Chapter Text
Baltimore’s territory lay cloaked in an alarming silence, its isolation illuminated by a sun that had long since risen. Yet Will remained fast asleep, consumed by a profound slumber, untouched by the dawn that had already claimed the sky. The night had eroded, the last traces of its presence eventually dissolving.
His dogs lay huddled together upon the cold wooden floor, their bodies pressed tightly against one another in a futile attempt to preserve what little warmth remained. Meanwhile, an icy breeze seeped relentlessly through the gaps in the window, sending a chill throughout the room.
A sudden, insistent pounding at the front door tore through the indefinite stillness of the house. The noise echoed within the structure, the ring of sharp acoustic waves rattling the brittle, aged wood of the doorframe. Deep within a heavy slumber, Will had slipped far past the boundaries of an appropriate hour for this type of rest.
Yet, his nervous system remained tense; even in the depths of pure exhaustion, his mind processed the potential threat of the frantic, persistent knocking before his consciousness could even catch up.
Awakening with a startled start, he swept a hand across his eyes to clear the lingering grogginess, venting a yawn into the room. He jolted upright and moved away from the bed, attempting to prevent his mind from drifting back off. His accuracy was impaired, his body wavering and unstable as he attempted to navigate himself down the hallway.
Shoving the door open, he found himself face to face with Jack Crawford. As the head of the behavioural unit, Jack carried an innate authority that manifested clearly in his rigid, upright posture.
Only then, squinting against the light, did Will realise the sun stood high in the sky. A wave of realisation washed over him as he noticed the active clouds, the light chatter of birds singing. Jack existed on the threshold of frustration. He was fitted in a sharp, tailored suit of rich, dark fabric. His expression carried an undeniable disappointment, the remnants of a furious scowl still existing at the corners of his mouth.
“Morning,” Jack uttered, his tone deceptively light, though a distinct undercurrent of darkness anchored to his voice. “You need to answer your phone when I call. We need you.”
Will's brows drew together, knitting into a tight web of visible confusion as the residual haze of a nonsensical dream tangled itself within reality. His mind moved sluggishly, significantly weighed down by the burden of exhaustion.
“What happened?” He asked, his gaze narrowing as he analysed the fine layer of rainwater slicking itself across Jack’s face.
He let out a long deflating sigh, his eyes wandering away from Will's face. “We’ve got a new crime scene. Patrol found the body less than an hour ago, and from what I’ve heard, it’s unlike anything we’ve dealt with before.” He paused. It was a brief fracture in the timeline of their conversation, yet the silence seemed to be carrying a crushing weight.
A dark intuition bloomed within Will's chest, his stomach as his mind instinctively began to shape the horrors waiting for him in the cold damp space outside. “I’ll give you five minutes to get ready. You need to come with me.”
The heavy fatigue in Will's eyes fractured, burned away by a sudden sharp spike of adrenaline. He offered a singular, calculated nod. Closing the distance between them, he closed the door with precise control, ensuring it clicked into the frame without slamming.
As he navigated the rote, almost mechanical motions of his casual morning routine, his mind transformed into a fertile breeding ground for macabre anxieties. Vivid projections of violent, beautifully calculated homicides flickered across his consciousness. It was a desperate, involuntary defence mechanism, his hyper-empathetic brain attending to preemptively desensitise itself to whatever cruel reality Will was to meet within the next hour.
A parade of grotesque scenarios flashed behind his eyelids, each a culmination of grim artistry and theatrical design. He envisioned a body meticulously intertwined with the fine branches of an ancient tree, exquisite flowers bursting from the centre of the chest, piercing and tearing the skin surrounding them. The sheer infinity of possibilities only worsened the dread, knowing that any horrific picture his mind created could closely mirror the truth one day.
Shuddering violently to break the trance, Will scrambled for his work boots. He forced down a cold wave of nausea pooling in his stomach, choosing to compartmentalise the terror rather than face it now. Shoving his feet into the leather, he actively looked away, pretending not to notice the subtle, rhythmic trembling of his hands.
Will took a long, drawn-out breath, attempting to steady his pulse as he approached the door handle. At the entryway, he hesitated for a second, a vivid fracture in his composure that reflected a deeper reluctance than he ever intended to show. The air drifting past him carried the initial, unmistakable notes of decay, a scent that morbidly tackled his senses.
He stepped into the sprawling estate where the grand, timber-framed architecture rose like an ancient, decaying cathedral amidst the gloom. Deep, dark oak panelling filled the walls, bleeding a richly suffocating warmth that effectively drowned out the ambient noise of the existing world.
The interior existed in a state of suspended time. It essentially functioned as a museum of frozen moments. Tarnished silver frames rested undisturbed upon polished walnut cabinets, each surface buried beneath a light casing of dust that had accumulated over years of profound isolation. The perfected preservation painted a brutal psychological truth.
The resident had been living blissfully unaware of their impending doom. They’d moved through these walls, wrapped in a completely false sense of security, completely unaware that a shadow lingered in every corner they took, calculating their demise.
As Will drifted down the long hallways, his mind automatically began to deconstruct and analyse his surroundings. The victim had evidently devoted immense care to the interior design, curating a space of unforgettable and melancholic beauty. From the corner of his eye, a silver-lined picture frame anchored his attention.
Pausing, he lifted it with gloved hands, inspecting the photograph tucked inside. It captured two people in a candid laugh, their body language radiating an undeniable, effortless affection. It was a stark reminder of the humanity and reality that had been violently destroyed in this very place, an intricate history a delirious killer had psychopathically cut short.
A complex mix of competing scents infiltrated his sinuses. The dry, chalky scent of ancient dust seemed to overpower his senses, but it was quickly overpowered by a sharper, more dominant note. The odour was thick and aggressively metallic, carrying a bizarrely natural undertone that refused to let itself go ignored. No matter how hard Will fought to sever his fixation, his brain seemed magnetically attracted to it, experiencing a dark yet addictive pull to the chemical signature of spilt blood.
The ambient noise of the investigation began to emerge as the proximity between Will and the scene shortened. He could hear the low, confident chatter of forensics exchanging data, the mechanical shutter of a high-end camera, and the crisp rustle of paperwork being manually filled. With his heart hanging in his chest, Will forced his muscles to comply, manually dictating each heavy step forward into the light of the flashbulbs.
The scene was every bit as monstrous as Jack had painted it to be, a severity of theatrical depravity that turned stomachs as it arrested the eye. At the centre of the largest room in the house, a female body lay fastidiously arranged across a long, polished mahogany table. She was aligned with geometric precision, her limbs perfectly straightened and heavy on the wood, as if she were a specimen in a fine museum.
Cascaded around her in a flawless, symmetry-driven layout were rows of fine, gold-rimmed china plates. The true horror lay in the culinary presentation; each immaculate plate held a single, cleanly harvested, human organ. The crowning piece of this gross layout was a silver soup bowl placed delicately inside the gaping, surgically opened cavity of the woman’s torso, rolled to the brim with her own neatly braided intestines. The most revolting part of it was that they were cooked, the skin given a slight crispy brown as it settled.
