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Hannibal was enjoying himself more than he had expected to.
The Gallery had accumulated some new talents and he had already known a few of them were mostly unremarkable or downright plain. He had little interest in the modern art that consisted of a few colors randomly brushed or splattered onto a plain background, but he was sure to never outright object to their inclusion. Tastes varied, and he wouldn’t get in the way of that.
There were a few pieces, by an artist he hadn’t heard of, that had all but captivated him. They were dark and unnerving, but quite beautiful. He had heard a few other patrons express their horror at the presence of such gruesome paintings, but they were the only ones he truly liked so far.
The name at the bottom of each canvas was little more than a scribble, though it was consistent from one piece to the next, and the labels translated it as saying Will Graham. It was an interestingly plain name for someone whose mind could conjure such provocative images. Hannibal wanted to know more, and expected he would have the chance to. The artists were all supposed to be present at the show tonight, as it was to be a kind of debut for most of them, including Will Graham.
Hannibal caught sight of a man who appeared to be trying to be absorbed into the wall, and thoughts of the art fled his mind at once. He was quite possibly the most beautiful person Hannibal had ever seen, despite his wrinkled shirt and unkempt hair. A pair of thick rimmed glasses sat on his face, and the angle of this head put the frames perfectly in the way of direct eye contact.
Hannibal wanted very much to speak with the man, if only to get a better look at him. He was certain this man would grace his sketchbook once he had the chance, but he wanted to learn more about him.
“You do not seem to be enjoying yourself,” Hannibal said, and the man glanced up at him briefly.
“I’m not very social,” he said, and his voice was pleasant and low, “I don’t usually come to things like this.”
The man adjusted his glasses, and Hannibal saw a smear of paint on the side of his hand.
“You are one of the artists,” he surmised, “If tonight goes well, you may need to become used to events such as this.”
The man grimaced at the idea and scanned the room quickly.
“From what I can tell, I’m one of the people tonight isn’t going well for,” he said, “and to add insult to injury, the artist who’s doing the best so far actually painted one by accident. Says he tripped while carrying his paint and fell right into a canvas.”
Hannibal thought he could probably guess which of the paintings that was, if the story was to be believed. He was amused by the man and his sour attitude in the face of success. The very fact of his art being here tonight meant he had already gotten further than most aspiring artists.
Hannibal wondered which artworks held this man’s signature.
“All is not hopeless,” Hannibal said with a smile, “there are a fair few works here that I consider quite good. You do not seem a fan of the abstract.”
The man rolled his eyes.
“If you can even call it abstract,” he scoffed, “that still implies some level of thought and intention. Falling into a canvas doesn’t match my definition.”
Hannibal considered that, finding the man’s cynicism refreshing in the face of all the rose-colored glasses wearers that gravitated toward events like this.
“I mean,” the man said, as if he were about to backtrack, “If it evokes an emotional response in the viewer, then it’s art. I don’t argue with that. I just don’t appreciate the snobbery around things that are hardly more than accidents.”
Hannibal smiled.
“I often feel people lie about how they feel when viewing something of that nature,” he said, and the man turned slightly towards him, “because they feel it is expected of them to have a response, and then design an elaborate explanation for it.”
The man flashed a smile, and he was stunning. Hannibal definitely meant to draw him the moment he had the chance.
“Usually I’m the cynic,” the man said, “I didn’t expect to find someone so like-minded at a place like this.”
Hannibal huffed a soft laugh and offered his hand.
“Doctor Hannibal Lecter,” he said as the man shook his hand, “I’m as pleased as you to find intelligent conversation among the sycophants.”
The man’s grin widened.
“Will Graham,” he said, “and I think you’re the only person to stop and really look at any of my paintings with an attitude other than disgust so far.”
Hannibal held the man’s hand for a moment longer, his own grin growing.
“I had been hoping to meet you tonight,” he said, “I am enthralled by your work.”
Will laughed and pulled his hand away.
“I know. Your eyes change whenever you look at something you like.”
Hannibal wondered if Will had seen that look in his eyes when he had first approached. He had certainly liked the look of Will when he had first seen him, and he wondered if he had that same look in his eyes just now, after learning this was the man he had been hoping to speak with.
“Would you do me the pleasure of walking with me?” Hannibal asked, “If nothing else, we may critique the other works here.”
Will hummed thoughtfully, his eyes passing over the room again. It occurred to Hannibal, then, that Will must have been expecting someone.
“My friend should be here soon, but I’d be happy to walk with you until then,” Will said, making Hannibal feel a spark of triumph, “If nothing else, I think it will keep other people from trying to talk to me out of pity.”
Hannibal smiled and nodded, pleased to have earned more of Will’s company.
Having met him, Hannibal’s opinion of the name Will Graham had changed. He thought it clean, concise, and noble, rather than plain. It suited him well.
“Which of your works is your favorite?” Hannibal asked as they began to walk, “I’m certain every artist has one, though they so often demure.”
Will huffed a laugh and nodded. He removed his glasses from his face and placed them in his pocket, convincing Hannibal he had been using them mostly to avoid eye contact, and did not actually require them to see properly.
“I think so too,” he said, “at least for those who care about the work. Personally, my Ravenstag painting is the one I am most proud of.”
Hannibal recalled the painting, and could see why Will would be proud of it. It had struck Hannibal as particularly beautiful when he had first seen it.
