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The air inside the cramped cabin is infused with salt from the Atlantic. Medical supplies are heaped on the fold-out table before them. They occasionally tremble and shift with the motions of the sea.
Will runs an absent hand along the line of stitches across his cheek. He sees Hannibal tracking the movement, disapproval in his gaze. He drops his hand.
“You look better,” he says, unnecessarily. The first words passed between them for a lengthy period.
Hannibal nods. “It seems my fever has abated.” His eyes flick down to his abdomen. “You bandaged the wound well.”
Will huffs quietly, throwing a glance toward the bloodied bandages he has yet to dispose of. It had been a pretty extended case of trial and error, quelling the bleeding and ensuring the bandage sat correctly. There’s a damp cloth lying there, too, the one he’d laid across Hannibal’s forehead during the height of his fever.
“I’m definitely no doctor,” he says, “getting that bullet out wasn’t easy.”
“Still, it is out, which is what matters,” Hannibal responds fluidly.
Silence settles into every corner, every crevice of the cabin. Their plunge into the Atlantic hangs within it, colours every look they pass between one another. Will isn’t quite ready to broach it just yet.
He allows his gaze to sweep Hannibal’s form, from the sweat that still shines across his temples, toward the palms that rest in his lap, completely still. Calm, always.
“You seemed pretty out of it before,” Will notes, before he can force the words back down his throat.
Hannibal inclines his head in acknowledgement. “I can’t say I recall much from this past day. My memory has failed me.”
“No rooms inside your palace?” Will says, arching an eyebrow.
“Our palace, in many respects,” says Hannibal, his gaze unwavering. “But, no. I’m unable to access memories from the depths of my fever. I can open the doors, but I am only met with fog once inside.”
When Will doesn’t respond, Hannibal presses on.
“Did my behaviour during that time make you uncomfortable?”
“No,” Will responds, despite Hannibal definitely being aware of that fact already.
“I expressed some form of vulnerability, then,” Hannibal surmises.
Will considers this for a moment. Hannibal has only ever expressed stoicism in the face of physical pain or discomfort, barely flinching as Will had extracted the bullet lodged inside him and treated him as best he could. In the stifling heat of his fever, it hadn’t been pain fogging up his gaze or softening his expression around the edges, it had been something different .
Quiet compliance, eyes seeking Will out, following him across the room as he fetched various supplies, brightening when Will sat back down beside him.
For the few minutes he’d truly been delirious, lacking any meaningful awareness of his surroundings, his hands had found themselves bunched up in Will’s shirt, his lips parted around various Lithuanian words and sentences that Will couldn’t understand. All he could parse out was the softness underlying it, the…
Will shakes his head. In truth, he’s unsure how to describe it. Vulnerability had only been part of the picture.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” he says finally, eyes falling to the flimsy table again.
Will can feel Hannibal’s gaze on him, piercing in its consideration.
“A pity,” says Hannibal. “It seemed like the first conversation to spark your interest.”
Will stands, then, gathering all of the used bandages to throw away. He feels steady and unsteady at the same time, more sure about his own wants and needs than he’s been his entire life, yet unable to face this quiet companionship that has wormed its way into this sailboat, into the limited spaces that exist between him and Hannibal.
As he flits about the cabin, starting on the process of preparing some canned food for them to eat, Hannibal’s eyes follow.
—
It doesn’t take Hannibal long to be up and about again, quickly picking up on the basics of steering the sailboat from Will.
They stop at a quiet port along the north coast of Brazil for supplies. The sky is a pristine blue and a sticky heat hangs in the air that almost feels tangible, pressing in on him from all directions.
Will overhears someone struggling with their boat engine on his way back to their boat, making various noises of frustration as the engine repeatedly sputters and fizzles out. He finds himself lingering back before he can help himself, offering to take a look at it for them.
He exchanges a look with Hannibal, who nods and shifts the sizeable pack of bottled water in his arms, continuing on to their boat.
Thankfully, the problem is straightforward to fix. It’s a clogged diesel filter and an overall dirty tank. They have a spare pre-filter so Will removes their current one, replaces it, and cleans out their tank.
It’s been years now since he fixed boat motors in Louisiana, but the motions still come naturally to him. They keep his hands busy and his mind just busy enough not to wander too much. It feels good, almost like an indulgence. Considering that he probably won’t make a habit of helping people like this, lest they leave a trail of people who get a good look at his face, perhaps it is an indulgence.
As he’s standing to stretch his back a bit, his eyes find their boat that’s moored nearby. He spots Hannibal standing on the side deck, his hands resting on the rail. His sunglasses reflect the midday light, partially concealing the direction of his gaze, but it doesn’t take Will long to realise that he’s watching him work.
Will pushes his rolled sleeves up a bit further and returns to cleaning out the engine tank.
Later, when he steps onto the deck of their boat, his hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat and his clothes are covered in engine oil. He steps up to the railing beside Hannibal, who turns his head to offer him a smile.
“You been enjoying the view?” Will asks, as he curls his fingers over the edge of the railing, tightening then loosening his grip.
Hannibal takes a moment to inhale, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.
“I have. The humidity is a touch overbearing, but it’s an otherwise beautiful day. And, much quieter than the last port. Less tourists, it would seem.”
“Less rude bankers, too,” Will remarks. “More conducive to keeping a low profile.”
Hannibal nods, humming. “A shame, to suppress one’s appetite that way. Still, temptations aside, I believe I’m quite adept at keeping a low profile.”
Will shoots him a look as if to say “really?”
“You didn’t keep a low profile in Palermo,” he says.
“I did for a time.”
“Alana and I found you in a matter of months.”
Amusement glints in Hannibal’s eyes. “Which reminds me, once we settle someplace we must take care not to make a habit of purchasing the same items regularly. The fewer patterns that can be traced back to us, the better.”
“That won’t be a problem for me,” Will says, the corners of his mouth lifting subtly.
Silence settles for a moment, their boat rocking gently with the water. Hannibal turns to face him fully after a moment. His eyes sweep downward, past Will’s oil-stained shirt, then back up again.
“You were quick to fix that engine,” he says.
Will shrugs. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”
“Predictable,” Hannibal states, “easy to solve.”
Will tugs at his rolled sleeves. “Predictable right down to the mess it makes. I should go clean up.”
“Yes, you should,” Hannibal agrees.
Will steps back from the railing and heads into the cabin to clean off as best he can.
After a minute, Hannibal joins him, taking a seat beside the fold-out table. He watches as Will scrubs down his forearms over their small sink. It should be unnerving, but it isn’t. There’s probably something about being flayed open in every possible way before another person that’ll do that to you. A familiarity forged through blood, betrayal, time.
He shuts off the water and takes the towel that Hannibal offers him.
—
Will still thinks about his time in Lithuania. Occasionally, he’ll dream that he’s walking the dilapidated corridors of Castle Lecter, a dense layer of fog hanging in the air that dulls the sunlight and clouds his senses.
