cook_the_rude | OOM: for Ganymede

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OOM: for Ganymede

Hannibal's room in Milliways is quite simple, for his standards.

There is a book case full of well-worn old books, a small fireplace with a comfortable-looking chair, some historical prints of Florence, and a small harpsichord. There's a desk, and a desk chair to go with it. Most furniture is vintage midcentury modern, unobtrusively luxurious and classic. He even has what must be a small kitchen, made up from two towers and an island.

Everything is rich, warm wood and mature colours -- an off-grey, and some accents in oxblood red.

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"What is that?"

"You can't guess?" he asks, with a mercurial smile flitting across his mouth. "Honestly?"

"Tell me," Hannibal says.

"You're looking at him," Ganymede answers softly, eyes almost half closed as he looks up at Lecter.

"Define have," Hannibal says, considering he scalpel.

"Let me put it to you this way: you may drink of me what you like, but I request all eating be solely metaphorical," Ganymede laughs.

"That puts me in a quandary," Hannibal says.

"Does it?" he asks. "And what quandary do I put you in by that?"

"I was going to eat the end result, not drink it," Hannibal says.

Ganymede waits for a second at that, and laughs, letting his head fall back. "By all means, Hannibal, do what you like with the end result."

Taking up his scalpel again, Hannibal draws an Eye of Horus over Ganymede's other nipple.

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