The painting depicted a stag, towering over a forest of tall pines, the moon caught in its antlers and its pelt thick with dark feathers. The sky was a fiery orange behind the beast that had stars tangled in the feathers down its chest, and there was blood spattered fresh and red around the scene. It was as if the stag had killed a giant, and bathed the earth in its blood.
While there were aspects to the painting that were beautiful to any beholder, Hannibal had heard a fair few comments that the horror of it had entirely tainted the enjoyment they might have in viewing it. Hannibal, himself, disagreed entirely. He thought the horror was there to accentuate and add to the beauty. It was all the more lovely because of the violence.
Hannibal had already decided he would like to buy that painting, as it so happened. He wondered what Will would think of if he told him.
Best not yet.
“What about the piece makes it your favorite?” Hannibal asked, “I tend to think artists do not always choose that which was most technically impressive, but perhaps each has something that makes a work more intrinsically endearing to them. What is that for you?”
Will huffed another laugh, looking at a painting that was not by his hand. This one was one of the less offensive of the “abstract” portion in the gallery that night. It looked to have been created with purpose, and though it depicted no clear image of any subject, it was similar to a Rorschach test in the sense that it might contain in image if one applied their imagination. Hannibal thought it likely Will had no trouble in that sense.
“You have a lot of opinions about art,” Will said, a clear smile in his voice, “you’ll have to show me some of yours if I keep answering your questions.”
Hannibal was delighted.
“Whenever you like,” he agreed.
Will startled and looked back at Hannibal over his shoulder. It seemed he hadn’t expected Hannibal to extend an offer so readily. Hannibal was all the more pleased to have surprised the man.
“You’re a strange psychiatrist,” Will said, then turned back to the painting he had been studying, “it’s my favorite, because it was a dream I had. Over and over. Every night, I had the same dream. A stag, tearing the world to pieces, while the universe was contained by its body. Despite the blood and violence, it was never a nightmare to me. There was something… elegant in the destruction of everything, making way for an entirely new existence.”
Will looked back at Hannibal, and for a moment Hannibal could have sworn his eyes had darkened to a near black shade, like the endless night sky or the depths of the sea. Then, they brightened again.
“But, you have to understand, the creation of all things new was not the beautiful part, to me, the true elegance came from the destruction of all.”
Hannibal was nearly breathless. He was captivated by the man, and couldn’t have looked away if the earth had split apart under his feet and swallowed him in that moment. All he could do was meet that steady blue gaze and feel as if every layer of obfuscation he had crafted was being torn apart.
Will Graham was a dangerous man, even if he did not know it.
“I did not tell you I am a psychiatrist,” Hannibal noted.
Will smirked, pulling his eyes away and continuing towards the next piece. He left Hannibal to follow after him, entirely changing the dynamic Hannibal had thought they would have during this conversation.
“Your reputation precedes you, Doctor Lecter,” he said casually, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, “your paper on social exclusion was well written and thoughtful, though I can’t say I entirely agree with you on all counts. Perhaps that’s just due to the disparity in experience.”
Hannibal was thunderstruck.
“You are educated in psychology,” he concluded.
Will chuffed and nodded, stopping at another work and glancing over it with an expression of mild interest.
“That was my career path, once upon a time,” he said, “and I am very good.”
Hannibal hadn’t thought he could be more fascinated by the man, but this new taste proved him wrong. Will was still almost entirely a mystery to him, and he wanted nothing more than to solve it and learn every intimate detail.
“Whatever made you change your path?” Hannibal asked, hoping dearly that Will would answer.
Will seemed to consider it for a long moment, his expression turning somber and intensely thoughtful. It was as if he thought he might lie to Hannibal, just to see what he might say. Hannibal had no idea what to expect, and that was thrilling.
“Encephalitis.”
Hannibal was surprised, though he hadn’t had any real expectations for the answer to his question. Will was as of yet completely unpredictable to Hannibal, and he was all the more fascinating for it.
“Yours or that of someone you knew?” Hannibal asked.
Will laughed, the sound free and pleasant. He shook his head, making his hair fluff around his face. He was beautiful, a work of art in his own right. Hannibal itched for his sketchbook.
“Mine,” he said, “my brain was on fire, and I was studying the minds of serial killers. You can imagine that was a strange time for me.”
Hannibal nodded.
“How was your illness discovered?” he asked, feeling Will was not the type who would have willingly gone to a neurologist until it was dire. He came off as a man who would have pushed through the symptoms as far as he could, not wanting to be put under such scrutiny.
Will put his hands into his pockets and turned to fully face Hannibal again. There was a hint of dark humor in his face, and Hannibal thought he wanted to see the reaction to his answer.
“I tried to kill someone,” he said simply.
Hannibal kept his breathing steady, not wanting to show the thrill those words gave him. He wondered if Will could still see the change in him. It would be one thing that would not surprise Hannibal about him, at this point. He was certain Will would continue to surprise him in many ways.
“Who did you try to kill?” Hannibal asked, curious that he had not read of the case. He was impressed with how calm and unaffected his own voice sounded, at least to him. Again, he wondered if Will had detected a difference.
Will’s eyes scanned over Hannibal’s face, not meeting his eyes for more than a moment at a time. It was as if he wasn’t sure he trusted Hannibal with the answer to his question, so was looking for some reason to.
Apparently not finding it, Will smiled conspiratorially.
“There are some aspects of my life that should remain a mystery,” he told Hannibal, “now, you answer something for me. Which of my paintings is your favorite?”
