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Will leans against the doorframe of the study, silently observing. Analyzing. The golden light of the late afternoon sun is pouring in through the opened windows, leaving the room honeyed and warm. The windows in the study are rarely left open- the curtains drawn, to be sure, but never open- yet the soft sounds of the sea crashing on the shore have been invited to filter in. Will takes a deep breath, drinking in the subtly salted air as it melds with the scent of aged paper and imported ink.
The waves and light birdsong outside are all subdued, serving as an accompaniment to the music that brought him here to begin with. It spilled out down the hallway until it found Will in the sitting room, and guided him back here. When Hannibal spends time in his study, it's usually with the unspoken goal of being alone. The door is always shut, hiding him away. Will understands that desire, especially since Hannibal wasn't afforded a single moment of privacy for three long years before this. They are both secretive people. Being seen can be tiring, even by each other.
And yet the music had reached him anyway, rich and vibrant as the needle of Hannibal's record player sang out each note. The music is old, if the audio quality is any indicator- the sound is textured, hazy like a far off memory of a long departed year. Strings and piano keys dancing through the air alongside a deep, crooning voice. It's foreign, not one of the three languages Will can understand, but the context clues are abundant. The heartfelt, yearning affectation of the singer's delivery, the gentle plucking of a guitar, the perfect tempo for a slow, intimate dance. A love song.
Hannibal is sitting at his desk, pencil in hand. The drawing before him has barely been started. His eyes are closed, his face serene. Listening.
"Domenico Modugno," Hannibal says. He opens his eyes, looks up to Will. "One of my favorite vocalists."
Will hums. He's not surprised that Hannibal sensed his presence. "Is that Italian?" He asks, narrowing his eyes as he listens closer.
The corner of his mouth lifts in a nearly imperceptible smile. "Correct."
He nods, taking a smooth step into the room. Ordinarily, Will avoids the study. It's a place that Hannibal has carved for himself. Will has something similar, in the form a workshop in the backyard. Hannibal made sure that every item inside was to Will's liking- purchased any tools or equipment that caught his eye, assured him that he could buy raw materials or additional things whenever he liked- and then left it for Will. He never enters. The closest he comes is when he knocks on the door from time to time, informing Will that dinner is ready or asking if he needs anything.
It's an atonement of sorts, Will assumes. Apologizing without ever actually saying he's sorry. Making amends.
'It will be different, this time,' Hannibal says, when Will is left to tinker and build and restore at his leisure for hours on end. 'I will be different.'
But Hannibal left the door open. Let the unfamiliar, pretty music come out and draw him in. And he seems completely unbothered when Will comes to stand near the desk.
"I like it," Will says, listening to Domenico's strong vibrato as it pairs with a swell of violins.
Hannibal smiles up at him, setting down his pencil and standing to lean against the desk beside Will. "He was quite revered, in his day. Modugno represented Italy in the Eurovision Song Contest three years in a row, from 1958 to 1960. He also won two Grammy Awards- at that time called the Gramophone Awards- the first year they were held."
Will closes his eyes, leans back. Listens like Hannibal had. He finds himself trying to place himself in the other man's shoes, to hear it how Hannibal does. Italy is a special place for him. Florence, the city where he became a man. Where he'd killed, lived, almost died. Where he'd found himself as a young man, and where he'd gone to find himself again, when that fated night in Baltimore left them both feeling lost and confused. He'd fled to Florence searching for an escape, for safety, but the thing he'd been running from had never been the FBI.
And here, now, Hannibal has come full circle. Running right back.
Cuba suits him. It suits both of them, if Will's being honest. Hannibal is less buttoned-up than he'd been in Baltimore, both literally and metaphorically. He still kills but he spends less time thinking about death- or at least less time talking about death. Still likes attending the Opera and lurking through the darkness but also frequently drags Will to the beach or the park, simply soaking in the sun. He smiles more. Laughs at things other than his own bad puns. He's becoming the kind of man who listens to love songs with his windows open.
Will opens his eyes. Hannibal is watching him. A conversation from a past life rises to his mind.
'Is Hannibal...in love with me?'
It certainly seems that way in this moment. Hannibal's features have been softened by the sun, and the music, and Will beside him. Typical Will Graham, bringing out that pesky compassion that Hannibal seems unwilling to run from again.
It's probably for the best that he doesn't, in the end. Every time Hannibal runs, Will finds himself following.
"Though most of his acclaim was for one song in particular," Hannibal continues, speaking over Domenico easily. "Not to discredit the rest of his oeuvre, but it's difficult to deny."
Will nods along. Old music always makes him feel like he's dreaming. He gets a bit swept up in it on occasion, like he's in danger of floating away.
"Would you like to hear it?"
