✔️ Only I Can Feel You | Hannigram | Rye Ambrose

18

Silk bathed over him in calm, gentle waves in his slumber. Black coiling through his skin like bleeding ink.

     Covered in the thick, warm blankets, nightmares seemed far away. Eventually, as consciousness ebbed over him, his mind's images of the divine bled into reality: smell, taste, feeling, and sight.

     Will blearily opened his eyes, the faded taste of last night's tea on his tongue. He gazed around the room and took in his surroundings—confused at first—but remembering how he got there.

     He sat up, feeling the rich, cool sheets beneath his fingertips as he let his mind wander vaguely.

     One of Hannibal's beds.

     He came further to his senses as he took a deep breath, catching the scent of sizzling eggs and spice. He swung his legs off the bed, eyes catching the bundle of clothes on the couch. With a glance at his old clothes in a messy pile on the floor, he shrugged, stood, and slipped into the nightwear.

     The soft silk slid askance his skin, and he smoothed down any wrinkles in the garments. Its soft greys suited his skin tone, and he gave a content nod at the feel of the clothes. Before he left the room, the door opened.

     "Will—" came Hannibal's voice, which was cut off as he saw Will in his sleepwear. He straightened himself and opened the door further, letting his eyes take in the sight, the endearing amusement plain to see in his eyes.

     "You wore the pajamas I gave you."

     Will shrugged, managing a smile. "They're quite comfortable."

     Hannibal smiled. "Breakfast is almost ready. Would you like to join me?"

     "I feel like 'no' isn't an acceptable answer," teased Will.

     "And right you are," he replied. "Come. The food will burn."

     Will followed Hannibal to the kitchen, where the scent of his cooking wafted in the air. Graham exhaled a pleasant sigh, closing his eyes for a moment,

     "You said your mom taught you how to cook?" asked Will.

     "In a way, yes," he said, circling around the counter and swirling the sizzling pan. "She looked at cooking in a more... spiritual sense. Rituals, and all that."

     "To honor the meal?"

     "To induce power." He glanced up at Graham. "You see, when my father and I used to hunt together, Mother would treat the meat as if it were a pig. Loathful, dirty... She said to eat them was a way to invoke one's status. To show how far we've come, and a statement of where we are."

     Will rose his brows at that, glancing aside with a snicker. "That's an awfully violent way to look at cooking."

     "It's the way my family is," said Hannibal. "Very strong-willed." He grabbed a spatula and expertly lifted the eggs from the pan, the yolks still golden and full. He plated them, sprinkling herbs and other decor that made the dish speak of wealth.

     "I do hope that won't stop you from eating my cooking. I love cooking for you." At that, he glanced up and met Will's eyes, who gave him a tilted smile.

     "Hard to resist your cooking, Hannibal."

     "I'm glad to hear it," he said with a smile. He handed a plate to Will, picking up the other. They headed into the dining room where they sat across from each other, beginning to eat their meal of eggs and sausage in peaceful quiet.