Hannibal did not have long to think in order to answer that. There was one piece he had seen that had appealed to his vanity at the same time as it had exacerbated his desire to speak with the artist.
It was a depiction of one of his most labor intensive tableaus. He had grafted a man into a tree and replaced his organs with toxic flowers. He thought of it as a delightful social commentary, as the man had been on a council that voted to destroy a natural ecosystem to pave it and erect a mall.
In Will’s interpretation of the scene, the tree had been replaced by a bouquet of antlers, and the flowers were large splashes of colors within his flayed abdomen. The colors bled across the canvas in a way that was intentionally made to look unintentional, as if the painting had created itself. The roots of the tree, rather than being planted in the broken surface of the parking lot the man had a pivotal role in creating, rose from the shattered surface of a frozen lake.
While the scene might have been appropriate in moonlight, as the other painting they had discussed was, the bright colors implied a bright and clear sun above it. It did not have the dark motif of most of Will’s other works, but it was equally as beautiful and horrifying to the others that viewed it.
“The tree of life and death,” Hannibal answered, and watched Will’s eyebrows rise.
“And why is it your favorite, Doctor Lecter?” Will asked, lifting one hand to scratch at his stubble.
Hannibal would have to tailor his answer, concealing the core of the reason. He couldn’t confess something so dear to Will. At least not tonight. Perhaps, if things went very well and they got to know each other much better…
“While your other works combine horror and beauty in a way that is breathtaking in a way I may never be able to articulate, the tree of life and death is taken from something in reality that was already horrific. Your interpretation did not simply apply beauty to the horrific, but rather accentuated and magnified the beauty and horror you already saw in it. You recontextualized the imagery, and in doing so have made the work entirely your own despite the fact that you have taken it from another author.”
Will was looking directly at Hannibal, now, and he was nearly intoxicated with his undivided attention. He wondered if Will could tell he was concealing the greatest part of his reason for liking the piece.
“You’re a psychiatrist, so I’m curious,” Will said, “what do you think the Chesapeake Ripper would think of it? My recontextualization of his work?”
Hannibal looked back at Will, trying to decide if he was asking because he knew what Hannibal was, or really was just genuinely curious to hear Hannibal’s thoughts. The answer to that wouldn’t honestly change Hannibal’s response, but he would like to know how to expect Will to react.
Will’s expression was unreadable, though he showed a facade of innocent openness. Hannibal didn’t know what to make of him.
“Perhaps I am biased, as I have already confessed it is my favorite, but I imagine they would be flattered, not only that their work caught the eye of an artist as talented as yourself, but also that you saw beauty in it rather than ugliness. You may very well be the first they come across that feels more than disgust when viewing their work.”
Will smiled distantly, as if thinking of something separate and pleasant. Like a warm memory. Or anticipation of something good. Hannibal was more curious than ever.
“That was certainly a biased response,” Will said with good humor, “but that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s not correct. My own understanding of the Ripper, pedestrian as it may be, belies a level of narcissism that I find curious. He’s remarkably self-aware for a narcissist. It would be hard to identify him as a narcissist in his regular life, as he had such a perfect facade of normality nearly everyone in his life is likely fooled by it. I would even dare to wager there are those that would call him remarkably humble and meek. But on the inside, he honestly believes he is superior to the rest of us. He would see my work, this one in particular, as nothing more or less than what everyone should do after seeing what he does. He might convince himself I am obsessed with him, and the painting is a kind of homage to him, or else an offering. In his mind, anyone who feels disgust when looking upon his work is simply so far beneath him that they are incapable of understanding that it is beautiful. My depiction is what everyone should feel, rather than horror.”
Hannibal hummed in consideration, more and more fascinated by Will with every word that came from his mouth. Hannibal was determined to see Will again after tonight, in one capacity or another. Despite his unsuspecting appearance, Will Graham had a better understanding of Hannibal’s mentality than any other analysis Hannibal had been privy to at this point. He doubted even the agents in the FBI had such a clear picture of his mind, or else they would certainly have come much closer to finding him than they had yet.
“You do not shy away from making them feel horror when viewing it, though,” Hannibal pointed out, “your painting still strikes many viewers as horrible simply for the subject being depicted. You have not tried to turn it into something easily palatable for the masses, but rather combine the horror with beauty in a way that will cause conflict in the viewer that wishes to feel nothing but horror at the sight. They cannot deny the beauty, which makes the horror all the greater.”
Will grinned, and he was the most stunning thing in the room, despite all the artwork.
“Like I said before, art is meant to elicit an emotional response,” he said, “I like to make a lasting impression. People aren’t about to forget my paintings too quick after they leave here. I would even bet you could ask each person here which paintings they remember best, a week after tonight, and no matter what they say, they will instantly think of mine. They might not even remember the name on the placard, having wanted to look away as soon as possible, but they will think of one of my works. People won’t soon forget seeing one of mine.”
Hannibal didn’t have the slightest inclination to disagree. Just from the reactions he had witnessed already, he was sure Will was correct. He even thought it more than likely there would be a few of the patrons who would have nightmares tonight, their brains latching onto the images from Will’s works and inserting them into a narrative to torment the one who had seen them. That Will was not so much as displeased by the idea that others found his works unpleasant was more than amazing to Hannibal. An artist who knew his work was disliked, yet was satisfied with that.
Will Graham was a wonder.