Will stepped closer, blurring the chatter of the forensics team into a dull, underwater hum as his vision narrowed. He closed his eyes, letting the heavily metallic stench of the room and the visual horror anchor him. The world around him faltered. Inside the dark, theatre-like palace of his mind, the golden pendulum of his imagination began its heavy, slow swing, erasing each part of the room.
In the void of his imagination, the narrative of the murder began to unfold in real time. He wasn’t spectating a corpse anymore; he was stepping into the skin of the man who had built this monument of death.
He imagined a man standing exactly where he stood now. A man with tall, intensely confident posture, completely unbothered by the ticking clock of discovery. The phantom figure moved with grace through the dim dining room. This wasn’t a crime of passion; it was a curated performance, a design. Each gesture was sharp, definitive, and deeply premeditated, devoid of any chaotic rage. Will could feel the killer's hands, steady and terrifyingly skilled as they sliced through with the tenderness of a priest executing a sacred ritual.
The killer didn’t view the victim as an enemy, or even a victim of revenge, but as raw material for an artistic statement, merely a canvas to be rewritten. Will's chest tightened, the boundary splitting his mind from the murderer beginning to blur.
Suddenly, the heavy spell of his trance was shattered. The imaginary dining room dissolved, violently snapping Will back into his own skin as the sound of footsteps approached from behind. A rich, familiar voice pierced the silence of the crime scene. It was a sound composed of deep, velvety decibels, the words delivered with an elegant, foreign cadence that was both extraordinarily polite and chillingly misplaced amidst the slaughter.
“So, what do you think?” Hannibal spoke softly, his curiosity and interest in Will's psyche easily transmitting through his speech. He stepped forward, towards Will, the rhythmic muted thud of his boots striking the floor.
Will stood entirely fixed, the heat radiating from Hannibal’s frame acting as a strange, grounding anchor against the phantom chill of the crime scene. The proximity was intoxicating; the rich, dark notes of Hannibal's expensive cologne tangled seamlessly with the metallic scent of spilt blood, creating a dizzying sensory overload. Hannibal’s eyes remained locked onto his, dark and bottomless, waiting with absolute patience for an answer to his devastatingly intimate question
The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy with unspoken understanding. Will’s throat tightened as he forced himself to confront the psychological mirror Hannibal had held up to his face. He swallowed hard, trying to steady the dangerous acceleration of his heartbeat before he spoke.
“I think this isn’t a murder of passion, it was worship,” Will finally whispered, his voice trembling slightly as he pulled his gaze away from Hannibal’s lips to look back at the table. “Whoever did this couldn’t express their desperate craving for intimacy in any stronger way. They chose what they saw as the ultimate connection, to consume them. Piece by piece.”
Hannibal took a single, deliberate step closer, closing the remaining distance until the fabric of his tailored suit brushed against the coarse material of Will’s jacket. He didn't blink. The faint, rhythmic sound of Hannibal's steady breathing felt dangerously synchronised with Will’s own erratic pulse, pulling Will deeper into a shared orbit he knew he should escape, but couldn't.
"A holy communion," Hannibal murmured, his voice dropping into a register so low it felt meant for Will’s ears alone. "To ingest the object of one's adoration is to ensure they can never abandon you. It is the ultimate preservation of beauty."
The silence between them was coated in thick tension, their actions direct and purposeful.
"Tell me, Will," Hannibal asked softly, his tone dripping with a dangerous curiosity.
"When you became him... did you feel disgusted by his hunger? Or did you envy the absolute certainty of his love?"
Will flinched scantily, the elaborate question reverberating in his mind as he tried to distract his focus from the proximity between him and Hannibal. Their bodies were close, Hannibal’s dark musk cologne infiltrating Will's nose.
For the briefest of moments, he allowed himself to admire Hannibal, committing every sensation of his presence to memory. He lingered on the warmth radiating from his body, the steady rise and fall of his evenly paced breathing, and the steady quietness that enveloped him.
To him, their shared shadow was a sanctuary. A suffocating closeness that blurred the line between devotion and separation. For a momentary heartbeat, Hannibal’s breath against his skin was a holy fire, a brief, blinding warmth that consumed his fractured mind and anchored his aching flesh. To hold his body so near was an exquisite, intoxicating poison.
Beneath the erotic fever that coursed within his veins, a cold certainty settled deep into his chest, a realisation that Hannibal’s proximity to Will was merely physical. The intimacy that fostered behind Will's eyes didn’t reflect in Hannibal’s.
Will despised it, so immensely that the wrath had conformed into intricate wires intertwined with his veins, each pump of blood a fiery movement of pure jealousy and envy. Every second that he scrutinised the subtly dis-impassioned look that was beginning to grow from the centre of Hannibal’s eye his heart would miss a beat, his state of mind fracturing in painful rips.
Will felt as if he was nothing unique to Hannibal. He felt as if the substance of his personality was merely a representation of who he was, instead of the ever-so-alluring being he so badly craved to be. In his imagination, a picture of Will lingered inside of Hannibal’s head as butterflies fluttered inside of his stomach, though he knew that would never happen.
“I didn’t envy the anchor of his love, I envied the way he could express it in such a meticulous way with pride, with such certainty that his intentions became undeniable,” Will uttered, his eyes devoid of expression, an instinctive attempt to conceal his vivid vulnerability.
The admission hung in the suffocating thick air of the dining room, a raw, bleeding fragment of Will's soul laid before a man who specialised in dissecting them. Almost instantaneously, Will's heart sped into a fast-paced, frantic motion as his thoughts began to spiral. The intense, shifting ambiguity of his own feelings became a fertile breeding ground for a suffocating paranoia.
Had Hannibal seen right through the fragile armour to the desperate, aching confusion underneath? He felt the strength in his knees completely deplete under the crushing pressure of his psyche playing cruel games with his emotions. The proximity of Hannibal's radiating warmth and the dizzying scent of his dark cologne only magnified the terror, leaving Will feeling profoundly frail, exposed, and entirely out of control in a universe that suddenly felt too small to breathe in.
Straining every muscle to sustain the illusion of an upstanding, professional posture, he recognised the absolute inevitability of his departure. His mind was fracturing, the boundary between his empathetic connection to the killer and his terrifying attraction to Hannibal blurring into a single, agonising note of distress.
He turned on his heel, forcing his uncooperative legs to move, and made his way out of the room. To look back at Hannibal in that moment felt like a psychological impossibility. He knew with absolute, terrifying certainty that looking into Hannibal’s dark, dissecting eyes just one more time would completely resurrect his volatile emotions, shattering whatever dignity he had left. He crossed the threshold into the damp, echoing hallway alone. Submerged entirely in the cold, hollow void of his mind, a bitter realisation settled deep into his chest. He was forever intended to be alone.
The room dissolved into indefinite silence as he departed, his presence still reverberating against the oak walls. Hannibal exhaled a heavy, unmasked sigh, grossly aware that Will's evident muteness symbolised deep emotional turmoil feeding within his mind.
His sudden silence was merely a facade masking a tempest of suppressed emotions, an emotional architecture buried so meticulously beneath his conscious self that it remained invisible to spectators, eventually rendering itself fundamentally unreadable to its very own creator.
