Chapter Text
Driving a Cadillac wasn’t that bad. Especially driving a Cadillac with Hannibal in the passenger seat and a seaside landscape stretching out like a picture frame. Ever since Hannibal had looked at him with the eyes of a needy puppy, everything in Will’s body had melted like butter under the sun. Of course he would give in to him. And maybe Hannibal was enjoying the view more than he should. Will’s hands steady on the wheel, his confident gaze fixed on the road, the tight sleeve of his shirt hugging his arm, and the sunlight kissing his skin as if he were the only one worthy of its warmth. In his wildest daydreams, Hannibal had always been convinced that a beach atmosphere would suit Will. Beautiful and untamable. Hannibal’s fingers tapped against his thigh, and he turned his face away from Will. Staring too long felt like looking straight into the sun.
Even focused on the road, Will noticed the small discomfort.
“Worried about something?”
“Just wondering if I remembered to grab the wine glasses.” He answered, clearly an excuse.
It was the first time they were going out for something simple, purely pleasurable, without needing to plan escape routes, deal with bureaucracy, or even think about stocking the pantry. Their wounds had healed well, but they still needed to ease the tension of being newly fugitive, though Will had believed his adjustment would be far more difficult than it was turning out to be. It had been Will’s suggestion to explore other nearby beaches, and of course he wanted Hannibal’s company to show him his private refuge. And naturally, Hannibal would prepare elaborate meals, and all of it felt like a date. Maybe the most normal one they’d ever had.
When they found an isolated stretch of beach, far from any wandering eyes, they set up their little improvised base on the sand: chairs, the umbrella raised, a small table, and the straw mat that gave softly beneath their feet.
“The last time we were at a beach wasn’t exactly… pleasant,” Hannibal remarked, arranging the objects with surgical precision. “I’m pleased we now have a better opportunity.”
Will smiled, taking the chance to tease him.
“I’m also glad you didn’t eat me when you had the chance.”
Hannibal raised an eyebrow, slow and theatrical, before leaning slightly toward him.
“You forget that I still could.”
“Not like that, Hannibal.”
Hannibal knew Will was right. He couldn’t. Not anymore. As seductive as the idea of a perfect meal was, no fantasy could justify losing Will from his life. His scent had never left Lecter’s nostrils, nor had the ocean-blueness of his eyes or the softness of his skin. A temptation never surpassed by hunger. But perhaps there were other ways to satisfy him, ways that ought to be explored.
Will dove for a while, disappearing beneath the waves. Hannibal waited for him on the firm sand, a book open in his hands, though his attention kept slipping through the edges of the pages. From time to time, his eyes lifted, scanning the blue for that silhouette he had learned to recognize even by the way it cut through the water.
He hadn’t imagined Will would face the ocean so soon, not after everything. But Will always found ways to defy expectations, dismantling predictions with a quietness that was almost disarming. Hannibal watched, and though he wouldn’t admit it aloud, felt a sting of pride at the courage that brought Will back to the sea.
When Will surfaced, breaking through with liquid light sliding down his skin, Hannibal felt a sharp pang in his chest, and lower. Water streamed across the scars on his shoulders and from his “smile,” tracing the tense muscles earned from swimming, and every step he took toward the shore felt devastating despite being unintentional. Hannibal wasn’t sure he would survive seeing Will soaked, shirtless, sculpted by sunlight as if he’d just stepped out of an artist’s studio. And so Hannibal resorted to his refined catalogue of excuses, announcing with solemnity that he would take a “pleasant walk along the shore.” The walk was anything but pleasant. It was simply a carefully crafted pretext to disguise the growing impulse betraying itself beneath the light fabric of his shorts.
The sun began to sink slowly, and the still-blue sky opened cracks of golden light. Little by little, it bloomed into colors impossible during the day. Orange spread first, warm and vibrant, dissolving into soft pink, then into a deep purple at the edges of the horizon. And Hannibal watched, contemplative, though he already knew a beauty far superior to that.
The trail leading back to the parking lot seemed darker than before. The smell of salt mixed with damp leaves and the earthy scent awakened by the coming night. Will and Hannibal walked together, each step soft, as if preserving the quietness of the day’s end. Two animals loose in nature, witnessed only by the stars and the moon. When the car finally appeared between the trees, there was also a small improvised convenience shack. A wooden structure with a narrow porch, lit by a buzzing yellow lamp that attracted moths.
An old radio played some distant song, and the shopkeeper moved empty crates around, absorbed in his routine.
Will paused, observing the place.
“I’m going to grab a beer,” he said, casually, almost too sweetly.
“Don’t take long,” Hannibal said, though he knew Will would take exactly as long as he wanted, and Hannibal wouldn’t do a thing about it.
Will walked toward the shop, the fine sand gathered in the hem of his shorts weighing on each step. The yellow light wrapped around him like a circle of warmth. Inside, the scent of sea salt mixed with old cigarette smoke and slow-dying refrigerators. Will placed his hand on the cooler’s handle, about to take a green bottle, when he heard heavy footsteps behind him.
A man stumbled inside with the arrogant posture of someone who had never been truly confronted. He passed far too close to Will, his shoulder brushing his.