Before Hannibal had put together a cohesive response to Will’s assertion, Will’s eyes caught on something else, and his expression smoothed into one of distant disinterest. Hannibal turned and saw a woman with dark hair grinning and making her way over. He gathered this was the friend Will had been waiting for. He felt something discordant chime in his chest at the loss of both Will’s attention and his openness, but he bit his tongue as the woman approached, smiling politely.
“Hey, Will,” She said brightly, “I expected to find you holding up the wall, trying to blend in with the shadows. Imagine my surprise to see you out here with one of the patrons.”
Will smiled, though it was much subdued in comparison to the one Hannibal had seen only a moment before. He turned toward Hannibal and began the introductions.
“Doctor Lecter, this is my friend, Beverly Katz. She’s the only reason I’m here tonight.”
Hannibal smiled more widely, taking Miss Katz’s hand in a firm shake. She met his eye with confidence and more than a bit of curiosity.
“Then I am grateful to you,” Hannibal said, “Will’s work is wonderful, and I feel it a privilege to have seen it. If there is anything I can do to show my appreciation for your effort, all you need do is say the word and I will do anything in my power.”
Katz laughed, and she also had a pleasant laugh. Not as nice as Will’s, but open and kind so that she did not grate on the senses.
“You can buy one of them,” she said, bold and teasing, “I’m worried this whole night will be a flop and he’ll never trust me again. I get the vibe he appeals to a very niche audience, and I don’t know how well things will go in this scene.”
Hannibal glanced at Will, who’s gaze had grown more distant, as if he was considering leaving the conversation altogether. Hannibal caught his eye, and Will offered a small shrug.
“That is not so much as an inconvenience to me,” Hannibal said, “I had made up my mind before I even met the artist that I would like to purchase one of his beautiful paintings. Now that we have spoken, I am all the more enchanted by them and think I should view them all with a new appreciation.”
Miss Katz looked surprised, but immensely pleased by Hannibal’s words, and she nudged Will gently.
“See. I told you it would work out. It’s better than just letting them all clutter your spare room.”
Will huffed a soft laugh and shook his head.
“One man does not an audience make,” he said, “but I don’t regret coming. It’s been enlightening, if nothing else.”
Hannibal was pleased. He thought Will might be as interested in him as he was in Will. That was a very good thing, especially considering his desire to meet again outside of the gallery tonight.
“Miss Katz, might I ask which of Will’s works is your favorite?” Hannibal asked casually, “Will and I have just been discussing our theories about favorite art pieces among the artists and the viewers, and I am curious.”
Katz considered the question at the same time as she seemed to appraise Hannibal himself. She glanced between Will and Hannibal a few times, sending Hannibal wondering what she might be thinking. He was amused by her, but didn’t find her all that interesting in comparison to Will.
“Let’s go find it,” Katz said at length, “I can’t remember the name you gave it, and I don’t want to sound like an idiot by trying to describe it.”
Will rolled his eyes, but smiled, glancing at Hannibal for an agreement. Hannibal nodded with his own smile, pleased he had not been set aside because Will’s friend had arrived.
“Alright,” Will said, “Let’s go. At the very least, it’ll take up some time before someone gets an idea in their head to track me down and introduce me to every living soul in this place.”
Beverly grinned and hooked her arm through Will’s, pulling him away and waving Hannibal to follow. While her actions were slightly jarring in an atmosphere such as this, Hannibal couldn’t help but be charmed by the friendly comfort she showed with Will. Will gave the impression of an eccentric loner, so it was good to see he could maintain a healthy relationship with someone. He was not entirely hopeless.
The first of Will’s paintings they came across was the ravenstag, and Hannibal stopped to appreciate it with the added knowledge of what Will had told him regarding the piece. He was amazed by the fluidity of the brushstrokes and the flow of the image, somehow cohesive and united despite the many facets of the image it showed. The eye was led around the painting, able to linger on each part long enough to appreciate it without getting caught on any one detail. Even then, it had a clear focal point, being the moon behind the large set of sharp antlers that tore reality apart. It was a remarkable use of light and dark, horror and beauty all in one. Hannibal was still struck by the work, and now even more moved that he knew of the creator.
“Will took forever to get this one right,” Katz told Hannibal, having released Will’s arm and now standing to face Hannibal and the painting. Will had turned away, watching the room instead. “He has about seven other versions of it in his spare room at home, because he kept doing it and being unhappy with it. He says he’ll reuse those canvases now that he’s got it right, but I think he’s going to hold onto them because this one could get bought. He doesn’t want to lose it.”
Will turned back, grimacing slightly at Beverly’s airing of his secrets. Hannibal was amused, but recognized that Will might not want him to have been told this detail of his life.
“Bev, I hope you don’t go telling everyone how hard it is for me to get one painting right. Especially considering the company I’m keeping here.”
Beverly looked pointedly at Hannibal, but Hannibal knew Will was referring to the other artists, and likely thinking of the one particular artist who had gotten here on accident.
“While others may see it as a failing, I consider it a testament to your dedication and skill in your craft,” Hannibal said with a smile, “and perhaps even an example of your confidence in your own ability. You would not try more than once if you did not know of a certainty that you could improve on it.”
Will huffed softly and shook his head. He seemed less prickled that Beverly had said so much, but he was too determined to save face to admit as much aloud.
Beverly was unperturbed.
“Wow, Will,” she said with a sly grin, “this guy gets you. How you managed to find him when you’re usually such a wallflower, I can only imagine.”