Hannibal has been somewhat forthcoming about his childhood years spent there, if characteristically cryptic. Still, something unspecified itches away at Will, urges him deeper through those corridors.
After sailing for close to a month, they’d found a place in Argentina near the coast, connected enough yet relatively clear of the busier urban centres.
The sun is sinking toward the horizon, lowering itself into a pool of deep orange. His eyes flutter to Hannibal as he moves gracefully across the kitchen, pulling out various pots and pans for dinner. Will returns his focus to the ginger he’s supposed to be grating, taking a small sip of the malbec wine Hannibal had poured him earlier.
“Something appears to be on your mind,” Hannibal says suddenly, without looking at him.
Will swallows his sip of wine, tilting the glass back and forth for a moment before setting it down on the counter with a subtle clink.
“I guess,” he agrees. “Still thinking through it, though.”
“I suppose you don’t wish to share, then,” Hannibal says, as he sets a frypan and a large pot on the stovetop.
Will hums. “Not coherent enough to share just yet.”
“A general direction?”
This gives Will pause.
There’s an undeniable intimacy in the way he knows Hannibal, understands his frame of mind, the way he approaches and perceives the world. Yet, this doesn’t mean that he can actually read Hannibal’s mind, relive his memories, finely thread together the events of his life. Occasionally he imagines what it would be like if he could do that, if he could open the floodgates until they’re rendered meaningless, a total breach of separateness.
He wants every single part of Hannibal he can get his hands on, wants every darkened corner of his mind palace. He feels restless and calm all at once, secure yet constantly seeking out more.
“Do you remember your parents at all?” he ends up asking, the words sliding across his tongue with the aid of the wine.
Hannibal considers this. He takes a moment to set a cutting board down on the counter, grabbing a knife.
“Not in any true sense. I could summon imprints perhaps, but even then, they would mostly be a product of my mind filling in blanks.”
Will nods. “Same with my mother.”
There’s a pause. Hannibal begins chopping up the onion, and Will begins grating the ginger. Hannibal’s eyes flicker towards him.
“Is that the general direction of your thinking, then? Childhood?” he asks.
Will looks over, meeting his gaze for a moment. “You could say that.”
“Childhood has a profound effect on our lives. Our early experiences inform our perceptions of ourselves, of others, and the world at large,” says Hannibal.
“According to Bedelia, your early experiences informed your decision to eat me,” Will says, without accusation.
Hannibal inclines his head. “It seems your sessions together delved rather intimately into our conversations.”
Will snorts. He finishes grating the ginger and scrapes it into a small bowl. “Let’s just say I had a few questions.”
“I’m an open book, Will.”
“Are you?”
“To you? Yes.”
Will’s mind reels for a moment. He turns to face Hannibal, angling his hip against the counter.
“Was there anyone you loved, apart from Mischa?”
“No,” Hannibal says, without hesitation. “She was the only one for whom I was unable to control the extent of my affections.”
“You resented her for that.”
“Unknowingly, she restrained me, just as others attempted to do throughout my childhood. Florence offered me the freedom to live as I was meant to.”
Will pauses, takes the words in. Thinks of that greyscale image that Pazzi had shown him of Hannibal as a young man. Il Mostro di Firenze.
“And me?” Will questions, a touch belatedly.
Hannibal finishes chopping the garlic and scrapes it into a bowl, before turning to face Will.
“You do not restrain me,” he says. “You complement me.”
Will steps forth and sets the bowl of ginger beside the other bowls, lingering by Hannibal’s side. He takes a sip of his wine.
He knows that Hannibal must think about eating him, even now that he’s forgiven him for his betrayal, for his influence. Just as Will occasionally dreams of wrapping his fingers around Hannibal’s neck, staring into his eyes until the life drains from them. But, Will could never actually do it. Never actually wanted to do it, if he’s being honest with himself, even at the height of his rage.
Will remembers his conversations with Chiyoh, remembers telling her that Hannibal couldn’t be understood through Mischa’s death alone, couldn’t be understood through one single event in his life.
Still, he tries to imagine Hannibal as a child, with all of his love and resentment for Mischa. Wounded yet liberated by her death. Chafing at the restrictions imposed on his appetite, even then.
“You’re welcome to sit down, Will,” says Hannibal, tearing him from his train of thought. “This dish will not take long.”
Will blinks. Then, he picks up the wooden spoon on the counter.
“We start with the sauce, right? You add the ingredients, I’ll stir,” he says.
A small smile appears on Hannibal’s face. He nods and reaches for the bowls of chopped vegetables.
—
There’s a certain serenity that settles over Hannibal’s face in the handful of moments after killing someone.
Will watches with rapture, his eyes darting rapidly as they take in every detail they can, from Hannibal’s gently closed eyelids to the blood smudged on his cheek. Bathed by the moon, a blend of silvery light and shadow.
Will’s knuckles are bloodied and bruised from their encounter, but no pain has set in yet. The night is still around them, far removed from artificial light and bustle, but the air is damp with the promise of rain. Briefly, his attention shifts toward the road, their car parked on the dirt beside it. Will knows they should get the body into the car and leave soon.
Instead of voicing this thought aloud, he takes a step toward Hannibal, watching as his eyes flutter open. Will reaches out, brushing his pointer finger along the small cut that lies on Hannibal’s forearm. When he withdraws it, a small amount of blood is smudged on the pad of his finger. He goes to draw away entirely, but Hannibal grabs his hand before he can, guides it back to his arm. Will shifts further into Hannibal’s space, running his hand up Hannibal’s arm and settling it on his shoulder.
A faint smile twitches on his lips. Hannibal returns it.
—
It doesn’t seem like an inevitability per se, or something they had always been inexorably building up to. It doesn’t even seem to be a particularly large step-up in the intimacy between them. But, somewhere throughout the next few seasons, their relationship develops a romantic dimension. Initially unspoken, then hashed out through careful conversation.
Will puzzles over whether he wants to delve into that territory with Hannibal, wonders whether this will symbolise a total cave-in of any remaining physical or metaphorical walls between them. Then, when he leans in to kiss Hannibal one night with the aid of some whiskey, he finds that he does want to go there.
Things change and they don’t.
Love is only a thread among a complicated web of feelings that Will harbours towards Hannibal. He finds that he’s able to adapt quickly, doesn’t feel as though he’s stumbling through the dark so much as he is exploring familiar territory in a new way.
He finds Hannibal sketching on the couch by the light of a lamp when he comes home one night. He drops his keys into their bowl, wandering up behind the couch and setting his hands on Hannibal’s shoulders. He leans over to see what he’s sketching.
“Saturn eating his son?” he says.
Hannibal casts a glance up toward Will. “Indeed it is. The artist, Fransisco Goya, painted it on the wall of his dining room at Quinto del Sordo, in Spain. It was one of a series of paintings he made now dubbed ‘the black paintings’ for their morbid imagery. It was only transferred to canvas after his death.”