Later, the clock had only just struck five, yet the day felt as though it was already gliding blissfully into the twilight of evening. The sunbeams that had grown throughout the city were withering away, leaving a crisp chill that clung to the air. The sun hung low on the horizon, its pale golden light configuring itself throughout the gloomy layer of clouds that cascaded over it.
Inside the sprawling federal headquarters, a low, rhythmic buzz of activity filled the labyrinth of corridors. Special agents and forensics personnel moved with focused urgency, thick clipboards gripped tightly in their hands, their sharp footsteps echoing off the sterile walls. The ambient tension in the building was palpable, a heavy fog of collective anxiety fueled by the gruesome nature of the ongoing investigation.
Hannibal navigated the bustling hive of the behavioral unit with a practiced, effortless ease. His presence attracted little to no attention; over the past months, he had successfully integrated himself into the social circle of the bureau, transforming into a familiar, reassuring fixture within these high-security walls. As he glided through the paths of busy personnel, he engaged in a quiet, habitual voyeurism,curiously listening in on the fragmented conversations and private lives of the agents who lingered around him.
It was a psychological pastime he found endlessly fascinating. Humanity, he observed, lived under the grand delusion of their own selfishness. People genuinely believed themselves to be remarkably skilled at concealing their deepest anxieties, prejudices, and secrets behind professional walls. Yet, Hannibal knew the truth: their own mouths betrayed them far faster than they could ever realize. A micro-expression, a slight tremor in syntax, or a defensive shift in posture was always enough to lay their internal machinery bare for his amusement.
Despite the endless stream of ambient voices and structural noise surrounding him, however, Hannibal found himself entirely deaf to the crowd. His attention remained fiercely, unwaveringly fixated on a single, solitary figure.
It was Will.
For a man of Hannibal’s intellect, decoding the human psyche had always been a breeze, an exercise in reading a map he had already memorised. He had initially thought of himself as capable of navigating Will Graham's mind with that same incredible, calculated ease. Yet, as he watched Will from afar, Hannibal had to silently acknowledge a startling truth; Will's mind was not a map, but a vast, shifting cathedral of volatile emotions, a psychological scope far too grand and complex for even him to easily decipher.
He came to terms with the fact he could not definitively predict Will's erratic movements or pinpoint his hidden intentions. Under the crushing pressure of the bureau's demands, Will had developed into an increasingly unstable, unpredictable force. For the first time in his life, Hannibal felt the thrilling, exquisite sting of the unknown, realizing that the broken profiler was no longer just a subject of fascination, but a beautifully untamed fire that could just as easily consume them both.
Hannibal opened the door with a swift, imperceptible, yet profoundly elegant movement, emerging into the room with his spine aligned as straight and rigid as tempered steel. Every aspect of his presentation remained entirely untouched by the chaos of the bureau; his hair was slicked into its immaculate, signature position, and his three-piece suit was perfectly tailored, its fabric delicately clinging to his skin. His professional, calculated appearance served as a flawless mask, hiding the intense psychological curiosity growing beneath his clean surface.
There, in the center of the isolated room, lay the true focus of his detour. The body rested under the harsh, loud glare of the examination lights. Its intricate design was something particularly unique, a morbid masterpiece that caused the ambient atmosphere of the room to hang heavy under the immense weight of the sheer, calculated violence inflicted upon it.
There in the centre of the room lay the body. Its intricate design was something particularly unique, the atmosphere of the room heavy with the weight of the sheer violence.
The individual had once been a young woman, now transformed into a centerpiece for a grand, silent statement. She was placed with a haunting presence upon the cold table. Her pale skin looked fragile in the stark light, a delicate shell remaining as time relentlessly took its hold of her physical form. The central element of the display had been executed with chilling mastery below the ribs; a precise, geometric focal point that demonstrated terrifyingly steady hands and a singular, disciplined vision.
Hannibal stepped closer, his attention captured by the sheer composure required to create such a display. He investigated the profound, echoing message woven into the arrangement, a message intended for the one man capable of truly reading it.
As Hannibal secured the door behind him, Jack's sharp gaze shifted immediately, fixating on him with a hard, uncompromising intensity. “You’re late,” Jack groaned, the sheer discontent in his voice mirrored in the rigid, exhausted manner in which he carried his massive frame. He looked as if the mounting pressure of the case were a physical weight almost too unbearable to hold.
“I’m sorry, Jack. I must have gotten caught up. Forgive me,” Hannibal spoke, each syllable strict, sharp, and delivered with a direct, unwavering tone. He carried himself with the absolute stance of a man who had his entire life flawlessly figured out. The display profoundly staggered Will; it was a bitter, exhausting contrast to his own reality. Will found himself constantly drowning in a sea of emotional uncertainty, yet Hannibal faced this horrific landscape with pure, undisturbed equanimity.
Although Jack delivered a short, forgiving nod before shifting his attention back to the tragic ruins of the victim, Hannibal’s eyes immediately bypassed the corpse to lay atop Will. He approached with slow, deliberate strides, closing the physical distance until he stood right next to the fragile man. Will was tightly coiled, his internal storm threatening to breach his defences.
He was discreetly biting his lower lip, his mouth narrowly open to reveal that his tongue was also caught under the desperate, grounding pressure of his teeth. His white-knuckled hand was anchored fiercely onto the edge of the cold autopsy table, his fist closed so tightly that his knuckles bled pale against the steel, his simmering, volatile anger serving as the staple of his current fixation.
He found himself unable to resist silently analysing Will's anger. To him, it appeared undirected, a fire inside of him that burned upwards instead of outwards. It seemed as if there was no clear reason, or at least to him. His mind, over the past few days began to grow fond of Will, the thought of him always lingering for a second too long.
Will's mind was reflective of an intricate puzzle to Hannibal. He viewed it as a maze, his perspectives and emotions deeply intriguing. Something about him was different, something stood out effortlessly.
"I think I understand why. She lived a good life, happy, with no enemies. Her house was untouched, completely undisturbed. He knew that. He precisely, carefully harvested her organs to consume them, and then he cleaned the room. He didn't just wipe away the blood, Jack; he washed her clean to keep her pure," he sighed, subconsciously closing his eyes to picture the events again.
“I think they wanted to express love. To love somebody so much as to consume their entire body for exactly who they are, that’s a different kind of love. A brutally perfected love. He was obsessed.”
The area was left soundless after he spoke. The emotional complexity of his profiling often carried such weight that only certain people could understand the intent behind them, but to others he appeared to be inhuman or heartless.
Deep inside the fractured architecture of Will's mind, he pictured a couple. It was a unique partnership, their mental imagery created with flawless, agonizing perfection. In the quiet theater of his imagination, he envisioned that their love was unbreakable, a tough, impenetrable bond that left them completely inseparable, even in the shadow of death.
A minuscule, terrifying part of him felt a sudden spike of jealousy. Envy festered like an open wound within his stomach, while Hannibal’s rich, elegant scent mingled with their close proximity, ruthlessly fueling his chaotic emotions. The proximity of the older man was a catalyst, sharpening the taboo desires Will fought so desperately to suppress.