Will noticed the smell first: sweetened alcohol, sour sweat, that sticky mixture of someone who irritates the air around them. Something was wrong, not paranoia, but intuition.
From the corner of his eye, Will saw the man’s arm as he reached for a beer. He had a peculiar tattoo: thick, black, carved into the skin with almost ritualistic precision. A swastika pressed deeper than necessary, as if the tattoo artist had driven the needle with obsessive zeal. The ink formed a rigid, geometric figure that cut across the man’s forearm like a voluntary scar.
Under the yellow light, the symbol seemed to glimmer. An ancient, persistent hatred, worn with stupid pride, utterly out of place in that peaceful beach setting.
Will felt an electric jolt in his stomach, the kind of unease that steals one’s breath.
Hannibal appreciated symbolism. And Will… appreciated giving Hannibal things.
The man grabbed a can of beer, opened it right there, spilled some on the floor, and walked out without paying. The shopkeeper muttered helplessly, used to dealing with unpleasant tourists.
Will shut the cooler without taking anything. He already knew exactly what he would do, and how. He waited until the man crossed the porch, waited until the dim light no longer touched his face.
And then, like a shadow peeling away from the wall, Will followed him.
The man had walked several meters down the dirt trail when Will closed the distance. When he finally sensed him, the nazi turned sharply to face him.
“Who the he—” The first punch stole the sentence right out of his mouth. The second restored the precious silence of the trail.
The body fell heavy, slack. Just the final impact of a collapsed existence hitting the dark ground. Will looked at the tattoo again. The swastika was smeared with dirt now. It looked better that way.
He hoisted the man onto his shoulder, the dead weight pressing against Will’s chest like just another load from the beach, like the chairs or the cooler.
When Will reappeared behind the car, Hannibal was already closing the trunk. He turned at the sound and froze. Will, with the body of a stranger slung over his shoulder, his face wearing a disturbingly calm expression. Hannibal took a whole moment to take in the scene.
“Will,” he said slowly, savoring each syllable. “I believe this one isn’t ours.”
“He was being a problem.” Will adjusted the limp body.
“I can see that.” Hannibal stepped closer, his eyes falling to the man’s exposed forearm where the swastika showed, now warped by the fall. “Interesting choice.”
“I thought you’d appreciate it.”
“I do,” Hannibal said, with a thin smile. “More than I should.”
He opened the trunk again as if it were the simplest task in the world.
“Do you intend to do something specific with him?”
Will shook his head. “I just don’t want him waking up here. He’d ruin our night.”
Hannibal smiled, dangerously proud.
“Then let’s give him a more convenient destination.”
As Will placed the body inside, Hannibal watched him. Vibrant. Aligned. Exactly in the frequency Hannibal considered perfect. When the trunk closed, the shop’s lamp flickered in the background. The night seemed to tighten around them.
“You surprise me…” Hannibal whispered. “More and more.”
Will breathed in, smiling.
“You started it.”
In the car, Will put on Talking Heads,This Must Be the Place. He seemed finally at peace. This time, Hannibal drove.
“I’m curious about what comes next,” Hannibal admitted, unable to contain the thrill curling inside him.
“Take it as my gift to you,” Will said, proud of himself.
“And I enjoyed it very much. So much that I’d like to share it with you.”
“And what do you suggest, Doctor Lecter?” Will asked, as if calling him “doctor” wasn’t already turning him on.
Hannibal turned his face away for a moment.
“What you started today doesn’t have to be an isolated event.”
“You want more.”
“Curiosity wasn’t your only motivation, Will.”
Will didn’t reply immediately. He had never lost the habit of falling silent whenever he agreed with something.
The road stretched forward. The music played on.
***
And so, the nazi pig, still unconscious, was taken to the basement of the house, a wide, silent space equipped with tools any visitor would call “peculiar,” though Hannibal treated them as ordinary parts of a home. The place held the same cold, organized elegance as the basement of his old house in Baltimore: everything in its place, everything with purpose. When Will turned on the light, the room revealed professional butcher hooks, immaculate metal shelves, and a steel table that reflected the lamps’ yellow glow like a still pond.
Hannibal, his body shaped by the overhead light, calmly reached for a thick kitchen apron, clean and perfectly folded. He lifted it, shaking the fabric in a motion that revealed the stretch of his shoulders, the firmness of his back, the precise line of his waist. He put it on, first slipping the strap over his neck, falling slowly over his still-damp chest, then pulling the ties around his back, where his muscles contracted in a way almost indecent in its naturalness.
Will swallowed, discreetly. He watched every inch of the movement. He felt his body react before admitting to himself that it was reacting. A persistent wave, a spark in a dark room waiting for fire. Something tightened in his chest, slid to his stomach, ignited somewhere it wasn’t supposed to ignite. Hannibal, adjusting the knot behind him, seemed absurdly aware of the effect he was having. But as always, pretended not to be. Presumptuous.
When Hannibal finally turned toward him, the apron highlighting even more the contrast between domestic and brutal, Will didn’t look away, didn’t move a muscle. If he had to do this, he would do it with Hannibal.
And Hannibal smiled as he sensed that sweet, feverish scent coming from Will. “Something wrong?” he asked.
But Will only smiled back, revealing far more than words ever could.
“Just… warm. But it’s fine.”
And it was.
Dangerously fine.