"I'm not listening to Songs of Praise ," said Will tersely. "You may have a God complex but
you are not that devout."
"They play Bach sometimes," said Hannibal. "His works have a deep serenity and complexity."
"The past hour they have played nothing but fucking psalms," said Will.
"Fine. Change the station."
"Thank you your highness," pouted Will and changed it to a classic rock station. Ozzy Osbourne's "Mr Crowley" started up.
Hannibal made a face that a normal person would make when someone had died. Lately no one had. Maybe that was a problem.
"I get it. You hate rock and think Ozzy is vulgar. This song is about Aleister Crowley. He might be up your alley."
"He was a deeply vulgar man."
"He was Satanist," said Will. "You are not."
"No."
"You are the very devil."
"No. He was on earth longer than me. I've only been here some forty years."
"More than forty old man," said Will.
Hannibal shot him a nasty look.
They had been on the road in the French countryside for days.
They would find a hotel, and then their new home soon enough.
"We should stop and eat," said Will.
"I'm not eating hamburgers again," said Hannibal.
"I know. We'll find a nice bistro."
"Yes."
*
They found something suitable and Hannibal argued about the cheap wine.
Will asked if they could play cards, and his partner made a disgusted face.
"I'm sorry this isn't up to your standard, but soon you can cook for us yourself."
"I count the hours. This place is gauche and the staff rude."
"You are not eating them, "said Will.
"No," agreed his partner.
"We'll be fine when we get to Nice."
If they didn't kill each other first.
They counted cars for a few miles. Will blue ones and Hannibal red.
After forty blue ones, Will gave up.
Hannibal put his hand on Will's thigh.
"You want to pull over and fuck?" asked Will.
"Yes. But it's probably better not to."
"You are right. We have miles to go before we sleep."
"Quoting Robert Frost?"
"Yes. I'm all out of French poets."
"I'm not," said Hannibal.
"Want to hear Songs of Praise?"
"No. Pick something."
"Thanks."
Will found Soft Rock FM and they played Fleetwood Mac.
Will changed it to a French chanson one. Serge Gainsbourg and Brigitte Bardot were singing "Bonnie and Clyde."
"I think she sounds sexy," said Will. "Bunny and Clyde," he hummed imitating her accent.
Hannibal seemed to be okay with the choice. His hand patted Will's thigh as Bardot breathily sang of dying with her man.
*
They found a cheap motel, and Hannibal agreed they should stay there.
He paid up as Will rubbed his tired legs.
The room had curtains that were a strange shade of pink, and a puce carpet.
"You should eat the decorator," sighed Will.
"I would," said Hanibal.
"I do love you," said Will.
"Mon amour," said Hannibal. He kissed Will's neck and unbuttoned his shirt, rubbing the taut nipples.
Will moaned softly as his partner worshipped his body.
Hannibal knelt before Will like he was praying, and pulled the sweaty pants down, exposing the already leaking cock.
Hannibal put his mouth on it, and started a slow movement with his tongue. He worked Will mercilessly until he came while cursing loudly.
After that Will allowed himself to be pushed down on the bed, and he was fucked roughly.
The feel of the thick cock inside him was enough to make him hard again.
It felt like being claimed all over, even more so when his lover flooded him with his seed.
They slept calmly after that.