Will looks him in the face. Lets a lazy smile rise to his lips. "Sure. Play it for me."
Hannibal stands and crosses the room, gently stopping the record and flipping it to the other side.
"Nel Blu Dipinto Di Blu," Hannibal recites as he sets the needle. "Now more commonly known as simply 'Volare'. 'Blue- Painted in Blue', or 'Flying'."
A whimsical coupling of strings and keys fills the room, as if sinking down to meet them. Hannibal turns, looks at Will. As Domenico begins his first refrain, Hannibal speaks.
"Dance with me, Will."
He chuckles, more surprised and awkward than amused. "Seriously?"
Hannibal comes to stand before him, offers out a hand.
Despite himself, Will's treacherous heart chooses to skip a beat. "I- I can't dance," he protests weakly.
He just smiles, reaching down to gently pull Will's wrist. "Humor me."
Maybe it's the sunlight, painting this strange, intimate moment in a heavenly glow. Maybe it's Domenico Modugno, his voice rising with emotion as he says words that Will doesn't know and yet understands so deeply. Maybe it's the knowledge that Will doesn't want to run any more than Hannibal does. Whatever the reason, Will takes his hand and rises from the desk, placing his other hand on Hannibal's shoulder.
A firm palm comes to rest on his waist, fingers splaying comfortably. Will tries not to gasp at the touch. It's been a while, since Hannibal has touched him. Not since their wounds from the fall were healed.
Hannibal begins to sway, and the vocals swell.
Volare, Contare,
The tempo is lively, vibrant. Hannibal easily guides them in circles in the center of the study, making him feel light as a feather.
"What's it about?" Will asks after a fashion, though he has his suspicions.
"A dream. Cherished, lost, and recaptured."
Will sures his grip on Hannibal, flexes his hand on his shoulder and twines their joined fingers together. "I see."
"Modugno was inspired by a painting by Marc Chagall titled 'Le coq rouge dans la nuit', which depicts abstracted figures becoming lost in the expanse of the night," Hannibal elaborates. "The song recounts a dream of flying through a blue sky. He laments that the dream itself cannot be recaptured, but he discovers it anew in a waking form."
Hannibal lifts their joined hands as the chorus picks up again, silently inviting Will to spin. Will laughs, blush rising to his cheeks, and obliges. He feels silly, twirling like some fresh debutante at her first formal, but it leaves him grinning from ear to ear. Will isn't a dancer, but he's always enjoyed the idea of it. He danced at his wedding, and at a few scattered events before that. He's less self-conscious about how his body looks this time, though, and it makes all the difference. Hannibal is delighted, that much is visible in his eyes. A duet, for an audience of two.
When Will is once again gathered in Hannibal's hold, he feels that they are closer together. Hannibal's hand now rests on the small of his back, keeping him near.
"Would you like a translation?" He asks as the chorus ends.
Will manages to contain his prior joy, but it's a near thing, made even nearer by the twinkling fondness in the other man's eyes. "Okay."
Hannibal looks past Will, as if recalling something. When the next verse begins, he speaks in tandem with the vocals.
"'But all dreams will fade when dawn arrives'," Hannibal recites, somehow able to focus on recounting the lyrics in English while still continuing the dance. "'Because while setting, the moon steals them away'."
Will sighs, chest tightening. Hannibal's voice- deep, warm and low, like it is something precious that Will can keep for himself- it blends with the sounds of the ocean, the rustling of leaves as a breeze rolls in. The shifting trees cast dappled shadows in the study, the gentle plucking of a harp signaling the coming of a new refrain.
Hannibal stills, their swaying brought to a stop. When Will brings his focus back, Hannibal is looking down at him.
"'But the dream continues, in your beautiful eyes'," He continues softly. Will's heart catches in his throat as Hannibal's eyes gaze into his own, warm and lovely in the sun-kissed evening.
"'They are as blue as a sky quilted in stars'."
'Is Hannibal...in love with me?'
'Yes.'
Will swallows, opens his mouth to speak, but Hannibal simply resumes the dance. Will feels off-beat, like he's trailing behind. Domenico's vocals feel a thousand miles away.
'Volare,' He sings through the record player.
"Flying," Hannibal translates, looking down at him, gently urging him closer.
'Contare,'
"Singing,"
And Will feels something he's felt a few times before, only with Hannibal. The distinct sensation that his entire life has been leading to this moment. He felt it in Hobbs' kitchen, raising his gun to kill the Copycat who'd poisoned his mind. Felt it again in Hannibal's kitchen, just before the blade sank into his abdomen. In the Uffizi Gallery, on the Cliff where they'd slain the dragon, and now again. Here.
Destined.
"'And I keep flying, happily, higher than the sun and higher still'."
