- Doctor Lecter, I notice your eyes fixed on my ass. They're piercing me.
- Does that bother you?
- It's uncomfortable. If you have something to say, say it by looking directly at me.
Will turns, fixing his gaze on Hannibal. He crosses his arms.
- Didn't you say you didn't like making eye contact, Will?
- I like it even less when I'm being devoured with my eyes as if I'm not even aware of it.
- So what disturbs you is not that I'm staring at you shamelessly, but that it turns you on that I am.
- .....
- Eyes are the mirror of the soul, and mine are boring their way through the space that separates us, yearning for his company. There is nothing wrong with that. Whether it's reciprocated or not. It's instinct, Will. Desire.
Will sits on the couch across from his shrink. He takes a deep breath. One second, two seconds, three seconds. He smiles, nervous.
- What if it were? Reciprocated.
- Would it scare you?
- It would make me curious. To see where it would all lead.
- How would it satisfy that curiosity?
Will walks towards him. The distance between the two chairs has never seemed so great. He stops in front of Hannibal, who raises his head and looks at him. Will's right hand approaches Hannibal's face, but stops halfway. He hesitates.
- These are assumptions, Will. Continue.
Hannibal watches every movement, every breath, every heartbeat. Will rests his hand on the psychiatrist's face. One breath, two, three. Eyes closing, and a seated man rising up, cupping his face.
- Open your eyes. Look at me.
Hannibal smiles as only he knows how, amused. No more guesswork. It's time to squeeze reality. It's time to stop living in dreams.