Hannibal laughed softly and began to lead the way to the next piece of Will’s work.
“As it so happens, I had the great fortune of finding Will,” he told her, “I had already made up my mind to find the creator of these pieces, but I became distracted when I caught sight of a man who did not seem to want to be here. I also find his appearance so striking that I determined to memorize his face so that I might draw him once I am home. Imagine my surprise and delight when I discovered he was the man I had already hoped to meet.”
Beverly raised her eyebrows and gave Will a meaningful look. Will, himself, had blushed lightly and cleared his throat sheepishly. If he had not known already the nature of Hannibal’s interest, he did now. He seemed slightly uncomfortable with it being said aloud, but Hannibal did not regret it. He could not, for it had caused Will to blush so prettily.
“That’s some kind of coincidence,” Beverly said, clearly aiming to get a reaction out of Will, more than the slowly rising color in his face, “I hope you guys exchanged numbers, or else I’ll have to hunt one of you down for the other later.”
Will choked and sputtered, his blush darkening as he for the first time this night seemed at a loss for words. Despite his inarticulate response, it was clear he was trying to object to the implications Beverly intended.
Hannibal smiled.
“Actually, I had not yet gathered my courage to do so,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out one of his business cards and a pen, “but you are right that I should do so before either of us is pulled away. I would consider it a great loss to lose contact with Will after tonight.”
Hannibal wrote his personal number on the card and extended it towards Will, who was looking at him with wide and startled eyes. It made him look incredibly innocent and endearing, and Hannibal filed it away with the other expressions he would have to draw later.
Beverly jabbed her elbow into Will’s ribs and spurred him into action. He shook his head to clear it and accepted the business card, fumbling a bit in his discomfort.
“Uh, I don’t have a business card, but I might have a scrap of paper or something,” Will said, his face still red and his eyes darting around now. He was clearly uncomfortable, and Hannibal found it all the more charming as Will dug through his pockets.
Beverly produced a piece of paper and a pen for Will to use, and Hannibal noted the slightest tremble in his hands as he took them and scribbled out his own number. Hannibal accepted it with a smile, sliding the scrap of paper into the breast pocket of his suit.
“I gather you are not often the object of flirtation,” Hannibal said.
Will gaped at him, his jaw working and his eyes once again wide and darting around. Beverly snickered, turning away to pretend that she was hiding it.
“Uh,” Will said, then coughed as his voice was tense, “yeah. I mean, no. I mean. I’m not. People don’t tend to like me.”
Hannibal shook his head.
“And what a shame that is,” he said, “I believe they are all denying themself quite the experience. Though, I am not sorry to imagine that may mean you are more free to receive my advances.”
Will didn’t seem to be able to really accept the fact that Hannibal was being so overt in his actions. He was still flushed and fidgety, anxious and unsure how to respond. It made Hannibal want to kiss him breathless, which surprised Hannibal in return, as he didn’t know when the interest had become so directed and strong.
“Excuse me,” a voice said by Hannibal’s shoulder, and they all turned to face the newcomer. Hannibal recognized her as another patron of the arts, and knew she was likely to split up their small party of people in one way or another. “Doctor Lecter, I apologize for interrupting, but I have people pestering me because they cannot find you or get your attention. You really must make the rounds so you are not thought a misanthrope.”
Will snorted a laugh at that, making Hannibal smile despite the fact he was being taken away.
“Rose, you are never an inconvenience,” he said smoothly, “I will certainly be sure to socialize the appropriate amount tonight. Have you made the acquaintance of Will Graham? He is quite the artist, and his works are being shown for the first time tonight.”
Hannibal could see at once that Rose recognized the name, and did not like the paintings. Still she smiled as she turned to Will and greeted him with as much courtesy as she would anyone else.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’m so pleased to meet you, Mister Graham. I make it a point to get to know all the artists at functions like this.”
Will smiled, but it was bitter and wry. The kind of smile he had given Hannibal at first, before they had really started talking.
“Pleasure’s mine. You’ll forgive me if I’m not overly social. I don’t often come to things like this.”
Rose nodded, and Hannibal could see her discomfort. She didn’t know how to behave with someone like Will, and she could tell Will had no interest in trying to make her comfortable with him. Hannibal decided to take pity on her, offering Will and Beverly an apologetic smile.
“If you will excuse us, I do apologize we will not be able to finish our discussion. It seems my evening is booked, and I must make all my appointments.”
Beverly pouted dramatically, but didn’t say anything. Hannibal was more interested in Will’s reaction anyway, and studied the man as he decided how best to react.
“I guess I’ll see you later,” Will said, a bit awkwardly but somewhat recovered from his earlier panic, “or, if not, one of us will call the other. Thank you for your time, Doctor Lecter.”
Hannibal nodded and allowed Rose to take him around the room. He spoke with other patrons and artists, students and admirers. The words were all banal and sedate, nothing in comparison to what Will had offered by way of conversation. Hannibal’s mind was never far away from the misanthropic artist as the evening wore on, despite the fact he could not escape to find him again.
When the evening came to a close, Beverly Katz found Hannibal to deliver a message that was a disappointment, but not a surprise.
“Will went home a little while ago,” she said, and Hannibal nodded in understanding, “I think the only reason he stuck around as long as he did was he thought you might come back to talk to him. He really likes you. I can tell. You should call him soon, because he won’t be brave enough to call first. I won’t tell him you bought that painting, because I think you probably want to tell him yourself. Am I right?”
Hannibal smiled.