Hannibal shifts his weight, gently pushes Will backwards. His answering laugh this time is breathier, less amused but no less willing. He lets himself fall back and Hannibal dips him low, holding him fast so that he doesn't fall. Will stares up at him, face certainly betraying him. The light flooding in catches Hannibal from behind, Illuminating the ashen locks of his hair like a halo. Lucifer himself, Will thinks. A fallen angel.
"'The world, slowly disappearing in those blue eyes'," Hannibal murmurs as he gracefully sets Will back on his feet. "'Your voice is a soft music, playing only for me',"
Hannibal holds him so close their chests come flush, returning his warm, guiding palm to the small of his back. Will sinks into the embrace, surrendering to the moment. He wraps his arm around Hannibal's back, hand resting near his shoulder blade. He shivers when Hannibal ducks his head, his lips near Will's ear.
"Volare," Hannibal sings, a low, accented croon that hits Will with all the tender affection of a lullaby. Will's breath catches as Hannibal gently sways them. "Contare,"
Will sighs in contentment and Hannibal lowers his head further, nuzzling at Will's neck. It feels like the world has collapsed to exist in this room alone. Only Hannibal and himself, lost in this infinite sunset.
"Nel blu degli occhi tuoi blu, felice di stare quaggiù."
Will has never heard Hannibal sing before today. It has his heart feeling almost painfully full. Deep. Smooth. Fragile, like he's frightened the moment might shatter.
The song ends, followed by a few seconds of crackling silence before the next one can begin. Hannibal sighs softly where he's nestled in the crook of Will's neck, and the light puff of warm air on his skin makes goosebumps rise on his nape.
The other man begins to pull away, letting the moment end.
'But do you ache for him?'
Will tightens his hold on Hannibal's back before he can break the embrace, looks up at him with wide eyes.
Seems that way.
He places his other hand on Hannibal's jaw, guides him down to meet his lips. The kiss is soft, tentative, indescribably lovely. Hannibal melts, kissing him in return and bringing his other arm to curl around Will as well, seemingly trying to bring him even closer. Will releases Hannibal's back to tangle his fingers into his hair, smiling into the kiss when Hannibal lets out a soft, adoring sound.
A part of Will has been wanting to do this for ages. Several years, in some form or fashion. Since Hannibal showed up outside his hotel room in Minnesota, and called him a mongoose over a home-cooked meal. His feelings for Hannibal warped over time, twisting and corroding until they were almost unrecognizable. And yet here he was, having come full circle.
Running right back.
When their lips finally part, Hannibal presses his forehead to Will's. They're quiet for a moment, listening to Domenico as he voices more sentiments that all meet Will's ears like a repeated confession from Hannibal's lips.
Then Hannibal chuckles softly, presses another quick kiss to Will's mouth. His face is partially obfuscated by their proximity, but Will can see how brightly he's grinning, like the stars are in his hands at long last. It has Will biting his lip, heart racing wildly.
"It's a good song," Will whispers, breathing out a laugh. Neither of them have moved to pull away.
"Yes, it is."
Will strokes Hannibal's cheek. Their noses brush. "I kind of want to hear it again," he says.
Hannibal leans into the touch, turns his head to kiss Will's palm. "Allow me, then."
Will lets Hannibal leave the embrace, with the promise that he will return to it. The sunset is softening now, fading from the golden hour into delicate pinks and oranges. Hannibal lifts the needle.
"Actually-" Will blurts out. Hannibal looks up at him. He swallows.
"Could you just sing it for me, this time?"
Hannibal looks stunned for just a moment, then his face breaks into another besotted smile. "I'm hardly an acclaimed vocalist, Will."
"Maybe not," he concedes, striding over to close the space between them. He lets his arms fall around Hannibal's neck with a small smirk. "But I liked it better coming from you, either way."
Hannibal pulls him in by the hips, wicked. "Are you sure you want my mouth occupied?"
Will chuckles, lowering his head to kiss Hannibal's neck. "I'll survive. Humor me."
Hannibal sighs, lifting his chin to give Will better access. His fingers grip Will's hip more tightly. "I have always been helpless to deny you, my sweet Will," he purrs, and his voice vibrates against his lips. "Though I confess, it's likely that I will be..." His breath hitches. "...distracted, for this encore."
Will smiles against his skin before pulling away a bit. "Please?" He asks, and Hannibal may be strong, but his strength seems to fail him when Will wants it to.
Hannibal presses a loving kiss to his curls before taking a deep breath.
"Penso che un sogno così non ritorni mai più..."
Will sighs, melts against him. His head comes to rest against Hannibal's shoulder, his arms curled around his back. They're barely dancing this time, just swaying slightly in each others arms. Will glances out the window and in the slowly emerging twilight, he can see the first glimpses of a sky filled with stars.