Monster [malexmale]

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

It'd been two days after Hannibal attempted suicide.

And he hadn't done anything since then. He was eating again, slowly and in small bursts, but at least he was eating. He was getting dressed and showering and doing most things on his own. He would flip through my magazines, probably because the only magazines I had were for BDSM, but he didn't seem to mind. I was a little worried the intensity of it might bring me uncomfortable memories, but if it did, he didn't let on.

Part of me wanted to get him out of the house, to see the sunlight again, or at least the moonlight, but that was far too dangerous. Theo's men were swarming the place and everyone in Styx had a vendetta against Hannibal for his crimes. Even though Abel had expressed to everyone he'd run into that he didn't want anyone acting on their rage against Hannibal, people still spat and cursed his very name.

The name he'd given himself.

I sat at the bar, watching Hannibal cook again. I was relieved to have him cooking again, because having pizza for the past couple days was starting to mess with my sensitive stomach. He didn't seem to mind and if anything, it was good for him to get up and do things instead of laying curled up in bed all day.

The rich heavy scent of herbs and spices wafted through the penthouse, making me tremble with anticipation to see what sort of concoction Hannibal could come up with today.

"How did you learn to cook so well?" I asked him, resting my elbow on the bar, cheek against my knuckles. Hannibal was silent for a moment, stirring vegetables around in a cheesey spinach mix before he spoke.

"My stepmother taught me." He said blankly. I cocked my head curiously at that. His stepmother? Clymene? That nasty old hag was the one who taught him how to cook? Hannibal seemed to pick up on my reaction because I saw the corner of his mouth twitch, like he was trying not to smile.

"Not out of motherly love," He assured me, turning off the stove and pouring a thin layer of olive oil on the food, "My brothers would dress me up and force me into the kitchen with her and she joined in by forcing me to cook. For some reason, cooking was a bad thing."

"I don't think it's a bad thing," I replied defensively, "I can't cook and I hate it. Everything I touch turns into crispy masses of unidentifiable toxic crap. I wish my mother had taught me to cook, but she was always working." Hannibal cocked his head, then looked down into the pan as he stirred things around for a bit so they'd cool.

"She worked a lot?" He asked. I hesitated. Part of me didn't really want to talk about my mother, but after all the things I had done and asked of Hannibal, it was only fair that I told him anything he wanted to know, so I nodded, twirling a fork around on the bar.

"She worked at brothels in another realm. And before you say anything, yeah, my mom was as prostitute, but only because we didn't have money or education or anything. She had to make money for us to live off of. Suffice it to say, we didn't have nice things when I was a kid and we were always running away from clients that had gotten addicted to my mother," I said dryly, then paused and shook my head, "But she was a great succubus. A great mom. I probably wouldn't be here without her. She may not have taught me how to cook, but she taught me other things that helped me live on my own after she passed." Hannibal was quiet, but I could see the gears turning in his head like he was processing my words. I smiled lightly at that.

But at least he was listening, and talking, and cooking again. Maybe this wasn't going to take so many years after all. Was Hannibal really that strong? In all honesty, if his life had been mine, I would have given up a long time ago... Then again, he probably did, but couldn't put himself out of his misery and that tore at my heartstrings. I resisted the urge to hug him, because that was probably still pushing his limits.