Will runs his hands down to Hannibal’s chest and settles them there. Through the linen of Hannibal’s shirt, Will feels the steady beat of his heart thudding against his palms.
“In the original mythology, Saturn swallowed his children whole,” he says.
Hannibal nods. “He did. The realism of the piece — biting off his child’s head and gradually devouring them that way, as opposed to swallowing them whole — is one of several reasons it has been found so grotesque throughout history.”
Will watches for a moment as Hannibal continues shading with his pencil, gently running his hands up and down his chest.
“A conflict between old and young. Fatherhood at its most brutal and bloody,” Will murmurs.
“In some interpretations, yes,” says Hannibal, eyes flitting upward again briefly.
Will steps away and rounds the couch, settling down beside him. He turns to face Hannibal, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to the underside of his jaw. The skin there is smooth, scented with that almond oil aftershave Hannibal is so adamant about.
“You gonna be sketching all night?” he murmurs.
Hannibal doesn’t try to conceal how he leans into the touch, his shoulder pressing into Will’s slightly.
“I can be pulled away from it for good reason,” he responds quietly, amusement sparkling in his eyes.
He must think that Will is presenting him with a good enough reason because not a second later, he’s closing his sketchbook and shifting to set it aside.
Will smiles at this and wraps a hand around the base of Hannibal’s neck, dragging him in for a kiss.
—
Will can’t recall ever having seen Hannibal sick before. He can’t say this for certain, because his encephalitis blurred some of his earlier memories with Hannibal into an indistinguishable haze, but he knows that it must be a rare occurrence. Nature itself bending to the whims and requirements of Hannibal’s person suit.
Yet, despite this, Hannibal currently lays on their couch trembling through a fever of 101.5 and hacking his way through a series of chesty coughs that rattle his entire frame. A box of tissues lies on the coffee table beside him. He doesn’t even appear to be bothered by the symptoms, he just seems mildly displeased that his body had dared to succumb to a virus.
He’d insisted that he was more than capable of going about his day as usual, but Will had managed to persuade him to lay on the couch while he made up some chicken noodle soup.
Currently, Will hovers in the kitchen, eyeing the rain that splashes up against the window. They’re in the midst of a summer thunderstorm that has dredged up the scent of earth and eucalyptus. It seeps into the house and permeates the air inside.
He’s gently stirring the soup, watching it simmer. Occasionally, he dips a spoon in to check the seasoning.
From the couch, Hannibal pipes up.
“Your cooking has improved since when I first met you,” he remarks.
Will huffs out a laugh. “I’ve been practising,” he says.
There’s a beat of silence.
“Did you cook for Molly and Walter?” Hannibal asks.
Will feels himself stiffen, shoulders drawing up slightly. He purposefully lowers them again.
Over time, their conversations have come to flow smoothly as they always did, a well-oiled machine. However, there are still certain pressure points for both of them that dredge up unwanted emotions and past wounds, that make those conversations sputter and fume.
This topic in particular never fails to make defensiveness thrash inside Will’s chest.
“Yes,” he says belatedly, trying to wipe the syllable clean of emotion.
He feels Hannibal’s eyes on the back of his neck as he steps over the sink and turns on the tap, filling the kitchen with the sound of rushing water. He starts to wash up some of the dishes he’d used to prepare the soup.
“I’m sure Molly appreciated that,” says Hannibal.
“She did,” Will confirms.
“You must’ve made a good husband,” Hannibal says, with a lightness that sounds almost feigned.
Will chuckles, a sharp sound that sounds unpleasant in his ears. “Yes. A…very normal husband, until he disappeared.”
“Do you view yourself from that period as a different person?” Hannibal asks.
“A past life, perhaps,” Will says, finally feeling able to glance back at him. “What about you?”
“I couldn’t entirely divorce myself from the person I was then, or at any time in my life. But, I cannot deny that you changed me. It’s safe to say that the course of my life altered drastically the moment you stepped into it.”
The words loosen the knot of tension in Will’s chest a bit.
Hannibal turns his head away suddenly and coughs harshly into his hand. He clears his throat, reaching over to take a sip from his glass of water. Will sets a cup on the drying rack and shuts off the water, turning and watching him for a moment.
“I’m glad I’m here,” he says, voice softening slightly.
Hannibal sets his glass down, swallowing as he lifts his gaze to meet Will’s.
“An odd reaction to watching someone cough in front of you,” he remarks, his voice scratchy.
A smile spreads across Will’s face before he can help it, and Hannibal’s eyes glint with humour. Will shakes his head as he turns back around to face the counter.
“Soup’s ready now, I think,” he says, giving the pot one final stir.
“It smells wonderful,” says Hannibal.
Will spoons a generous serving of soup into two bowls, and grabs two spoons from the cutlery drawer. He carefully walks over to the coffee table, setting Hannibal’s bowl down beside him.
“Thank you, Will,” Hannibal murmurs, as he slowly reaches over to bring the bowl into his lap.
Will flashes him a wry smile, sitting down at the end of the couch by Hannibal’s feet with his own bowl.
“I just hope it helps,” he says.
Few words are exchanged as they eat their soup. The torrential downpour outside has intensified, with the rolling droplets against the window morphing into a nonstop cascade of water against the glass. It thunders against the roof, accompanied periodically by a discordant chorus of whistling wind.
Once Will is done with his bowl he sets it on the coffee table, setting a hand on Hannibal’s calf and watching him eat. He’d been interrupted by coughing fits a few times, slowing his progress. Will runs his hand up and down Hannibal’s leg in loose motions for a moment, before standing from the couch.
He takes his bowl to the kitchen and rinses it, returning to the couch with two tablets of cold and flu medicine. Hannibal shuffles over a bit to make room as Will sits down on the edge of the couch beside him.
Hannibal’s face is uncharacteristically pale, bringing the dark circles beneath his eyes into sharper relief than usual. Will leans over and gently rests his palm on Hannibal’s forehead, feeling for a temperature. He’s a bit warm, but he doesn’t appear to be feverish.
Will’s hand lingers as their gazes meet. His mind casts back to that initial night on their sailboat, fresh from their plunge into the Atlantic. Hannibal’s delirium, his flushed face and his incomprehensible mumbled words. Though that particular state of fever may have been beyond the grips of Hannibal’s control, Will knows that he’s only able to see Hannibal this way now — hair ruffled, eyes glassy, expression softened with fatigue — because he’s allowing him to see.
More memories flood to the surface of Will’s mind, unbidden. Gripping Hannibal’s hand to steady him as their boat reached a rough patch in the sea, smoothing Hannibal’s hair back with his fingers as Will settled a wet cloth over his forehead. The tear that had escaped Hannibal’s eye, which Will had watched with awe before gently brushing away with his thumb.
Something warms Will’s chest now, a feeling that he hadn’t allowed himself to recognise at the time. Affection, protectiveness, and possessiveness all wound up and tangled together, tender like a bruise.