“You are,” he said, “and I see Will is not the only one with a keen understanding of others.”
Beverly laughed.
“I work in the BAU for the FBI. I ought to know a thing or two about behavior, even if I’m the fiber gal. Good luck with him, Doctor Lecter. I really hope things go well between you two. He needs more good people in his life.”
Hannibal nodded and thanked her, all the while musing over the fact that she worked in the FBI, and that meant Will had likely been either studying to join the FBI when they had met, or had been working with the FBI already. He had connections to the FBI regardless, and that was curious. Hannibal didn’t think Will suspected him. At least, his behavior hadn’t indicated as much during their interactions. Still, it would do to be careful.
Hannibal thought he was not going to be careful, though. He was going to toss all his reservations to the wind and pursue Will with a reckless abandon he had not shown in all his years living in the states.
Because Will was the most fascinating, enticing, delicious thing the universe had ever dangled in Hannibal’s way, and he was nothing if not a hedonist. He wanted Will very much, and would not deny himself. If Will could be had, Hannibal would. And if Will would accept Hannibal, all the better.
—
Will Graham looked anxious, but excited as he stood on Hannibal’s front step, a bottle of wine in hand. It was immediately clear to Hannibal that he hadn’t known what the protocol was for this dinner, and had guessed as to dress code and whether or not he could arrive empty handed. He might have chosen the wine with some advice from his friend, Beverly.
Will had also put more effort into his appearance tonight than he had for the gallery, which pleased Hannibal immensely. Will’s shirt was freshly pressed, and his curls had been nearly tamed with some product that smelled sweet like peaches. He was not wearing a jacket, likely in order to convince himself this was not a formal event. His glasses were also conspicuously absent, leading Hannibal to believe Will might want more intimacy out of tonight than he had wanted from the art show.
Hannibal smiled.
“Will, I am so glad you came. Please come in.”
Will nodded, swallowing nervously. Hannibal was flattered that Will would be so nervous for tonight, as even at the gallery he had not looked more than inconvenienced before Hannibal had begun overtly flirting with him.
Will stepped in, awkwardly holding out the bottle to Hannibal.
“I didn’t know what to bring. I figured you for a wine guy, but I don’t really know much about wine, so I hope it’s alright.”
Will’s nervous rambling was very different from the cool and confident psychoanalysis he had offered at the gallery, and Hannibal found it equally charming. It was another facet of Will he hoped to explore and learn entirely.
Hannibal accepted the bottle, allowing his fingers to brush against Will’s so he could watch the reaction.
Will’s face flushed and he pulled back quickly. He was quite endearing this way, though Hannibal hoped he would be able to coax Will back to his confidence before the night was over.
“Thank you, Will,” Hannibal said with a smile, “it’s perfect.”
Will chewed on his lip, his eyes darting all around Hannibal’s face. Hannibal wondered if he was searching for a sign of mockery or insincerity. If so, he would not find it.
Will sighed.
“Okay, full disclosure,” he said, spreading his hands, “I haven’t been on a date in years. I’ve never been good at it, and I’ve ended up making a lot of people upset without meaning to. That’s how bad I am at dating. If this is a date, and you mean it, you need to know I’m probably going to mess it up big time.”
Hannibal smiled warmly and shook his head.
“If you believe your performance at the gallery convinced me you are a natural socialite, I am sorry you think so poorly of my observational skills,” Hannibal said, “I was aware who I have asked to dinner, Will, and I believe we can enjoy ourselves tonight regardless of whatever you perceive to be failings on your part.”
Will looked far from convinced, but he nodded and followed Hannibal into the kitchen. Hannibal put away the new bottle of wine and brought out another to offer Will a drink. He hoped Will would loosen up as the night developed. It would be a shame for things to end poorly.
“Do you have any dietary restrictions?” Hannibal asked as he handed off the glass of wine to his guest.
Will took a swallow of wine, possibly in a bid for liquid courage, and shook his head.
“I’ll eat anything,” he said, “I’m not picky, and no allergies. Do your worst.”
Hannibal huffed a laugh, taking out ingredients and preparing to work.
“On the contrary, I think I shall attempt to do my best,” he said, “Tonight, it is my intention to impress you, as you have already made quite a good impression on me.”
Will’s color had gone down a bit now there seemed to be set expectations for behavior, and his smile came much more easily.
“As if you didn’t make an impression already,” Will said, “That’s the whole point of the bespoke suits and the gala attendance. You want to make an impression, and you always do.”
Hannibal couldn’t help but be pleased. Will was clever, and he had a quick wit. Hannibal enjoyed his company immensely.
“Even if that were not the case, I expect you are quite the expert on seeing the true nature of those you meet,” he added, “I would not be surprised if you told me you had known exactly who I was before I introduced myself.”
Will’s blush resurfaced, and he ducked his head sheepishly.
“You might not be surprised, but most people would find it disconcerting, especially if they knew the degree to which that is true,” he said, then took another swallow of wine. It was clear he was unused to wine, as he treated it more like a whiskey.
The comment made Hannibal more curious. Will seemed to be saying he knew even more about Hannibal than he had yet admitted, and Hannibal was curious what details he had gleaned that he had not said.
“Is that so?” Hannibal asked, “then by all means, enlighten me. I am curious.”
Will considered it, turning his glass around slowly on the counter.
