]

"Thank you." His ribs as he strips are prominent. Hipbones showing, as are the knobs of his spine.

"Fizzy sounds nice. Let me rinse off in a shower first. I won't want to pollute the water before I soak."

The decadence of having that option alone is amazing. He steps under the hot water, cleaning himself quickly and methodically. Even just rinsing, his hair already looks a lighter shade without it's layer of dirt.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal hands the clothes outside, where a passing rat accepts it with visible disgust; then, he follows Sinric into the bathroom, shedding his suit jacket and rolling up his shirt sleeves.

[thewidewideworld]

He scrubs at his hands and feet, his skin pink as he strips off layers of dirt. A little brutally.

[cook_the_rude]

"Let me wash your back."

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric pauses in his scrubbing, as if he'd forgotten he wasn't alone. He looks down at his hands, his nails red.

"Oh. Yes, please?"

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal picks up a soft washcloth and gently starts inundating Sinric's back, neck an shoulders with it.

[thewidewideworld]

It forces Sinric to stop his scouring and be still, hands braced on the wall.

He slows his breathing with a conscious effort. The way Hannibal taught him after Leo's attack.

The battered slave Hannibal toyed with in the aftermath of abuse.

The Pythia of Apollo who raised the Sun god in his passions.

The lonely soul doomed to walk the footnotes of history.

The thin and tired man under Hannibal's hands.

[cook_the_rude]

"Sinric."

It is hardly a whisper, as Hannibal leans in to kiss a bony shoulder. He may be getting wet, but he doesn't seem to care.

[thewidewideworld]

In that word, Sinric feels a little more grounded. A little more present.

He tilts his head, exposing his neck to be kissed. "You should undress. Lest you ruin your clothes."

[cook_the_rude]

"Yes," Hannibal assents, stepping away to do so; then, naked, he comes close again.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric remembers being battered and broken. His fear of having open space at his back. Loyal Castor acting as his wall.

And now he stands with his back open and trusting, to a man he knows can and will kill. Not tame or safe but understood. And accepted for who he is. As Hannibal accepts him.

The memory of Castor manifests as a scent - spice and frankincense. Well worn leather and male skin. It mingles with the steam.

[cook_the_rude]

"Sinric," Hannibal murmurs again, dropping a kiss on Sinric's shoulder before starting his ministrations again. "Tell me, Sinric, who are you thinking of?"

[thewidewideworld]

"Castor. My master's captain of the guard." Sinric breathes, leaning into the touch. "He was the first to see there was something different about me."

[cook_the_rude]

"You talked about him. He saved you."

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric hums softly, leaning into the memory of a good ans honest man. "More than once and several ways. He died, protecting Probus."

The scent shifts with the memory. Sweeter, lighter. Violet oil and honeyed breath. And the warm feeling of brotherly embrace.

[cook_the_rude]

"He must have been very lovely, Probus, if different from you."

[thewidewideworld]

"We were opposites in complexion. He was a dark as I was pale. But we were much alike in other ways. A matched pair. To sing, dance, or play - we were as balanced as any two alive." He sighs, the warmth of the memory fading. "I can't help but wonder who he would have grown to become, had he lived."

[cook_the_rude]

"You lost your shadow," Hannibal says, massaging Sinric's shoulders under the warm water, "your mirror image."

Pause.

"Bath now?"

[thewidewideworld]

He nods and follows Hannibal to the bath. There's a soft scent of gin, sex, and cigarette smoke but Sinric doesn't voice the thought out loud.

He climbs into the bath with a slow sigh, looking better already.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal sits on the edge and smiles down at Sinric. "This seems to do you good. Gin, though?"

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric blinks, looking up at Hannibal confused. Seeming unaware of the way his thoughts.were manifesting.

[cook_the_rude]

"Who drinks gin, or would you like some Tanqueray with Fever Tree and Cucumber with your bath?"

[thewidewideworld]

"Emcee. He drinks gin." He frowns, "How did you know I was thinking about him?"

[cook_the_rude]

"Your memories and thoughts come out as scents, at least to me," Hannibal says. "I should have guessed, from the cigarette smoke."

[thewidewideworld]

"I didn't know I could do that." He lets his head fall back, his hair swirling in the water. "I assumed you were reading my thoughts."

[cook_the_rude]

"I can't do that," Hannibal says, shaking his head. "I am a psychiatrist, have read much, and can use my senses and my brains. That is all."

[thewidewideworld]

"The way people move, their expressions, the silences between their words. Just as I read their emotions and moods, you read the thoughts."

"You know me. You know the darkest parts of my history. The brightest triumphs. The patterns and paths my thoughts follow. And in those branching antlers of yours, you see me."

[cook_the_rude]

"I see you," Hannibal agrees, a finger wandering on the surface of the water while his blood-warm eyes don't leave Sinric's gaze.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric reaches up to cup Hannibal's cheek, leaning up to kiss him softly.

[cook_the_rude]

"Still, I have no magic," Hannibal says. "Not like you."

It is an odd moment of modesty for him.