Will lowers his palm, tracing the sharp line of Hannibal’s cheekbones and jaw with his fingertips. He realises that Hannibal is holding his breath, as though a fraction of a movement would make Will draw away.
“You should take this,” Will murmurs, holding out the tablets in his other palm.
Hannibal nods immediately, setting his empty bowl of soup aside.
Will reaches over for Hannibal’s glass and presses it into his hands. Hannibal takes it, as well as the tablets, popping them into his mouth and swallowing them down without comment.
That warm feeling practically glows inside Will’s chest, just about ready to burst forth from his ribcage.
“Are you tired?” he asks, keeping his voice soft like someone will overhear them somehow.
Hannibal levels him with a searching look, eyes flitting rapidly across Will’s face. Will knows it’s a stretch — neither of them really do naps, unless they’d stayed up particularly late the night prior.
“I could sleep,” Hannibal says after a long moment, matching Will’s volume.
A pleased smile comes to Will’s lips.
“Then you should sleep,” he says, taking the glass from Hannibal’s hands and setting it on the coffee table. “I’ll be right here.”
The assurance is unnecessary, but the words curl on Will’s tongue like they belong there.
He watches as Hannibal shifts a bit to scooch further down the couch, resting his head on the throw pillows. It doesn’t take long before his eyes flutter shut — he must be especially fatigued if he’s relenting so quickly.
This man, commonly known as a monster, is quite literally lying before Will with his underbelly exposed, his breaths coming out in soft puffs and his eyes closed gently.
If anyone else ever saw him this way, Will would have no choice but to kill them.
—
One morning, Will is pulled to consciousness by the soft notes of the harpsichord seeping into their room. It’s a melody he doesn’t recognise, crests of brightened notes and dips of quiet, barely audible ones, all underpinned by a note of melancholy.
Before he knows it, he’s lifting himself from their bed, shrugging on a bathrobe and stepping out into the hall. Sunlight spills in from the living space, slowly pressing in against the darkness that still lingers. Through the doorway, Hannibal sits before the harpsichord, framed like a painting. His eyes drift shut now and again as he plays, fingers seeking out the keys with practised precision.
Will wanders into the living room, lingering by the armrest of the couch. Hannibal doesn’t turn his gaze toward him as he finishes the melody, soft notes becoming softer and then finally evening out into stillness.
Hannibal takes a deep breath in, then opens his eyes and turns to face him, offering him a small smile.
“A lullaby from my childhood,” he explains, before Will can ask.
Will nods, eyes flickering across the harpsichord’s keys. “It has a haunting quality,” he notes.
“Yes, this particular one does. Perhaps the reason that it stayed with me over the others. Putting children to sleep with lullabies was a common tradition where I grew up.”
Will considers this, wandering over to the harpsichord and absently tapping a few keys. “Do you remember hearing it as a kid?”
“No, I don’t,” Hannibal says, eyes following the movement of Will’s fingers. “I only have my uncle’s word that it was sung to me once. He taught it to me, when he took me in.”
Their conversation continues, shifting and bending as it always does, but Will’s mind stays on that image he’d seen through the doorway, framed by pine wood. The quiet tranquillity written into the lines of Hannibal’s expression, the thoughtfulness behind his eyes as they briefly opened to track the movement of his fingers on the keys.
The concept of familial bonding, of quiet lullabies sung by parents to soothe their children to sleep, it still feels foreign somehow. Will had gotten a taste of family and normalcy, had even liked it in various ways, but he’d only ended up estranged from the concept once again. He’d contorted himself into all the appropriate shapes, then sprang right back into place when he’d dragged Hannibal down into the Atlantic.
Still, Will finds himself unable to stop thinking about that lullaby, the soft notes weaving their way into his thoughts throughout the day. The itch inside of him scratches away at muscle and tendons, digging upward toward skin.
He spends the night finding guides to playing the harpsichord online.
—
The midday sun is stifling, and Will stands beneath it with only his cap for cover. He watches as a few small fishing boats cruise into the port to offload, and thinks about the last time he’d been fishing. Looking out into the garden of his and Molly’s Home, wondering if Walter would want to learn to fish. Thinking to himself that he’d ask, then never asking. Constantly pushing back a barrage of could’ve-beens with Abigail.
He’s just about considering walking back into that farmer’s market he’d left to find Hannibal when he feels that familiar presence behind him.
He turns, and Hannibal stands before him with a few bags and a blanket Will doesn't recognise draped over his forearm. He steps forth automatically, taking a couple of the bags.
“Hey,” Will greets. “No trouble?”
Hannibal shakes his head. “None. As usual.”
They begin the trek to their car. Will shifts the bags into one hand so he can pull out his keys with the other.
“What’ve you got?” he asks, nodding toward the blanket.
“Someone was selling handwoven blankets, made from wool,” says Hannibal. “This one had colours that reminded me of a polychrome pattern in an old Roman mosaic.”
Will nods, eyeing the thick wool. “Sort of looks like a mosaic, too,” he says. “You sure it's the kind of weather for a blanket?”
Hannibal hums. “I had a more decorative purpose in mind. On the back of the couch, perhaps?”
“Decoration for all the guests we have over?” Will says, glancing over at him with an amused smile.
“For the guests who will find themselves in our home one way or another. A warm welcome, of sorts.”
They exchange a look as they approach their car. Hannibal’s expression is mild, but his eyes glimmer with humour. Will unlocks the car and opens up the boot, piling the bags inside.
“Labyrinths were a common depiction in Roman mosaics, often for floor tiling,” Will says. “Some speculate that they were believed to be apotropaic. Able to, uh. Avert evil influences. Even bring good luck, if you navigated the tiles appropriately.”
“Indeed. Others emphasise the artistic purpose of the labyrinth — a decorative way to emphasise the central subject. Often, that was the minotaur from Greek mythology,” says Hannibal, as he loads his own bags into the boot.
He absently strokes the blanket in his arms as Will closes the boot.
“Does that make us the central subject?” Will remarks, as he rounds the car and opens the door to the driver’s seat.
Hannibal circles around to the passenger side, his expression thoughtful. “An apt description, in my view.”
Will climbs into the car, and Hannibal follows suit. As they take off into the afternoon, Hannibal’s hands continue to smooth over the blanket.
That night, Castle Lecter’s corridors become a winding labyrinth. Just as Will thinks he’s chosen the correct path, ashen smoke descends and floods into his lungs. He sputters and chokes, then awakens in their bed, coughs tearing themselves from his throat.
Hannibal leans over, smoothing a hand down his back. “Are you alright?” he questions, voice rough with sleep.
Will sighs. Sags into Hannibal’s touch. “Yeah. I think so.”
—
Over the next month, blazing summer gives way to a mild fall. Will continues to practice the harpsichord whenever Hannibal isn’t around and starts to pick up on the basics of reading sheet music.
