Sinric shifts to let Hannibal up, laying back on the couch to sip his wine. Eyes close to open his other senses, he focuses on the taste of the wine, the warm echo of Hannibal's footsteps, the scent of him still lingering on Sinric's skin. Sprawled out, he looks like some pre-raphaelite portrait.

{ooc: I swear I tagged this. *shakes fist at DW*}