Still, there was one glaring paradox that lingered heavily on his conscience, a knot he couldn't untie. If this killer adored her so intensely, how could he harm her? How could a man hold her seemingly gentle and tender life in his very hands, feel the warmth of her pulse, and then violently take it away?
To perceive raw, bloody violence as a supreme act of devotion is entirely astray from how love is commonly understood by the world. Yet, somehow, a distant, terrifying part of Will's soul deeply resonated with the concept. Having emotions so profound, so devastatingly vast that you yearned to take their life and claim it entirely as yours, was a deeply symbolic gesture. It was a metaphorical, absolute type of intimacy that not everybody could understand—but as Will stood trapped in Hannibal’s orbit, he knew with absolute certainty that the man standing right beside him understood it perfectly.
This was his design.
“So, is there nothing else you can figure out?” Jack questioned, his demeanour drastically changing as he looked over at Will.
“I don’t know. I have the theatrics figured out, but until he kills again I’m not sure. I don’t know if he will.” Will replied, his thumb tapping the side of the autopsy table as he shook his head.
He slightly re-stationed the body at an angle, reassessing her wounds, the preconceived injuries the killer had made. The act itself was rabid, but something stuck out. Her heart lay calmly in her chest, still and cold. He had taken her life and her body, leaving her heart to remain solitary.
“There’s more to this,” Will murmured, his voice low, roughened by exhaustion. His gaze lingered on the evidence before him, unfocused, as though he were searching beyond what was visible. “Something I’m missing.”
“Go home,” Jack said firmly. “Get some rest. I want you to think about it more, come to a conclusion.” He gestured vaguely toward the room, the files, the bodies that seemed to haunt every corner of the investigation. “Come back tomorrow with an answer.”
Hannibal met Jack’s eyes without hesitation. His face was a study in restraint, every feature carefully controlled, revealing nothing beyond quiet attentiveness. “When the others have left,” Hannibal said evenly, “I would appreciate the opportunity to speak with you privately. Would that be possible?”
Jack held his gaze for a second before giving a subtle nod.
“Of course.”
Will found himself deeply intrigued by Hannibal’s request. They had usually talked alone, but this time it felt different. It felt peculiar, as if Hannibal had planned that moment out.
The idea of Jack and Hannibal, isolated from society by a closed door, discussing with each other, made Will's stomach curdle. A possibility lay that they were to talk about Will. The idea of Hannibal talking to Jack about his true opinions on Will prompted anxiety, possibilities roaming through his head.
He pondered eavesdropping on them, but his gut instinct told him that it was better off to leave. He took a deep gulp as he put his coat on, his kind adrift from the surface of reality.
He quietly exited the room, maintaining his silence. He attempted to close the door as mutely as possible, subconsciously trying to blend into the surroundings. He was seeking somewhere to be alone. He figured seeing his dogs could do no harm.
When Will's footsteps had eventually come to a close, Hannibal released a deep sigh, letting loose pent-up emotions caused directly by his thoughts. His concern about Will was growing immensely by the hour.
He noticed the way Will's body tensed up as Hannibal approached. He noticed the way he held his fist rigidly, as if he was using the pain of his bones grinding roughly against each other to cope with the warfare in his mind. Will had been using his body language as a barrier, and Hannibal had certainly picked it up.
“I am becoming deeply concerned about Will. I feel as if he is carrying some type of pent-up emotions. I am wondering if maybe he will crack, and do something irrational.” Hannibal stated, his brows slightly furrowing though he attempted to maintain his social coldness, his genuine concern overriding his persona.
“Will is a tool to us. I don’t care if he cracks, he’s saving lives with his job. Let him be upset if it gets the job done.” Jack responded, like he always did. Hannibal knew that this was what he was going to say, yet he tried anyway.
With nothing else to say, Hannibal sighed. “I’ll be on my way then.” He replied, turning to exit.
As soon as Will entered his home, his shoulders began to loosen up, the tensing he had been maintaining throughout the day inevitably losing its power. His body unwound, his home a safe area for him to process. The wind circling him was cool. The faint scent of petrol still lingered, a fragrance to which Will particularly had taken a liking.
His dogs nipped at his thick shoes, their hard claws scraping against the hard wooden floor. A smile spread across his face, his dogs’ warm presence a breath of fresh air. He knelt, stroking his hand across the top of their heads kindly, their fur a silky and soft feeling.
After an extensive day of harbouring violent and negative thoughts, the comfort of his home felt especially refreshing. To him, his home acted as a complete safe place. He viewed it as a place he could unmask, be himself, the public view no longer spectating and analysing his acts.
He headed to his kitchen with impaired precision, his body carrying the physical heaviness that could only be held by a man whose mind was slowly decaying itself from the inside out.
As he thought, he pondered Hannibal’s alone time with Jack. He began to regret not eavesdropping. There’s a broad spectrum of conversations that they could have engaged in, with Will's existence highly likely to be in multiple of the conversations.
The concept of Hannibal freely expressing his genuine thoughts of Will made him feel ill, a sense of nausea washing over him. Hannibal concealed his emotions effortlessly, his life as a psychiatrist essentially training him to maintain this tactic. He could act as if he viewed things objectively, even if the opinion he truly had was extremely different to what he expressed. It was a difficult reality to accept.
His energy level depleting, he prepared a coffee, flicking the kettle on with a small tap. He kicked his shoes off and threw them over to the wall.
He stood there, letting his body go limp, relying on the counter behind him for stability. The house was silent, other than Winston sat in front of him, looking up, slightly whining as he became aware that Will held a particularly strange energy than usual.
Will dwelled on the topic of the future, predominantly the distant, far future. He envisioned a world in which the dynamic between him and Hannibal had changed. A possibility lay that he could potentially be in love with another person, worst of all, a woman.
Potentially in the far future, they could be partnered. Though he thought of it as unrealistic, he allowed himself to fantasise. What would Hannibal be like in a relationship? Maybe he would be dull, just as distant. His heart began to ache, the reality of the scenario dawning on him.
The image of Hannibal holding another woman in his arms lingered, its presence a haunting toxin to his will. He was now subconsciously biting the inside of his lower lip, a small amount of blood pooling across his tongue. The pain was a way to punish himself, maybe for not having the courage to talk to Hannibal, or maybe because he hated himself.
The woman he had created in his head was perfect, her appearance divine. She was slim, her hair flowing over her shoulders elegantly. She was perfection, something Will could never be. Will was an average guy. A man who dressed himself in plaid T-shirts and casual pants every day. His house was nothing particularly impressive, a desolate cabin practically in the wilderness.
The idea of Hannibal with him felt severely unrealistic and imperfect. Hannibal was a man who consistently kept himself well presented, his house was essentially a cathedral, a mansion. The drastic imbalance was embarrassingly obvious. How could a specifically curated man ever look at Will with eyes of love?
He felt obsessed. Hannibal was the only thing he could think of.