He rifles around Hannibal’s collection until he finds the hand-drawn sheet music for that lullaby he’d heard as a child. The paper is weathered with age, giving the pen ink a smudged appearance. It stands out in stark contrast to the other pristine sheets of paper that make up the rest of Hannibal’s collection. Will wonders if he’d written it when his uncle had first taught it to him.
Will isn’t entirely sure why he’s keeping all of this clandestine, like he’s slinking around with some terrible secret. He certainly isn’t naive enough to think that Hannibal hasn’t noticed in some capacity.
One particularly frigid night, the harpsichord catches Will’s eye as he’s lighting the fireplace. He hears Hannibal’s footsteps against the kitchen tiles, deliberating as he selects a wine to pour both of them. Hannibal had cooked them dinner and dessert with the fruits of their recent hunt, which has left Will feeling pleasantly sated.
Once the flames burst upward, licking at the wood, Will turns toward the harpsichord. Before he knows it, he’s wandering forth and sliding out the stool, sitting down on it. He glances over toward the doorway to the kitchen, the sliver of light that leaks out and cuts through the darkened living room.
He breathes in, then lets his fingers fall to the keys, playing the first low notes of the lullaby.
The movement in the kitchen stops. The notes ring out against a backdrop of silence for a moment. Then, footsteps approach the doorway. Will spares Hannibal a brief glance as he slowly steps forth, bending low and setting two glasses of red wine on the coffee table. He straightens again and lingers a few feet away, not saying a word.
Will concentrates back on the harpsichord, listening for any minor errors in pitch and trying to adjust accordingly. The keys are sensitive, requiring only the gentlest press in quieter portions of the melody.
There’s a strange tension in the room that condenses inside his chest the further the song progresses. It isn’t unpleasant, but it feels heavy somehow, weighed down by the quiet sense of melancholy that the notes hold.
When he finishes the lullaby, silence descends for a few moments. Then, Hannibal speaks up.
“An admirable performance. I was aware that you had been learning, but I did not know what.”
“It wasn’t the only one,” Will says, turning on the stool to face him.
“But it intrigued you.”
Will nods. “Because…it intrigued you, when you were younger.”
Hannibal tilts his head slightly. He almost looks touched. The fire is crackling away now, casting an ever-shifting glow across the room. Will can make out the scrutiny that remains in Hannibal’s gaze.
“I suspect it’s not that simple,” Hannibal says. He moves then, lowering himself down onto the couch. His eyes follow Will as he gets up from the stool to join him.
For a moment, neither of them say anything. Hannibal reaches for his wine glass and takes a sip. Will finds himself mirroring the action. He shifts slightly so his body is angled toward Hannibal, their thighs close to touching.
“I’ve noticed that you watch me sometimes,” Will says suddenly.
Hannibal appears unabashed. “I like to absorb the world with all of my senses, sight included. You are a large part of my world, Will.”
“I don’t mean in general,” says Will, toying with his glass. “I mean…”
He pauses here, trailing off.
His mind has always been quick to form connections, seek out patterns, but he wonders if this particular observation is merely a product of confirmation bias over time.
Hannibal is eyeing him curiously and seems to have no plans of interrupting until Will finishes his thought.
He hesitates a moment longer, before deciding to throw the piece out on the chessboard and see what comes of it.
“I mean, when I’m engaged in specific activities. Activities that a father might stereotypically engage in.”
Hannibal blinks. Leans back slightly against the couch. “What is it that you’re implying?” he asks. His tone is mild, but his expression has shifted minutely.
It seems Will’s piece has found some purchase on the board.
“I’ve been thinking about that first night on the sailboat. When you had that fever. Afterwards, you…asked me if you’d expressed some sort of vulnerability.”
Something dawns in Hannibal’s expression. He shifts, reaching for his glass again.
“If I recall, you were not eager to discuss it.”
“I had a lot of other things on my mind,” says Will, “but I’ve been giving it more thought lately.”
Hannibal takes a sip of wine, eyeing him over the rim of his glass. “And?”
“It wasn’t just that you were being more tactile or pliant than usual. Your behaviour was in line with a child’s behaviour,” Will says, straight to the point.
Hannibal nods slowly. He still has his glass raised, partially obscuring Will’s view of his face.
“I see.” He pauses, lowering his glass. A blanket of neutrality settles over his expression.
“You don’t seem surprised,” Will notes.
“If I’m being entirely truthful, I’m not.”
Will tips his head a bit to the side, mind quickly piecing together the implications of the words. He had anticipated that Hannibal might brush off his observations as the behaviour of someone who was unwell and feverish. This response is surprising, to say the very least.
“It’s happened before, then,” Will says, with a slight question wound through his tone. He’s not even certain what he’s referring to when he says ‘it.’
“Yes,” Hannibal says levelly. “As a young man.”
Will shifts closer on the couch. He can’t deny the curiosity bubbling up within him, after almost a year of steady simmering.
He thinks for a moment. “So is it a frame of mind? Some sort of…behavioural retreat into childhood?”
Hannibal’s eyebrows raise slightly. He almost seems impressed.
“A frame of mind with its associated patterns of thinking and behaviours, yes,” he says.
“A retreat from external or internal stressors,” Will muses, “though childhood isn’t always removed from pain, we tend to view aspects of it with a sense of nostalgia regardless. Associate it with, uh. Safety. Comfort.”
“I do not believe my sole motivation was retreat that night on the boat, though my memories are still vague on the matter,” Hannibal says.
Will considers this. “Then, you weren’t retreating from the pain so much as you were seeking something. Seeking…assurance?”
Hannibal’s expression maintains that wall of neutrality, but his eyes flicker briefly down to his wine glass. Will can practically see the cogs in his head turning, trying to determine how he should respond.
Will presses on. “If that’s the case, you weren’t just seeking it generally, you were seeking it from me.”
“As is the case in many instances,” Hannibal remarks. “You occupy a unique position in my life.“
“Just one?”
Hannibal inclines his head, as though conceding. “I could not reduce you to just one of anything.”
Will leans over for his own wine glass and takes a moment to eye its contents before taking a sip.
“You weren’t the only one who was behaving differently,” he says, “I responded in kind. Didn’t even really have to think about it. Just…treated you the way I’d treat any kid in that situation.”
“Any kid?” Hannibal inquires, watching him closely.
Will exhales. Meets Hannibal’s gaze. “No,” he amends quietly. “My kid.”
Finally, hairline fractures start to appear in Hannibal’s expression. Something about it softens imperceptibly. Hannibal swallows, eyes darting away to the coffee table for a moment.
“You never answered my question about whether you were a good father,” he says.
Will snorts, leaning over to set his glass back down. “A good father doesn’t run away from his wife and kid.”
“I suspect it would depend on the reason.”
“Mine wasn’t exactly noble.”
“Not according to polite society, no. But it was honest,” says Hannibal.