“There are some things you can’t glean from just the surface,” Will said, as if to curb Hannibal’s expectations, “But in my case, those are few and far between. For Madame Rose Caruthers, I know she is an heiress, old money and high society. Despite that, she managed not to be spoiled, and has become a genuinely good person. She gives to charities and sponsors artists and programs for the underprivileged. What most people couldn’t see, but I could, is that she feels deeply guilty about something that has been done by her family, and she feels that she will never be able to fix it.”
Hannibal was impressed. He knew what Will was talking about, as he had done his own research into many people in his social sphere. Knowledge is power, and though Hannibal had no intention of using it against her, he did like to know in case it ever became relevant. That Will knew it could mean one of two things. Either Will had done extensive research into Rose Caruthers for some reason, or he had managed to infer this information through nothing more than observation.
Will had not named specifics, so it may well be that he did not know them. That was likely, if he had only guessed or rather had gathered through evidence. But he may very well have kept quiet on the specifics in order to obfuscate.
“Can you not guess as to the specifics, or are you merely being humble?” Hannibal asked.
Will huffed and took a more appropriate sip of his wine.
“That’s all just the surface stuff,” he said, “I would probably figure out more if I really wanted to, but I don’t for a couple of reasons.”
Hannibal raised an eyebrow, and Will took it as a bid to elaborate, which Hannibal had hoped for.
“I don’t find her all that interesting, for one thing,” Will explained with a shrug, “But I also don’t much like to intrude on people’s personal affairs. I have a skeleton key that opens anyone’s life, but it would be rude for me to go rummaging around through everyone’s drawers.”
Hannibal smiled.
“I appreciate the consideration,” He said, “Though I wonder if you would ever find someone interesting enough that you would look despite it all.”
Will wet his lips and shrugged.
“The Chesapeake Ripper, probably,” he said, “I’m not shy about that. I find him interesting, and I can’t exactly ask him for permission to look into all his secrets.”
Hannibal huffed a soft laugh, nodding.
“Quite,” he agreed, “but I can’t help wondering if it is not somewhat more difficult in the case of the Ripper. You know all his darkest secrets, but not the face behind which they hide. You are doing exactly the opposite from what you have explained to me.”
Will laughed softly, his posture growing relaxed. He was no longer anxious, and he even appeared to be enjoying himself.
“That’s nothing but the truth,” he agreed, “but in some ways that’s easier. I see the very heart of the man, and by that I can guess what kind of face he would hide behind. Every disguise is a self portrait in one way or another. All you have to do is know who you’re looking at, and you can see it.”
Hannibal raised an eyebrow. As dangerous as it was, he wanted desperately for Will to look at him, and see the truth.
Hannibal lifted the finished plates, smiling and beckoning Will to join him into the dining room.
Hannibal was paying close attention, so noticed the moment Will saw it.
Will froze in place, going entirely still as if turned to stone. His gaze was fixed on the painting, and his face was entirely devoid of emotion.
Hannibal set the plates down and turned toward Will, curious what he was thinking.
“I asked that you not be told who bought this particular painting,” Hannibal said, “as I wanted the pleasure of telling you myself. Your friend, Beverly Katz, also helped me in the endeavor. I hope you are not displeased.”
Will huffed a laugh and shook his head, walking around a bit to see the painting from different angles. He began to grin, and laughed again.
“You know what?” he said, “it looks just right. It’s like I painted it just to hang there. I don’t think it would look better anywhere else in the world. I didn’t expect you to buy this one. You said the tree of life and death was your favorite.”
Hannibal nodded.
“While that is true, it is quite a bit larger, and I do not have a place I could think to put it. The moment I laid eyes on this one, I knew exactly where it belonged. I am pleased you agree.”
Will considered that as he took his seat, his eyes continually straying to his own handiwork as if it was entirely new and amazing to him. Hannibal was pleased by his reaction.
“You’re definitely going to have to show me some of your work, now,” Will said, “it’s not fair that you’ve seen so much of mine.”
Hannibal smiled. He hoped in time to see much more of Will’s work, and perhaps even be invited to Will’s home to see that fabled room filled with the imperfect attempts that so interested him. That being as it was, he had nothing against showing Will his own work. In fact, he was anxious to do just that. He wanted to see how much Will would figure out without Hannibal telling him.
“After dinner, I would be more than happy to show you my sketchbook,” Hannibal said, “and I may even take the opportunity to sketch you again. Your visage intrigues me.”
Will huffed a laugh.
“I got that, thanks,” he said, “I guess I’m lucky you’re so intrigued by my visage, or else you wouldn’t have introduced yourself in the first place.”
Hannibal shook his head.
“As it so happens, I had set my mind on finding and speaking with you before I caught sight of your face,” he said honestly, “it was quite a coincidence that you happened to have both a beautiful mind and a beautiful face.”
Will blushed lightly. Hannibal had not said it so bluntly before, and now he saw how the words affected Will and he determined to do so again.
They ate dinner with companionable conversation, though they stayed away from the topic of the Ripper for the time being. Hannibal intended to bring them back around to it before the night was over, but he wanted to offer Will something of himself before he did so. It was a delicate dance he was engaging Will in.
“That was amazing,” Will said as he sat in the study, watching Hannibal as he poured them each another glass of wine, “I’d read about your dinner parties, but I thought everyone was just being nice when they complimented your cooking so elaborately.”
Hannibal smiled and handed Will his glass.
“It is prudent of you to take such words with a grain of salt,” he said, “and I am pleased to have exceeded your expectations.”