The possibilities began to rush within his mind, plethoras of stories flushing through his imagination in seconds. His mind began to whirr, a tornado of thoughts taking complete control over him. He became aware that the situation was having too much control over him, yet to let go of his love for Hannibal felt heart-crushing, an action he didn’t think he could ever bring himself to willingly do.
Ding!
Will flinched suddenly in his spot, his heart skipping a beat. His body was erect from the position he was in before, a slight fight-or-flight instinct taking place. He had forgotten the kettle was boiling, its noise a total surprise. He briefly closed his eyes, processing the last few seconds as he attempted to eradicate sensory input.
Shaking off his thoughts with a heavy sigh, he shifted back around to face the counter. With a swift movement, he lifted the kettle and poured the boiling water into the mug. The steam rose onto his hand, beads of water forming at his fingertips.
He grasped the mug and headed to the living room, the dissociation kicking in. He could feel the painful sensation of the heat burning his hand, yet he was too disconnected to care. The weight in his chest felt odd. He didn’t know why his emotions had built up to this moment, why everything had suddenly hit.
The past few months, he had been casually watching Hannibal. He had picked up many minuscule things in Hannibal’s behaviour, his daily routines. He noticed the slight snarl he did with his upper lip when he became frustrated, the way he tilted his head when something caught hold of his attention. Hannibal felt irresistible, like a chilling bottle of water in a desolate desert. The thought of Hannibal made him have physical reactions, as if somebody had struck a blade into his chest, his heart heavy under the immense pressure.
Will plummeted into the sofa, letting his body go limp. Winston lay next to him, his pleading eyes staring up at Will.
For the most part, Will strongly despised modern technology. He found comfort in the silence, to him, a suitable pastime was lying with your thoughts. With such a wide range of topics, he could keep himself entertained for hours, connecting dots on things miles away. Over the years of working under Jack's care, his mind had begun to transition. His thoughts were painted darker, his mind almost automatically giving a violent twist to the softest of things.
Though the mug remained heated, he took a direct sip. His taste buds slightly burned, the sensation actually quite grounding to him.
Meanwhile, Hannibal stood inside his kitchen, an apron draped over his chest. He had decided that tonight was going to be unique, something extraordinary. To him, he felt superb. His psyche proved itself to be a stark contrast to Will, his strong-willed confidence even sustaining itself whilst he stood isolated in his own home.
He was purposefully cooking an exquisite meal. Rich, fresh pig's meat freshly prepared with expensive spices layered on top with a layer of homemade sauce. The aroma that lay over the area was one of a kind. It was a smell that stood out, the type of scent that could draw you into a restaurant as you walked by on the street.
He famously kept his meals neat. He would gently wrap them in leaves or tie them together, his unique techniques expanding the taste of his cooking. He routinely decorated his food, the aim rather to make his meals dramatically artistic instead of only edible.
He saw creativity as a tool, a necessity in his daily acts. He could take a violent situation and warp it into his very own beauty. He found metaphorical meanings in everything, he recognised each crevice of people's actions, seeing the meaningfulness in it, even if they had not intended to project it in such ways.
In contrast to Will's pastime, Hannibal loved to cook. He particularly liked to host dinner parties, to have a feast. His confidence rose to the point he couldn’t hold a smile back from appearing on his face when he cooked, even more so when it was undeniable that his guests were ravenous about the food he cooked. It gave him an unbelievable ego boost, an empowering feeling. He felt as if he was a supplier, in control of people below him.
Tonight, he had curated an elaborate, calculated plan. When he had shortened the distance between him and Will, he noticed that he tensed with the proximity, his eyes slightly closing for a brief second. Hannibal took this as Will attempting to contain his ravenous emotions back, hopelessly failing.
The puzzle began to make sense. The problem here was him. Though Jack maintained his normal stance on the issue, he seemed as if his demeanour was lighter than usual, as if he hadn’t noticed the issues himself. When Will was with Jack he appeared fine, yet when Hannibal was close, it ticked him off.
After a long train of consideration and hesitation, he had decided on inviting Will for dinner. He was to analyse Will, to secretly attempt to peel off the surface. He wanted so badly to find out what he thought. He wanted to truly know Will, to know every single little part of him so that he had some sort of security regarding his safety.
Hannibal wanted to get physically closer to Will, to hold him close. He wanted to push Will off the edge, to see how he reacted. He loved how sensitive he was to his touch. It felt almost fascinating to him, like an intricate painting before him that he couldn’t help but look at with pure interest.
Will had no idea that Hannibal thought this. Hannibal knew how to cover it up, his interest playing as a vulnerability to him. Deep down, Hannibal had become heavily interested in Will. Will's presence had become exciting, even just looking at his face gave him an adrenaline rush.
Whilst he found himself completely captivated by the thoughts of Will, he had zoned out. He was standing with his hands resting on top of a cutting board, just inches away from the sharp blade of his knife. In a way, it embarrassed him. He had almost put himself in harm's way simply because he was too busy thinking of Will Graham. The vulnerability made him feel ill, his body holding a weird sensation.
He swallowed, readjusting his jaw. He removed his apron calmly, folding it neatly before laying it aside on the counter. He was heading to his landline, to call Will. He found himself playing out scenarios, imagining the most appropriate yet convincing way of inviting him over.
As he sat down at his desk, he fixed his suit accordingly. He was attempting to make himself look better, for a phone call. It was out of character, a stupid yet subconscious movement that he made. He pondered the meaning for a second.
He confidently dialled Will's number, leaning back into his chair. Contrary to what Hannibal had expected to happen, Will picked up on the first ring.
W.G
“I’m in the middle of something Hannibal.”
H.L
“I found myself preparing a prosciutto-Wrapped pork loin this afternoon, a cut far too grand for a solitary dinner. I immediately thought of you. You look thin, Will. You rely too heavily on canned beans and isolation."
W.G
“I like my isolation, and my dogs don’t judge my cooking.”
H.L
"Perhaps not, but your body deserves better nourishment than a canine diet by proxy. A proper meal restores the balance between the mind and the physical form. I have opened a bottle of a 2015 Barolo that pairs beautifully with the roast.”
W.G
“There's dog hair on every piece of clothing I own. Your house is too clean for me.”
H.L
“I am inviting you, not your wardrobe. Come as you are. I will have a plate ready for you at eight o’clock.”
W.G
“Sure.”
H.L
“Drive safely, will.”
Hannibal softly placed the phone back into the cradle, hesitantly ending the conversation. He felt a sense of excitement, its presence playing a strange surprise to him. He felt overjoyed to have the presence of Will arranged, to know for certain they were to meet.
These feelings were peculiar, purely just their existence created a deep pit inside of his stomach. For the majority of his time that he had spent in Baltimore, he felt oddly flat, a faint dull ache. Apart from his manually created happiness by cooking or manipulating his way into control, he had maintained a consistent coldness to his energy. Sometimes, he utilised the slight upper hand it gave him. He was naturally apathetic, a tool that was useful in seeing things objectively, to not get attached and hurt.
Sometimes he felt a small hunch of jealousy. Seeing the emotions in people’s faces, their bodies' physical reactions flooding out of them as they experienced waves of feelings. He felt deprived of such experiences in every way, though he knew it was for the better that he lacked emotions. Was experiencing the thrill of love worth it for the heavy set burden of guilt?