Will sighs slightly. “I think being a good dad to an actual child is a ship that has long sailed.” He pauses, debating for a moment, then adds, “I think I could be a good dad to you, though.”
Surprise flickers across Hannibal’s face. “How exactly do you mean?”
“I mean that I could look out for you, if you’re ever in that frame of mind,” Will says. “You told me that the people around you tried to restrain you as a child. Keep you divorced from who you were. I wouldn’t.”
Hannibal pauses, his gaze intense as it settles on Will. He allows his expression to soften another degree.
“Is it the vulnerability on my part that appeals to you?” Hannibal questions.
“That’s part of it,” Will admits, “but, that night on the boat, I remember feeling like…like I knew what you wanted from me. I knew what to do, all of a sudden. It felt nice.”
“Do you often feel as though you don’t know what I want from you?” Hannibal asks.
“I was more confused at the time. Your motivations often aren’t as clear to me as you seem to think they are.”
“I hope they’re clearer now,” Hannibal says.
“They are,” Will confirms.
There’s another brief lull. Will absently traces his fingertips along the edge of Hannibal’s knee, basking in the sound of the crackling fire before them. All visible traces of blue have melted from the sky outside, leaving a smattering of wispy clouds against an expanse of black.
“I do not need you to play a paternal role for me, Will,” Hannibal murmurs suddenly.
“But you want me to,” Will says with confidence. “Am I wrong?”
Hannibal hesitates. He exhales from his nose, slowly leaning back against the couch. “No, you are not. You rarely are.”
The words are quiet, barely competing against the fire, but Will hears them loud and clear. A faint smile tugs at his mouth.
In Will’s head, the king is in check.
“I want to as well,” he assures. Then, gentler, “I’d take good care of you.”
Will wraps an arm around the back of the couch, subtly freeing up room by his side. Hannibal takes the cue and slowly leans into him, eventually allowing himself to surrender his weight against Will. Something pleased and possessive coils inside Will at the pressure.
They remain there until the fire burns through the wood and all that remains in the hearth are glowing embers.
—
Age regression is what Hannibal settles on calling it over their next few conversations on the topic. Will learns that it has only very rarely happened involuntarily for him, and that he usually leans into it consciously. That night on the boat had been one of those rare involuntary instances.
Will has seen Hannibal shed tears, has seen him wracked with betrayal, has seen him on his knees as he surrendered to a life of restriction. He’s no stranger to evoking various shades of honest vulnerability from a man who would otherwise use it as a tool among many. And yet, this feels like an entirely different beast, one that Will is already itching to know.
In his dreams, Castle Lecter appears in sharper clarity than before. Will thinks about what it would’ve been like at the orphanage, caring for Mischa like a father, caring so much that it overwhelmed his need for freedom. Just as staying with Will in some capacity had overwhelmed his need for freedom, years ago.
Now they’re here, together, and Hannibal can finally fully share in his freedom with someone. Maybe Hannibal would’ve been above hoping for that, even as a child, or maybe he wasn’t actually so different to other children in that respect. Longing for companionship, belonging.
Either way, Will intends to give it to him.
After some amount of push and pull, of prodding and assuring and gradually waning caution, they finally decide on a day when Hannibal can lean into his regression while Will looks after him.
Will prepares beforehand, visiting a few low-key places close by with minimal security cameras where he can take his time and select a few supplies.
Hannibal tells him that he’d like to start out by simply watching him do something at first. Will floats the idea that he could observe Will as he makes breakfast for them, which Hannibal agrees to.
On the morning of their agreed day, Will wakes up early to find that it’s pouring down with rain. The storm casts a gloomy light inside the house that he tries to chase away by flicking on all of their lamps and lighting a fire in the fireplace.
He’s just making up some coffee for himself when Hannibal emerges, sporting pyjama pants and one of his softer sweaters. His hair is still a little mussed from sleep.
“Hey,” Will greets, “just making some coffee, then I’ll start on breakfast. You wanna come sit?”
In a small way, he’s asking if Hannibal still wants to do this. Judging by the nod and the faint smile Will receives, he does.
“What were you thinking of making?” Hannibal asks, as he walks forth and takes a seat at the kitchen island, opposite Will.
“I was thinking I could make revuelto gramajo, from that recipe book you bought. Sound okay?”
Hannibal nods, setting his elbow down and resting his head on his palm.
Will leans against the counter, drinking from his coffee mug. “I got some orange juice yesterday that we could have as well.”
Hannibal nods again, just a fraction quicker than he normally would. “I would like that,” he says.
“Good,” says Will, smiling slightly.
He places his mug down and sets about gathering the required ingredients, laying them out on the counter. He grabs a large pot and a frying pan, placing them on the stovetop. His eyes dart toward the window as he’s reaching for a whisk. It seems like the rain has stopped for a period, but the sky is still blanketed by a thick layer of darkened clouds.
Will can feel Hannibal’s eyes on him as he pours oil into the pot. He turns the burner on, glancing over toward the kitchen island. Hannibal still has his head propped up on his hand, and his expression is soft rather than scrutinising.
Will is just starting on the egg mixture when a few chunks of eggshell end up in the bowl from a poorly executed crack.
“Oh hell,” he mutters, as he uses the remaining eggshell to try and fish out the pieces.
Once the pieces have been removed, he proceeds to do the exact same thing with the next egg, which makes him pause for a moment. Usually, he’s much better than this.
When he looks over at Hannibal again, Will finds that there’s a poorly concealed smile on his lips.
Will’s eyebrows raise immediately. “Are you judging me?” he asks, a hint of playfulness creeping into his tone.
Hannibal shakes his head, but his persistent smile ruins the effect slightly.
Will huffs a laugh. “Mm, I think you might be, just a bit,” he says, amused.
He starts fishing out the eggshell pieces again, and manages to crack the next few eggs just fine. Hannibal watches as he flits about the kitchen, pausing a couple of times to drink his coffee.
As Will starts on cutting the potatoes into thin strips, he notices Hannibal rubbing his hands together in his periphery.
“Are you cold?” He asks immediately, turning to face him.
Hannibal blinks. “Only a little bit,” he says.
“I turned the heating up but it might take a bit to kick in. Do you want a blanket?”
Hannibal presses his lips together, considering the offer. After a moment, he nods.
“The mosaic one?” he requests.
“Sure,” Will says, pleased. “Stay here for a minute, alright? I’ll grab it.”
When Hannibal hums an affirmative, Will ducks into the living room to get the wool blanket they’d draped over the back of their couch.
Considering they’ve only just started easing into things, it seems to be going okay. Will had wondered whether it might feel unnatural or stilted, especially at first, but he finds that it isn’t a huge departure from what he already knows. It’s still just Hannibal.
When he enters the kitchen, he finds Hannibal quickly re-taking his seat at the counter. His eyebrows raise slightly as he walks forth, taking note of the parsley and basil that now lay on the counter beside the stovetop.