Will huffed a laugh.
“Well, are you going to show me any of your work, or do I have to figure out a way to coerce you?” Will asked.
Hannibal raised an eyebrow, curious how Will would expect to coerce him. He was tempted to find out. But he didn’t. He stepped over to his desk and picked up a notebook, knowing full well what his most recent sketches depicted. He handed it to Will and sat on the other end of the couch to watch as he opened it.
Will hummed in consideration as he flipped through the fist few pages. These all showed city skylines from Florence or Paris, and a few anatomical studies. Will’s eyes flicked over each sketch, taking in every detail. His focus allowed Hannibal to openly study Will without being observed. And he did.
Will was devastatingly attractive, and it bewildered Hannibal that he was not followed everywhere by a flock of admirers who constantly fawned over him. He had the kind of natural comeliness that Venus herself would have envied. The kind of beauty that wars were fought over.
And how unfair it was to the rest of the world that Will also possessed such a bright intelligence and quick wit. If each person had been allotted equal amounts of brain and beauty as each other, to make them all equal in life, Will had stolen many times what he had been freely given, leaving so many others without.
“You did these all from memory, didn’t you?” Will asked, turning and catching Hannibal in his staring. Rather than make him more anxious, it seemed to amuse him.
“Yes,” Hannibal said, “I lived in both Florence and Paris in my youth. They are both significant to who I have become.”
Will nodded, coming to another anatomical study.
“And you got into medical school on a work scholarship because of these,” he said, “I wonder if you intimidate artists who have less skill when you look at their work. Maybe you hide it from them to avoid doing so.”
Hannibal smiled. He found it amusing that Will clearly hadn’t placed himself in that category despite the fact that many others would if asked. Will recognized that while their skills were different, neither of them had less.
Will turned the page again, and stopped. This was the first drawing Hannibal had done of Will, and he seemed surprised to see it there. It showed that first, very brief smile Will had graced Hannibal with, just before they had exchanged names. Before Hannibal had become so entirely enamored with Will, and learned he had such a keen understanding of Hannibal himself. He had drawn it the moment he had returned home the night of the gallery, and it was only the first of many.
“Oh,” Will said softly, a blush rising to his cheeks again as he turned the page only to see yet another portrait of himself. His face turned peculiarly blank, and he continued to turn pages until he reached the most recent sketch, showing Will with wide eyes and blushing cheeks. It was how he had looked as they had exchanged numbers, and Hannibal had not been able to stop thinking of it since.
Will looked much the same way now, as he turned to Hannibal again. It again stoked that desire within Hannibal to kiss him breathless.
“You’re actually, really serious about this,” Will said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Hannibal moved closer, sure to leave ample room for Will to pull away if that was what he wanted.
“I am serious about you, Will Graham,” he said, “If you would allow me to be.”
Will didn’t move, letting Hannibal enter his personal space but not shifting to do the same in return.
“I don’t look that good,” Will said, “these drawings are fiction.”
Hannibal hummed.
“They are more true to reality than the art you create, but nevertheless they show the face of my muse,” he said, taking the sketchbook from Will’s hands, “In fact, my skills have failed to entirely capture the things I see when I look at you. You are far more beautiful.”
Will shook his head, but still didn’t pull away from Hannibal.
“I can’t be your muse. You only met me once before tonight.”
Hannibal huffed a laugh.
“If that is the reason you object, could I not question your muse?” he replied, “it seems to me that your muse is the Chesapeake Ripper, yet you admitted yourself that you have never met the person.”
Will sighed softly.
“It’s different,” he said, his words soft and strengthless.
Hannibal nodded.
“It is,” he agreed, “but Will, look at me.”
Will turned and met Hannibal’s eyes, looking slightly frightened by the intensity of Hannibal’s words and actions.
“I give you full permission to look into my life with your keen intuition and perception, and tell me what you see.”
Will’s breath hitched, and Hannibal saw as his pupils dilated. Will’s gaze grew distant, but never moved from Hannibal’s face. The muscles in his face twitched and shifted with flickers of emotions and expressions that never fully came over his face.
It was fascinating to witness, watching Will’s mind at work as he gathered information and organized it to create a picture of who Hannibal was.
“Oh,” Will said once more, barely more than a soft breath of air through his lips. Hannibal couldn’t help but smile, wondering what revelation Will had made that had caused the sound.
Will’s gaze cleared and sharpened at once, and a crease formed between his brows as he looked straight to Hannibal’s soul through his own eyes.
“That’s really why you didn’t buy the tree of life and death,” he said, “it’s too obvious.”
Hannibal raised an eyebrow.
“Why is that?” he asked, needing Will to say it.
Will shook his head softly, but his hand lifted to clutch at the lapel of Hannibal’s jacket.
“You’re the Ripper,” he whispered, “This is the face you put on to hide that fact. It makes so much sense.”
Hannibal grinned.
“Imagine my delight to hear you were as enthralled by my work as I am with yours,” he said.
Will didn’t waste another moment, lifting his other hand to the nape of Hannibal’s neck and pulling him into a kiss. Hannibal could not have been more pleased with that reaction, and he allowed his own hands to clutch at Will’s clothes, eager to remove them and see more of his muse.
Will pulled away after a moment, panting softly and looking remarkably debauched considering the fact he was the one mussing Hannibal’s hair.
“If you ever play games with me, Doctor Lecter, I will ruin your life.”
Hannibal grinned.
“I will consider myself warned.”