The concept of everybody being able to walk around with such strong vulnerability felt immensely confusing to him. No matter what he did, his guard was up. Even at the times when somebody held a gun barrel directly to his head, he could still falsify a strong and maintained calmness.
As silence lay itself neatly across his study, Hannibal chose to embrace it. The slight white noise and the faint ticking of a clock were almost nostalgic. He allowed the environment to fully consume him for a minute or two before choosing to get back to action. The aroma of herbs and fresh meat drifted faintly down the hall, drawing him back to the kitchen. Only now did he realise he’d become so preoccupied he’d left his food unaccompanied.
An array of spice containers were scattered throughout the table, their lids carelessly left open. Now that Will was confirmed to be coming over, he felt a strong urge to perfect his meal. He wanted every molecule of his food to be enjoyable, memorable. He wanted every taste bud inside of Will's mouth to be pleased, to see the pure ecstasy in his face.
The thought of it sent rushes shooting down his spine. The sensation overwhelmed him, consuming his entire body. To an extent, he allowed himself to enjoy these thoughts. Past the deeply set embarrassment and confusion of the dynamics, there was a genuine intimacy to it all. It was a feeling nestled so deep it was relatively impossible to explore, it had to unveil itself.
Though he was increasingly aware of how he felt, he was confused. There was no deep-set line that could distinguish his interest between various emotions and stances. The idea of Will extinguished a certain mental pain that he held strongly, a relief that was like his own personal heroin. It had him conflicted, the way he could breathlessly admire Will's perfectly formed face yet make a conscious decision to control him. The entire ordeal felt as if it were balancing on a beam, switching sides with each delicate movement and thought.
He had now decided he was to complete the cooking, recognising that his thoughts had floated adrift from his original purpose. He was completely and utterly dedicated to perfecting the night. He treated the food with such delicacy as a mother could hold her baby, his actions tender and careful.
Later, he had finished the meal. Every piece was delicately created with his very own hands, neatly fixed together and organised. He placed the meat on a tray, lightly pushing it into the oven. Though he was driven to become perfect for Will, a good feeling still radiated.
The next hour slipped by in quiet routine. Hannibal kept himself particularly occupied, switching between various activities, attempting to eradicate Will's existence from his brain. Particularly, he found himself skimming patient files. He found it emotionally taxing, attempting to piece together parts of their psyche and unlock more about who they truly are.
He cleaned the dinner table, scrubbing like a perfectionist. A cloth lay draped across the table, its colour a deep blue. To have everything neatly presentable and clean was an utmost form of professionalism, and in his eyes, respect.
Though he successfully kept himself mentally and physically occupied for some time, he found his thoughts had never strayed far from Will for an extended period of time. He had doubled down in his thoughts, his original stance and opinion becoming warped and fundamentally different, eventually tangling into nonsensical and unwelcome intrusiveness. The time had slowly approached eight o’clock, every tick of his clock provoking a slight anxiety resting in his heart.
Suddenly, a firm knock echoed within the house. Hannibal immediately turned his head in the general direction of the door, already picturing how Will would look. A smirk painted itself across his face, the action instinctual yet in its own uniquely formed way, accidental. He lightly patted his suit, straightening it back into perfection. His shoes lightly clicked against the hardwood of his floors, the sound a signature confirmation of his presence.
As he reached the door, his heartbeat rose, though he concealed it well with minimal effort. He pushed down onto the door handle, a light click releasing the pressure holding the door closed. The door swayed open, welcoming a cool autumn breeze. There stood Will, his presence radiating a particular aura, the type of thing that could draw your eyes in from across the room, or maybe just Hannibal’s eyes.
There he was in his entirety, the sight a beauty to Hannibal. His being so infatuated with Will was uncontrollable yet irresistible. He felt wrong, he felt impure. He’d made a promise to himself that no matter the situation, he would always keep it concealed. He was never to reveal his true form to Will, its vulnerability a disgusting extremity to Hannibal.
He had come in casual wear, his usual plaid shirt lightly gripping to his skin as the wind hit it. He had tried to neatly tuck in his shirt, leaving room for a formal amount of looseness. He carried himself as if he was anxious, a slight slouch was present. His fingers lightly twitched as he gave a split second of eye contact to Hannibal, attempting to analyse his face yet blinded by his effortless attractiveness.
Hannibal’s expression softened into a warm and welcoming smile, his eyes slightly squinting at their corners. “You are right on time, Will. Come in out of the cold.” He spoke, his slight concern showing.
Will stood on the porch silently, a subtle shiver racing through his body, his jaw lightly quivering. His shoulders were hunched together on the inside of his jacket, an instinctual attempt to halt the cold. He squinted at the light inside of the house, the darkness of the night fully seeping in. Will stared at the floor for a moment before forcing himself to look up at Hannibal.
Hannibal was neatly presented, a suit perfectly fitting his body, its print perfect and neat. His head remained slightly tilted as he looked down at Will, his shoulder slightly leaning onto the doorframe beside him. He was attempting to form a suitable sentence, but all that occupied his thoughts was the way Hannibal looked.
“I wasn’t sure I’d make it,” Will muttered, the reasoning behind his sentence eerily vague, the window for interpretations open.
Somehow, Hannibal understood what he meant. “But you did,” Hannibal said softly, stepping back to grant him entry. “You arrived at the perfect time. I was just finishing up the table. Let me take your coat, Will.”
With subtle tones of hesitation, he removed his jacket as he entered. The warmth hit him suddenly, the humidity gripping itself to his body and providing a sense of security. He felt as if when he was with Hannibal his burdens were lifted off of his shoulders. The only conscious thing on his mind became Hannibal, the concept of that frighteningly dark yet amazing.
He handed his jacket over to Hannibal. He took it into his hands with such calculated care that it made Will rethink whether Hannibal was really careless about him. He lightly draped the coat over his arm as he walked forward, Will following him like a puppy.
“I’ve noted that you’ve become occupied,” Hannibal said. “Not busy, occupied. Remember the distinction. A busy mind moves quickly, an occupied one circles the same point with relentless patience.” He had now placed the coat onto a hanger.
All Will could do was shrug his shoulders with minimal effort, his mind devoid of anything remotely close to an appropriate response. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.” He replied, maintaining a vagueness fitting for the scenario.
“I’m aware.”
Hannibal allowed the silence to marinate for a minute or two, just long enough to provoke Will into an anxiety-induced panic.
“What interests me is that whatever has claimed your attention doesn’t seem to accompany you everywhere. It arrives selectively. There are moments when you’re perfectly yourself, and moments when it’s as though you’ve become conscious of your own existence.” Hannibal said with an almost gentle smile, its presence evidently alluring. “Most people never survive that sensation gracefully.”
Will wanted the ground to consume him, for the interaction to finally be over. Hannibal’s house was like a cathedral, its walls tall and dooming. He felt bewildered, as if the room was barren of any escape routes or places of security and comfort. He’d begun to regret turning up, the stark contrast between the scenario in his head and the one that was playing out increasing in severity with every word.