“They’ll make it taste better,” Hannibal explains.
Will huffs slightly. A smile twitches on his lips as he folds the blanket in half, approaching the kitchen island. “Will they?”
Hannibal nods, matter-of-fact.
Will’s smile grows. “Smart kid. That’s very helpful, thank you.”
Hannibal softens slightly at the words. Will walks up behind him, draping the blanket over his shoulders. Hannibal’s hands come up, holding the edges of the blanket together.
“There. Better?” Will asks.
“It’s better,” Hannibal confirms, eyes following Will as he rounds the counter again.
“I could cut the herbs,” Hannibal offers.
Judging by his tone, Will suspects it’s more of an automatic reflex, always feeling as though he should be doing something. Orchestrating things, somehow.
“That’s alright, I can handle them,” Will says, testing the waters.
Hannibal’s shoulders lower slightly and his posture loosens a bit. Will is more than pleased when he nods and returns to observing, clearly content.
Will goes through the motions of frying the potato strips and cutting up all of the other ingredients for the scramble. Once everything starts to come together, he moves between the kitchen and the dining table, setting down cutlery and cups for the both of them.
Throughout the process he casts periodic glances toward Hannibal. Fondness warms his chest each time he’s met with the sight of him wrapped up in the blanket, absently stroking the wool.
When all is said and done, Will has two glasses of orange juice and two plates of revuelto gramajo, sprinkled with additional herbs at Hannibal’s suggestion. He sets everything on the table, taking more care with the arrangement than he normally would.
Finally, he walks over to the kitchen island, approaching Hannibal.
“Alright buddy, up we get. Time to eat,” Will says, holding out a hand.
Hannibal nods and takes his hand, climbing down from the stool. Once he’s standing, Will reaches out and tugs the blanket further down his shoulders, ensuring it stays.
“You’re good at cooking,” Hannibal tells him, as they walk over to the table. The words lack a bit of his usual refined poise, and they ring out with honesty.
Will hums. “Am I? Even if I can’t crack eggs properly?”
Hannibal’s eyes sparkle with amusement, crinkling slightly around the edges. “That’s okay,” he says, “you cut the onion properly.”
At that, Will can’t help but chuckle. He slides out a chair for Hannibal, watching as the boy sits down. “Oh, do those things cancel eachother out?”
“Yes.” Hannibal pauses. “To me,” he adds.
“Mm, well that’s very nice of you. We’ll see how you feel once you taste it.”
Will circles the table, taking the seat opposite Hannibal. Outside, the rain has started up again, rising steadily in volume as it patters against the roof.
He watches as Hannibal stares down at the plate for a moment, before taking his fork and carefully scooping up some of the scramble. He lifts it to his mouth, humming once he tastes the food.
“Good?” Will asks.
Hannibal nods enthusiastically as he swallows his bite. “Good,” he confirms.
Will feels a tinge of relief. “I’m glad,” he says.
He starts on his own plate, taking a few forkfuls. It doesn’t take him long to notice that Hannibal seems to have stilled, eyes flickering between Will and the table. Will sets down his fork for a moment.
“Is something wrong?” he asks.
Hannibal shakes his head but doesn’t respond verbally. He picks up his fork again, toying with it a bit. Will’s brows furrow slightly as he tries to piece together what it could be. When he sees Hannibal’s eyes flicker from his plate to Will, it hits him.
“You want some help, sweetheart?” Will asks, a bit softer now.
Hannibal seems to melt and tense all at once, eager yet cautious. “It’s alright,” he hedges.
“I don’t mind. Kids need help sometimes, don’t they?” Will says.
He watches the shift in Hannibal’s expression as eagerness wins out over caution. Satisfaction curls deep inside him when Hannibal slowly sets down his fork.
“Please,” he relents, quietly.
Will shuffles his chair out a bit. “Of course. Good manners,” he praises. “Why don’t I come over to that side, then?”
Hannibal nods, eyes trailing Will as he shifts his plate and cup to the spot beside Hannibal. He stands and rounds the table to sit there, scooting his chair close to Hannibal and angling it slightly towards him.
“Alright, let’s see,” Will murmurs, as he takes his fork and leans over a bit to scoop up some of Hannibal’s revuelto gramajo.
“Open for me,” he prods gently, watching as Hannibal quickly opens his mouth. He smiles. “‘Atta boy.”
Will alternates between feeding Hannibal and feeding himself, pausing occasionally to sip at his orange juice. Hannibal copies the action without fail, right down to the motion Will uses, which is just sweet. No two ways around that.
Just as the tension had drained from Hannibal as he watched Will cook, his shoulders slump now as Will feeds him. Will finds himself relaxing slightly as well. Something like paternal affection bubbles to the surface inside of him, tangling with all the other shades of love he feels for the boy before him. To be honest, he doesn’t feel as though he’s settling into a role so much as he’s leaning into a different aspect of his feelings for Hannibal. Fostered and strengthened over time.
“There we go,” Will murmurs, as he feeds Hannibal the last of the food from his plate.
Hannibal hums, making a show of savouring it, which makes Will smile.
“Guess I’ll have to make that again, hm?” he says, as he stacks their plates on top of one another.
“Mm, yes,” Hannibal agrees.
“And you’ll be my supportive audience again?”
Hannibal smiles. “Again and again and again,” he says, matter-of-factly.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Will tells him, leaning over and adjusting the blanket around Hannibal’s shoulders again.
Before he pulls away, he pats Hannibal’s cheek affectionately, which earns him the slightest of nose scrunches.
“Once I take the dishes to the sink, I have a surprise for you in the living room,” Will tells him.
Hannibal sits up a bit in his chair. “What kind of surprise?” he asks.
Will knows that specific spark in Hannibal’s eyes like the back of his hand. He shakes his head, smiling faintly.
“Sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t go for a hunt. But I think you’ll like it anyway.”
Hannibal taps his fingers on his leg, surprisingly not looking all that disappointed. “Can I go and see now?”
Will shakes his head, standing from his chair. “Hold your horses. Lemme clear this stuff, then we’ll go and see together, alright?”
Hannibal nods, tugging the blanket tightly around himself as Will moves back and forth between the table and the kitchen, bringing the dishes to the sink. Once he gives the dishes a quick rinse and puts the orange juice back in the fridge, he turns to Hannibal.
“Alright, buddy. Let’s go take a look now.”
He approaches the table and holds out a hand for Hannibal to take. Hannibal happily slots his hand in Will’s, standing up from his chair. Will leads them to the living room, pausing by the doorway as the supplies he’d bought come into view, scattered across the coffee table.
There’s a sketchbook with regular paper and a sketchbook with watercolour paper, alongside an array of coloured pencils and a large pack of oil pastels. On top of one of the sketchbooks lies a life-like wolf stuffed toy sitting on its hind legs, with a fluffy fur coat.
