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Red strings on their necks. The thread of destiny is not placed on the little finger of their hands. The noose widens and then chokes hard.
They were made for each other, but the red thread of fate has another destiny than that one thousand times written. It was desperate. The thread ached and twisted in the jugular strong and hard.
They wanted to remove it, even cut it. But their own hands were shaking at the thought of getting out of their lives. Knives in hand, they looked into each other's eyes, asking:
"Why can't I even breathe in your presence? Why does the desire that you not breathe fill me with such pleasure? But why, at the same time, can't I live without you?"
The more they wanted to get away so that those thoughts would not haunt their existence, the more they needed a simple touch. Only one. Regardless of whether it was the dagger in his gut. It doesn't matter being mutilated even if it meant having the other presence. So close. Carnal. Just that touch delighted them in a great way.
The desire to feel the thread wrap around their throats to affirm their presence was an indescribable pleasure.
The gentle words of the doctor sweetened that bloody syrup in an exquisite plate of meat with doubtful origin. It no longer mattered whether it was the sweet babysitter who played in the park every Tuesday with her children, or an abuser who beat his wife and children to the point of nearly murdering them. It no longer mattered.
Hannibal was giving him part of himself. He peeled off his skin in front of him. He would throw his insides on the table to be seen no matter how rotten is him with pride. And Will accepted it. He was thrilled by such a show of vulnerability. After being gutted over and over on the couch in his study. The insides of him are constantly groped and stirred every day.
It no longer mattered.
He wants him.
They wanted each other.
He loves him
They loved each other.
Oh, love, love ... What is love here more than desperate and unexpected desire for everyone? Even themselves