“I didn’t realise I was being studied,” Will muttered, his annoyance at Hannibal’s slight invasion showing strongly in his tone of voice.
“You weren’t,” Hannibal replied, concealing his deflection as informative education. “You are changing, Will.” The tension in the room grew by an inch, the silence between each sentence a heart-pounding anxiety.
“Change rarely arrives alone. It usually announces an allegiance. To an idea, to a fear. Occasionally…” Hannibal took a second of consideration before concluding to finish his sentence, the weight of his words undeniably irreversibly impacting. “…to another person.”
Will's shoulders tightened up, a primal evidence of his realisation. His thoughts began to race as the puzzle pieces began to set together. The probability of Hannibal now knowing everything had increased irrevocably. He felt as if the privacy of his own mind had been stripped away from him, leaving a bare, small and afraid version of Will lying in the cold.
Hannibal remained analysing Will, every minuscule detail of his face its own story in Hannibal’s eyes. The undeniable control his words had on Will was a rush, the power a thrilling adrenaline source. To notice every move he made was a fine art; Will experienced an unintended fascination.
The strong silence was severely more damaging than Hannibal’s words. Will had no idea what to reply. The tension was clear, Hannibal’s eyes were a dawning pressure on Will. He had so much to voice, a thousand different sentences rushing within his mind, yet he couldn’t say any of it.
As they reached the kitchen, the smell of the food reached its peak. It was a fresh and enticing smell, almost mouth-watering. The entrance seemed to snap the tension in half, the new environment disconnecting them from the last. Hannibal lightly pushed Will into the room with a delicate hand on his back, the pressure a tender force.
In Will's consciousness, he was circling what Hannibal had said, the way he spoke. The way he effortlessly spoke of such a heavy topic made him feel colder inside than the possibility of Hannibal never knowing. The idea of his secrets hanging by a thin ledge and rocking side to side between discovery and being undetected was an idea that made his heart pound and quickened his breathing, the concept more fearful than the discovery itself.
He’d become so indulged in his panicked thinking that his mind hadn’t even processed Hannibal’s act. The soft push on his back was accompanied by a gentle rock of his thumb, his finger lightly stroking his back through his shirt. Will not realising the event happened was a much better alternative to the opposite, his psyche proving to be fragile.
“Allow me to plate the food, won’t you?” Hannibal queried Will, providing him a sense of control. Instead of a rhetorical question, he treated it as if it was a legitimate one. He remained standing from across the room, his upper body slightly turned towards Will, his body frozen in request. He was attempting to hold eye contact with Will, the pressure a particular force against him. Momentarily, Will refrained from processing, Hannibal’s erratic behaviour too unrealistic to approach directly.
“I don’t mind.” He replied, a tinge of confusion haunting his speech. Hannibal silently reciprocated accepting with a soft head nod, turning back to the kitchen before departing. Hannibal’s impulsive yet predetermined actions infiltrated Will's mind, his psyche filled with the unreliable ambiguity of his environment.
He sat calmly solitary in his chair, the structure slightly discomforting. He was intertwining his fingers, the stimulation a useful calming tool for moments like this. His usual social anxiety and paranoia were rising, every action a calculated move communicated by his nervous system in a frail attempt to conceal his vulnerability. The room felt desolate, a quiet sanctuary Will had coincidentally found himself inhabiting.
The environment was as if it were the wild, walls with seemingly no end, rooms larger than any average family home. The colour spectrum was strict, gloomy colours dominating the house. Bookshelves stood tall, their inventory neat and clean. Faint clinking echoed from the kitchen, each scratchy noise produced inflicting a small wince from Will.
After a short period of time, Hannibal’s return inevitably happened. He held a filled plate, various selections scattered across the surface. A light puff of smoke radiated from the chicken, sending a strong scent into the environment. Its skin was juicy and seasoned, a light brown that was essentially perfected, restaurant-grade.
Hannibal approached slowly, as if the food was a valuable item he strongly feared the destruction of. He deliberately walked from behind Will, a calculated action in its entirety. As he gently handed Will the plate, he purposefully laid his hand against Will's. For a moment, their fingers were making contact. They intertwined and mingled together, the line between their hands blurring with the movement.
Within the small moment of silence, he slid his tongue along the side of his teeth, directly crossing over his sharp fangs. A slight grin painted itself on his face, the anticipation of the moment reaching its climax as he got to play it out.
With tender carefulness, he began to slowly raise his hand all the way up Will's arm. In an elegantly defined action, he caressed every inch of skin as he moved. He found himself devoting his memory to this moment, every sensory part he experienced devouring his body with erotic volume.
Will instinctively turned his head up to directly face Hannibal. Their eyes met for a split second, the moment lasting a fraction longer than it would regularly. He saw that when he looked, Hannibal was no longer perfecting a disinterested expression, a tinge of genuine passion lingering in his eyes. Hannibal was standing with extreme proximity, the placement of Will's chair preventing their bodies from touching. Their chemistry was growing immensely with each touch, each molecule a fundamental layer.
Will's stomach grew infested with butterflies, his appetite reducing as he became flustered. His heart was pounding, the sensation audible in his neck, like a body-shaking bass. Then, as if the moment held no significance to him, he stopped. Hannibal tapped Will's shoulder as if it was platonic, turning to leave and sit down. Will felt as if he’d been brought to the highest and dropped from the top, a sense of abandonment filling his senses.
The moment was left playing itself on repeat inside of Will's imagination. His heart pleaded for more to come. If he could grab Hannibal, he would, yet he knew better than to reduce himself to such impulsivity. All he could do was subtly squirm in his chair. The sight excited Hannibal, seeing Will visually look pathetic a pleasurably rewarding view.
Will stared at his food, marinating in his silence. The butterflies felt as if they’d died off in his stomach, leaving a deep, dawning feeling inside of his body. However, Will failed to keep up his attention on his dish. What took his eye was the way Hannibal was acting, a casual look displayed on his face. He felt unworthy, a strong urge to change who he was intrusively welcoming itself into his psyche.
The room was left impeccably quiet. The ambients of the room continued to play undisturbed, the calming waving of trees as the wind swayed them, the whistling audio of wind entering through air vents. Each moment of quiet was a dragged-out pain, a gaping wound not caused by hurt, but love.
“So, enlighten me, Will, what are your thoughts on the case?” Hannibal asked enthusiastically, his demeanour remaining polished and unaffected. He was slicing into the meat with care, his flawless approach reflecting plausible enjoyment, though Will couldn’t understand why.
Usually, Hannibal would press for a response, go on one of his tangents to make a reply unavoidable. This time, he simply paused. He waited with a patient silence. He failed to repeat himself or move, he simply held his position, his eyes gazing directly at Will with a look behind them that had more inside than words can capture.
He didn’t immediately continue eating. Instead, he let his attention fixate entirely on Will, patient enough to let the weight of being watched, stalked even, nestle beneath his skin. He sat positioned barely slouching against the chair, his legs slightly split open.
He had the patience of a man who was willing to wait years for a response, the fundamental wish for their company, not the time in which they responded. Silence was an instrument, and Will had always been susceptible to its music.