Will hears a quiet gasp beside him. Then, Hannibal lets go of his hand and rushes forth, lowering himself before the coffee table. In his haste, the blanket slips from his shoulders, falling to the floor. Will picks it up as he follows, smiling to himself as Hannibal examines the art materials closely, then turns his attention towards the wolf.
“Thank you,” Hannibal says quietly, as he lifts the wolf into his arms.
Will pats Hannibal’s head, then pats the wolf’s head. “Of course,” he says.
The wolf is decently sized, but a lot of his bulk comes from its fur, which somehow makes it look a bit big in Hannibal’s arms.
“I love her,” Hannibal decides suddenly, looking up at Will with a serious expression to emphasise his point.
Will chuckles, then leans down and gently presses the wolf’s snout to Hannibal’s cheek. “She loves you too, see? She gave you a kiss.”
Hannibal’s expression gentles with a smile. He presses a kiss to the wolf’s face, returning the affection.
“Can I use these now?” Hannibal asks Will, gesturing towards the art materials.
Will nods. “Go right ahead. That’s what they’re there for.”
Hannibal shifts the wolf into one arm and begins examining the pencils and pastels, clearly trying to decide which to utilise first. He pauses for a long moment, tentatively looking back up at Will. His eyes dart away momentarily.
“Dad?” he questions, very quietly.
Will swears he feels his heart valiantly try and leap forth from the confines of his ribcage. He sort of feels like he needs to hold onto something, that’s how intense the feeling is.
“Yeah, baby?” Will responds, aiming for casual.
“Will you sit with me and Athena?” Hannibal asks, a bit more confident now.
“Athena? Is that the wolf’s name?”
Hannibal nods, as though it's obvious.
Will exhales, amused. “Right, of course. I’d love to sit with you two, but I think my back wouldn’t like me sitting on the floor too long. How about the couch?”
Hannibal considers this for a moment. “Hm…alright. I think I’ll start with the pastels.”
He tips out a few colours out from the box, scrutinising them for a moment. While he does this, Will walks over to the couch, draping the blanket over it. He sits down lengthways with his back pressed against the armrest, watching as Hannibal transfers his chosen colours to one of the small bowls they keep on the coffee table. Hannibal stands up from the ground holding Athena, the watercolour sketchbook and the bowl of pastels.
“C’mere, sweetheart,” Will says, holding out his arms in invitation.
Hannibal shuffles over, sitting down on the couch and maneuvering to settle between Will’s legs, his back pressed against Will’s chest.
“Can you hold Athena, Dad?” he asks. “She’s helping, but she can’t get pastel on her.”
“Smart idea,” Will agrees, “of course I can.”
Hannibal passes Athena over, and Will tucks her beneath his arm. He winds his other arm around Hannibal’s waist, watching as the boy settles the sketchbook on his bent knees.
“Hmm.” Hannibal leans his head back against Will for a moment, clearly thinking. He brightens, tipping his head upward to gaze at Will. “You can decide what I draw!”
“You want me to decide, huh? Hm, alright. Let’s see…”
Will’s never been particularly artistically gifted, either in creativity or execution. He hums as his eyes wander the room, looking for something that Hannibal could draw. They eventually find the window, where rain still pours.
“How about the rain outside? I like rain,” Will offers.
“Why do you like the rain, Dad?” Hannibal asks. His tone is childish but it somehow has that therapist’s lilt that Will viscerally remembers from years ago.
Will can’t help but chuckle, playfully skittering his fingers up Hannibal’s side and drawing a few giggles from the boy.
“Mmm, I don’t know, why do you like drawing?” Will says, just a little bit teasing.
“I asked you first,” Hannibal insists.
“I asked you second,” Will returns, eyebrows raised.
“First means you have to answer first,” Hannibal says stubbornly.
Will snorts. “Alright. True enough, I guess. I like the rain because…” he pauses, trying to simplify the messy knot of thoughts inside of him. “Because it feels freeing,” he settles on, mindful of Hannibal’s deepening regression.
Hannibal considers this, snuggling back a little bit against Will’s chest. “Does it make you happy?” he asks.
Will shakes his head, gently running his palm along Hannibal’s flank. “Not always. But it doesn’t have to.” He pauses. “What about you? Does drawing make you happy?” he asks.
“Not always,” Hannibal responds, a bit quieter now. “But…hm. I like it.”
Will nods, hooking his chin on Hannibal’s shoulder. He presses a quick kiss to Hannibal’s cheek.
“Well, you’re very good at it, baby,” he says, voice soft.
Hannibal shifts, smiling. “Thank you.“
“You don’t have to use my suggestion,” Will adds. “You can draw whatever you feel like.”
“Mm, I do wanna draw the rain,” Hannibal says. “Do you remember the night by the road, Dad?”
Will thinks for a moment. Then, realisation slowly creeps in. After they’d killed that man by the road, it had started to rain while they stood by their parked car. The rain mingled with the blood, carrying it across the concrete and washing it away into the grass. Not ideal for their usual purposes, but beautiful regardless.
“Yeah I do,” Will says. “Is that what you wanna draw?”
Hannibal nods. “Do you like this red?” he asks, holding up a dark mahogany pastel.
“I do like it. Very pretty,” Will says, pressing a kiss to Hannibal’s head.
Hannibal smiles, pleased. “Does Athena like it?” he asks.
“Oh, good question. Hold on, I’ll ask.” Will clears his throat, taking Athena and placing her up on Hannibal’s right shoulder.
“Athena, do you like this red Hannibal wants to use for his drawing?”
Will leans in by Athena’s snout, pretending to listen to her.
Hannibal looks over curiously. “What’s she saying, Dad?”
“She says that she loves that red very much,” Will tells him, “she thinks it’s a good colour for your drawing.”
Hannibal beams. “Then I’ll use it!”
He leans back against Will’s chest and gets comfortable, bringing his knees up a bit further to position the sketchbook closer to him. Will sets Athena down on the edge of the couch, wrapping his arms around Hannibal’s waist and hooking his chin over the boy’s shoulder. Hannibal is just making his first few strokes with a grey pastel when he pauses, shifting to look up at Will.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Can we read after this?”
Will smiles. “Sure we can. You got anything in mind?”
Hannibal purses his lips, considering. “Herodotus?” he suggests.
“The Histories, you mean?”
Hannibal nods eagerly.
“Sounds good to me,” Will says.
Hannibal quickly returns to his drawing. Will watches contentedly as he fills the page with colour, sketching out that night in vivid strokes. The corpse is partially in view, but the central focus is the deep red blood that seeps across the concrete and the rain that soaks the landscape. The storm that still rages outside makes an almost perfect backdrop.
The drawing is a little rougher around the edges than usual, but it has that same unrestricted appreciation for beauty, in whatever shade or form it takes, that permeates Hannibal’s art.
Will smiles as he watches it all take shape, unable to keep himself from giving Hannibal an affectionate squeeze. Hannibal responds by snuggling closer.
His smart, beautiful boy. All his.