go_away: (Default)
Tate Langdon ([personal profile] go_away) wrote in [community profile] herbgarden 2016-07-06 03:08 pm (UTC)

Hannibal lets Tate go, moves away to approach Ben, and that's the last of what awareness Tate can hold onto. Their low, civil voices blend into a rhythmic drone as the boy stares around at the floor, at the books crumpled in heaps.

It feels like when skin is over-exposed to a stimulus for too long, like vibration, and feels strangely numb afterward. His head swims as his eyes pan over the space of this study, the desk, the Turkish rug, mahogany chairs, ripples of leathered book spines on shelves. Halfway hidden in his henley sleeves, his fists ball up. It's almost upsetting to see things so nice and neat and precariously arranged.

Things may be ending on a calm note, but Tate isn't calm. He feels like ripping his skin off. He feels like cutting it open and letting this awful white noise feeling in his veins pour out with the blood... But it kind of sucks anymore when he feels like doing that, because what's the point? He's dead. What would he be bleeding out?

Tate sees Doctor Harmon through reddened eyes and blond tendrils, sees him looking back and saying something about making mistakes. He doesn't feel very touched by the remark. He doesn't even know half of the shit he's been through that has lead him here. He didn't have to live very long in this house, not long enough for it to infect him like it did Tate.

And...maybe, he wouldn't have known what that was like anyway. The House seems to favor the shitty people, after all.

He doesn't look up and watch when Ben finally makes his exit, but not out of bitterness. Tate is dreading being alone with Hannibal now; he can't bear to think about how he's going to be confronted now that Hannibal knows about Vivien. It's not difficult to admit what he did, to explain his reasons -- especially now that he knows someone that will actually listen to him -- but it's so much more than just reasons...

Hannibal speaks suddenly, words cutting the dull groan of rage swirling around Tate's head. He looks up at the older man as an instinct, but stares as if coming out of a trance. His body, swollen with his anger, seems to begin slowly deflating.

Exciting afternoon. He might have laughed at that, under different circumstances. "Maybe too exciting," Tate murmurs, looking away, back at the floor. "...Sorry about your books." He doesn't want to look at Doctor Lecter again, embarrassment layered on much too thick for him to handle with any real dignity.

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