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Will had noticed. He’d noticed it in each unwavering gaze, the deadly grace, the stoic press of his lips, the sharp cutting inflection of his clipped words and in the quiet of his footsteps. On an animalistic level he’d realised. It was in the smell of the room, in the order of the shelved books and pressed into the crisp folds of Lecter’s suit. It swirled and condensed in the room, cloying the air and saturating the wallpaper. Will had noticed. Hannibal, this wolf in human skin, was deadly but he hadn’t seen; not yet.
This beautiful wait, the trepidation of dancing on the knife’s edge with someone who had so much flawed potential, such equal intellect, thrilled Lecter like no other. It cut deeper than any blade, leaving marks and indentations upon his very centre. Every action, each syllable was art, and Lecter was a connoisseur.
Lecter wishes to consume Will, even now as Will swallows and his throat tenses and relaxes Lecter’s eyes drop to Will’s suprasternal (A semicircular cavity that can be felt in the space between the two clavicle bones.) Lecter wishes to place and press his thumb there, firm and sure and feel Will’s heartbeat increase beneath it. Push his fingers up, dipping into the skin, spreading his fingers wide- not to strangle but to fit your indentations, skink into you.
Following the bony ridge across with his tongue, he presses down pushing himself into the dips on the clavicle, finds the openings between the sprigs of muscle pressing down upon the chords, playing the music of your body. The bone runs in a perfect line from sternum to scapula. Lecter wished to pull the bone, whittle it, whittle it down to a key and wear it on a string under his suit. It would press hard into his skin, sometimes biting but never catching and hang heavy- Will would always be next to him.
With greedy eyes Lecter embalms each image of Will within his mind, stored away like a possessive lover. Clothed or in state of undress is no matter Lecter follows the curve of Will’s spine, the length of his legs, the turn of muscle in his arm and the rasp of stubble across his chin. Each image carries a smell, a sense.
Will gestures mildly, emphasizing a point and places his hand, fingers splayed on the edge of the chair. Lecter wonders if he were a gambling man what Will’s knuckles would offer him; a vision of the past or future. The bones picked clean and flesh savored.
The smell of Will is masculinity and loneliness. Lecter can smell it in the disturbed eddies of claustrophobic air. He wishes to uncork Will, push himself against the closed secret of his loins. Will is ripe, firm, a heady collection of ink, sweat and denial. He is frankincense and myrrh, Lecter’s Holy Grail, smelling sweetly of death and faith.
If he bleeds, when he bleeds the smell will change to iron and passion; Will smells like a gun. He is cocked and ready to fire. Shot against his will, all Lecter needs to do is give a soft mental nudge in the correct direction, over the precipice.
Will stands, “Thank you for the session, till next time, Doctor.” he offers as he drops his eyes, skittish and coltish, edging for the door.
“Anytime” Lecter replies, his words drawing out and falling heavy with sound, “You are of course welcome to visit me at my home too, provided you give me ample time to ready myself, I’d love to have you for dinner.”
Will backs out the door and then onward down the street, reflecting on those words and, eyes widening in circumspect horror, he finally sees what he had noticed.