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Will wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing at Hannibal Lecter’s house. He’d been a bit flustered when he’d stupidly agreed to dinner. And agreed to make the man a suit of Will’s own design. Will knew his own limitations – he was a cantankerous tailor with no filter between his brain and his mouth, with an overactive imagination and only one real friend in the world, asides from his dog. Yet here he was, on a… date? On a date, with a peacock psychiatrist who was hiding something, and seemed intent on goading Will into finding out what.
Hannibal (he had insisted Will call him Hannibal) was in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on a dinner that looked Machiavellian in its complexity, leaving Will in his vaguely disturbing dining room. There were plants on the wall, probably herbs, flooding the room with conflicting scents. There was a mildly pornographic painting over the fireplace. There was an elaborate centrepiece on the table constructed from various obscene looking flowers and a… Will leaned in and carefully lifted a giant flower trumpet out of the way for a better look at – what was that?
He took out his phone to text Beverly. She was really his only friend, and mostly because she harassed him into the friendship.
‘There is an actual animal skull in the table centrepiece. AN ANIMAL SKULL,’ he texted quickly, and slipped the phone back into his pocket. She’d insisted on knowing every detail about Hannibal when he’d mumbled about the man at breakfast that morning.
His phone buzzed, and he took it out to sneak a look at her reply.
‘MARRY HIM,’ was all it said. Will snorted, putting his phone away.
“Is there something wrong?” Hannibal asked from the doorway, making Will startle in his seat. He was carrying two plates, and although he’d removed his apron was still wearing only his teal dress shirt and dress slacks – no three-piece monstrosity today. Will wondered if that was a concession for him, as Hannibal seemed like the type to dress for dinner usually.
“Nothing. Just a text. Sorry,” he said, not really knowing why he was apologizing.
“Lamb saltimbocca with a marsala sauce and zucchini salad,” Hannibal said instead of an answer, placing the artistically arranged plate before him, and one at his own setting.
Will tried to identify what was on his plate – there was lamb that looked like it had prosciutto wrapped around it, there were thin, broad slices of bright zucchini that had been twisted elegantly around one another, shavings of some kind of cheese and pomegranate seeds. Hannibal picked up an elegant sauceboat and drizzled a warm pale sauce over the meal, doing the same for his own plate.
“I have no idea what you just said,” Will said bluntly, staring at his plate. When invited for dinner by anyone, he usually expected steak and baked potatoes were the height of the host’s hospitality. He should have known better with Hannibal.
“Saltimbocca means ‘jump in the mouth’ – the flavours are complex and layered, with every mouthful causing excitement in the mouth,” Hannibal murmured, bending over Will’s shoulder to pour him wine from a decanter. His low voice made Will want to simultaneously flinch away and press closer.
He cut a small bit of the lamb when Hannibal had poured his own wine and sat, aware the man was watching him intently. Under the prosciutto, wrapped around the meat, was some kind of green leaf – sage? He added some of the cheese and zucchini to his fork, and pushed a few pomegranate seeds on top with his knife, then swirled the whole lot through the sauce. He lifted his fork and put it in his mouth.
“Oh holy fuck,” he groaned through his mouthful a moment later, knowing he was breaching etiquette horribly by speaking with his mouth full but past caring. The meat was tender, the prosciutto smoky, the zucchini and cheese respectively sweet and creamy, the sauce rich, and the pomegranate seeds burst with tart flavour when he crunched down on them.
“I’m glad you approve,” Hannibal said with amusement, and picked up his own knife and fork.
*
They were standing in Hannibal’s ridiculously large walk-in-robe, glasses of warmed Armagnac in hand. Will wasn’t entirely sure how he’d gotten there, and was starting to think he’d had a bit too much to drink – first the wine with dinner, then the dessert wine, now the after dinner liqueur. They’d been talking about clothes, about Will’s personal tastes in suits, and somehow wound up making the trek upstairs. He was suddenly incredibly conscious of the bedroom in the next room.
In front of him was a staggering array of suits, shirts, ties and coats in a variety of plaids, colours and paisleys. It was like a fabric store had thrown up in Hannibal’s wardrobe – he had to give the man credit, he had commitment to whatever disguise he was constructing.
“What do you see?” Hannibal asked, standing behind his shoulder, his breath tickling the shell of Will’s ear.
“Something elaborate,” he said, the alcohol making his connections even looser than usual. “Something that incorporates, yet eclipses, the reality of your true tastes.”
“You’ve seen my home now…” Hannibal prodded, and Will nodded.
“You like theatre. Elegance. You have a house full of antlers. I’m surprised you’ve never tripped in the dark and impaled yourself,” he said, and behind him Hannibal gave a quiet chuff of laughter. Will shivered, but not with cold.
“When I first established myself in Baltimore as a surgeon, I bought this house as a hollowed-out shell. I oversaw its refurbishment in minute detail – creating an environment that could both stimulate the senses and provide comfort as required,” Hannibal said, and Will felt him shifting even closer, felt the heat of his body. “Why did you become a tailor?”
“Dad got cancer when I was sixteen,” Will said, with a shrug. “I was supposed to be a diesel mechanic like him, apprentice to him, I guess. I think he would’ve liked me to go to college maybe, but after the medical bills… well. When he realised he was dying, he set me up with an old army buddy of his, Mort. I could live and work with Mort, get a trade, stay out of the foster system.”
“I imagine your skills have far surpassed Mort’s by now.”
“Turns out I have a good eye for it,” Will said without hubris. “I’m good with my hands. Tailors take flat cloth and shape it into an image; influence the perceptions of others. I see the finished product in my mind, how it should look, and can walk backwards through the steps to get it there.”
“You see more than that,” Hannibal said. “You looked at me and the suits I wear and saw clothing that was tailored not to flatter, but to camouflage. You read the intent behind the effect.”
“What are you hiding?” Will asked. He turned his head to the side, not quite far enough to catch the other man in the corner of his eye. More so to feel his proximity.
“You work in a dim, out of the way shop in one of the more ragged parts of Baltimore, despite also being one of its premier tailors. I believe you live in the apartment above your shop, with a dog whose nails I could hear clicking faintly on the floorboards above. You are blunt and sometimes cold with your customers, because you don’t wish to invite further scrutiny of your person. You live a solitary life, Will, and that’s largely by choice,” Hannibal said, and waited a moment. When Will didn’t make any protest about his assumptions, because he couldn’t, he saw Hannibal shift into his peripheral vision and nod. “What are you hiding?”
Will swallowed hard, and turned back to stare at the rows and rows of suits, representing years of disguise. Something hot and fragile swelled in his chest, because he sensed something terrible, something awful: he sensed someone like him.
“I’m not normal,” he said hoarsely, his throat gone dry. He threw back the last of his Armagnac in one swallow. After a while in silent contemplation, Hannibal stepped around him, taking Will’s empty glass and putting it with his own on top of a dresser.
“This is the last thing Margery completed for me,” he said lightly, taking a beautiful double-breasted black wool overcoat from a padded hanger. He handed it to Will, who immediately felt the drape of the wool with practiced fingers.
“Ah. Now this is beautiful,” he said, glad of the subject change.
He could feel the interlining between layers of cloth, and studied the set of the welted pockets and bound buttonholes. He flipped it open, noting the gold silk lining was likely tacked in, not sewn, for ease of future replacement. Finally he ran his fingers under the collar, knowing that beneath the wool there would be horsehair canvas that had been painstakingly pad stitched to give the collar such an elegant, easy roll.
“Margery always did lovely work. She abhorred my combinations of plaid and paisley,” Hannibal said with amusement, watching Will’s fingers on the fabric.
“Put it on,” Will said, knowing he was being demanding and rude but not caring. Hannibal didn’t seem offended, just took the beautiful coat and slid his arms in. He left it unbuttoned, and it seemed a little too big – obviously made to sit over the thirty-five layers Hannibal usually wore. But still, it looked amazing on him. Will grinned. “There, now you look like a person.”
“A person?” Hannibal asked, arching one eyebrow, and Will flushed.
“I mean, instead of- you look like you should look,” he amended.
“Will you do up the buttons for me?” Hannibal asked, his two completely operational hands hanging at his side. Will opened his mouth to ask why he couldn’t do it himself, and then got it. Oh. Ohhh.
That meant stepping right up into Hannibal’s space, right into the lingering scent of his aftershave, its bass notes brought out by the heat of his skin. Will drew the coat closed, one breast over the other, the backs of his knuckles brushing over Hannibal’s chest. He pushed the button over his heart through its hole, and then let his fingers trail down to the next one. Hannibal was taller than him by an inch or two, and when he tipped his head forward, his mouth was practically brushing Will’s cheek.
“When you make your suit for me, you can dress me in that too,” he said quietly, and then his lips did touch Will’s cheek – just a smudge of his lips against skin.
“I have no idea why I’m so turned on by doing up buttons,” Will muttered, doing up the last of them but not stepping away.
“Because you know that next time we’ll be undoing them,” Hannibal said. Will lifted his head, and forced himself to make eye contact. He saw hot desire in Hannibal’s eyes, amusement and an endless pool of interest.
“Not tonight?” he asked. He was tempted to go throw himself on Hannibal’s bed and refuse to leave until one of them got fucked.
“I think we’ve both had a bit too much to drink, don’t you?” Hannibal said, and gave that little lip-twitch that passed for a smile. “Why don’t I call you a cab? You can come back for your car in the morning and stay for breakfast.”
“Breakfast includes food that hopefully you’ve cooked, so yes,” Will said, and dropped his eyes, stepping away.
“It’s a date, then.”
*
Downstairs, Will paused at the front door after shrugging on his coat, knowing the cab would only be a few minutes away. How exactly did one thank their host for not sleeping with them when they were both a bit too drunk for it, but in a way that made it clear that drunk sex was easily on the cards in the future?
“I had a really nice time,” Will said lamely instead, and saw Hannibal’s mouth do that particular lip twitch that happened anytime Will said anything painfully honest or extremely socially awkward.
“I enjoyed your company, Will. I look forward to seeing you at breakfast.”
Will didn’t so much kiss Hannibal as lunge in and latch on with his mouth. Thankfully, Hannibal caught him by the shoulders and brought him in smoothly, angling his own head so their lips met easily. One large hand slid up Will’s neck to cup his cheek, thumb stroking over the line of his jaw, and Will made a pained noise of enjoyment in his throat. He licked at Hannibal’s mouth, tasting all the curves and contours of his lips, teasing even when he’d opened his mouth for a deeper kiss. Finally Hannibal took control, sweeping his tongue into Will’s mouth, thrusting deep suggestively and retreating again, only to stroke in once more.
Will heard the cab honk outside, and broke the kiss, both of them breathing hard as they stared at one another.
“Goodnight Will,” Hannibal said softly, and Will couldn’t speak, just gave a nod, and went out the door.
In the cab on the way home, Will remembered to check his phone, seeing about a dozen text messages from Beverly all demanding to know what was happening. He smiled to himself, and opened a new message.
‘Dinner was amazing, as was dessert. Participated in weirdly hot reverse striptease in his wardrobe. Kissed at the door. In cab now going home. Night Bev xx,’ he texted, and then turned off his phone with a smile.