“You haven’t touched your dinner,” Hannibal observed quietly, a futile attempt to grasp Will's attention.
Will deliberately let the moment drag itself out, the palpable tensity of Hannibal’s eyes tracking him overriding his usual anxiety. He wished he could muster up the confidence to look back. His eyes were magnetised to his plate, though he’d barely interacted with the food. “I’m not particularly hungry.” He remarked, every word he said an intentionally calculated work.
“No,” Hannibal murmured, as though further thoughts were gathering behind the one syllable, pressing insistently against the confines of restraint. Will slightly raised his eyebrow in quiet inquiry. “Like I stated before. You’re occupied.”
His voice carried no trace of accusation, only certainty. He carried the silent confidence of a man who believed without hesitation that he knew Will completely, as though every hesitation, every move, every unspoken impulse had been catalogued and examined.
Will forced himself to pick up his fork, though his hand was lacking its usual stability. His fingers tightened around the metal, a futile attempt to anchor himself to reality. He could still feel the ghost of Hannibal’s hands deliberately tracing his arm, each measured touch etched into his skin with surgical precision. The sensation lingered with infuriating clarity, his attempts to dissolve it failing to succeed no matter how hard he tried to focus on anything else.
Hannibal noticed the shakiness in Will's movements before he could even put the fork down. “You’re trembling.”
Will's jaw tightened as he readjusted it, slightly catching his tongue in his cheek as he moved it. “Am I?” He genuinely questioned, clueless to his own behaviours. The idea of Hannibal noticing actions in Will he hadn’t even realised he did was a frightening thought, yet hot rushes flew down his spine, a slight groan fighting to escape his mouth. Whether it was built with promiscuous desperation or frustration was unknown, the only certain thing was the tension between them.
“Very slightly.” Hannibal’s lips curved, not quite into a smile, but something smaller, more private. It was the slight smirk of a man who knew what he was doing, a man focused on somebody else he was interested in. He appeared to be proud of his observations… or pleased.
“You notice too much,” Will observed, the admission slipping from him before he got a chance to restrain it. The realisation that his flustered state had become an object of public view settled heavily in his chest, humiliation gnawing relentlessly at the edges of his composure. Every second under the burning fire of Hannibal’s gaze made the room feel increasingly oppressive; the lights burned harsher against his eyes, every clink of cutlery swelling into an unbearable chorus.
“Only things that interest me,” Hannibal replied, leaving his voice soft enough to breed ambiguity. The phrase was specifically curated so that to anybody else, the phrase was vague enough for the spectrum of interpretation to stay broad. Hannibal preferred it that way. He selected his words with meticulous precision, allowing for them to imply far more than they confessed outright. He left the person questioning whether there had been a hidden meaning all along, the edge of uncertainty a seed Hannibal planted himself.
Will searched Hannibal’s face with almost desperate concentration, hoping to discover the faintest trace of irony, amusement, or some subtle indication that the comment had been nothing more than harmless conversation. Instead, he was met with unwavering composure. Hannibal returned his gaze without the slightest inclination to retreat, his expression as elegantly unreadable as ever.
Their eyes remained locked onto each other for several minutes, the silence stretching between them until it no longer resembled the absence of audio. It had transformed into something tangible, an invisible presence pressing into the space between them, impossible to hear, yet undeniably felt.
Though every bodily instinct pleased them to look away, neither could, or wanted, to sever the connection. Their gazes remained fixed, as though something unseen magnetised them together. The eye contact had become strangely competitive, each second a test to see who would pull away first.
“You’ve become remarkably easy to read, Will.”
A dry, humourless laugh, a huff even, escaped Will's mouth before he had the chance to repress it. It was the sound of a man who was tired of living with himself, tired of forcibly carrying the wrecking burden of living in his own body, by the impossible situations he found himself in.
“That’s funny. Most people spend their lives telling me the opposite.”
“Most people don’t watch you closely.”
The sentence emerged with such ease, the purposefulness of the words a questionable aspect. They were offered as if they carried no hidden implication, merely an observation so simple it required zero emphasis. Yet even when unintended to, his words provoked will in all the wrong ways. Something stirred up inside him he’d evidently spent weeks settling, his progress reversed with just a simple nudge.
With practised, meticulous elegance, Hannibal lowered his glass. “When something disturbs you,” he continued, “you slowly retreat into yourself.”
Only as he heard the words did he piece together that he’d done exactly so. His head hung low over the table, his gaze fixated on his plate. Hannibal was still watching, calmly, patiently. He knew deep down with certainty that Will's eyes would return to his, a quiet yet sure fact. With visible reluctance, he lifted his gaze. His eyes met Hannibal’s.
“Better,” Hannibal said, the words almost finding themselves unnoticed under his breath. The single word sent an unexpected warmth travelling through Will's chest, the heat unavoidable.
Hannibal’s expression scarcely changed. To anyone else, it would go unnoticed. Yet a slight twitch in Will's eye showed he knew, he saw. Whatever he held behind his eyes emerged in small details, the almost imperceptible softening in the corner of his eyes, the faint relaxation of his posture, the silent satisfaction of a man who’d discovered he’d gotten his way again.
For a while, nobody had taken up the role to unbury what had been said. Conversation gradually reclaimed the silence, drifting through subjects far less tedious than either one of their state of minds. Will answered where politeness required him to, though his responses returned a heartbeat too late. His thoughts remained stubbornly attached to the exchange they had exchanged moments before, each sentence from Hannibal replaying itself with gruelling clarity.
Hannibal’s gaze lowered almost imperceptibly to wills wine glass. “The barolo is reaching the point at which it begins to open,” he remarked, lifting his own glass with a perfected, swift movement. “You’re denying yourself the better half of it.” Will glanced down, surprised to find the surface of the wine still, undisturbed. He lifted the glass, taking a restrained sip. He hadn’t taken notice to how he’d neglected it, a disrespectful feeling washing over him in guilt.
Hannibal waited, suspending his speech until wills glass was back onto the table. “Try this,” Hannibal asked, shifting his plate toward Will. There was no trace of command in his voice, only the calm confidence of a man who knew his request was to be obeyed regardless. Will cut off a small piece and tried it.
“The wine dulls the rumaki if you drink it afterwards,” Hannibal said, observing Will with quiet yet defined attentiveness. “Beforehand, it does the opposite.” Will considered the flavoured again, slowly this time. The richness of the meat seemed altered somehow. The edges of the meat tasted lighter, the herbs showing to be far more pronounced than he previously remembered. His brow furrowed, almost involuntarily. Hannibal noticed. “You’re looking for what changed.” It wasn’t a question. “You aren’t tasting anything different,” Will left a small pause, unwilling to concede the point too easily.
Will returned his gaze to the porcelain plate, turning the fork in-between his fingers. It was an absurd thing to dwell on. He had investigated murders whose minds defined reason, transcending the moral logistics created by society, yet here he sat, allowing himself to be directed in which order to eat his meals.
The thought should’ve provoked him, should’ve irritated him, yet it didn’t. He had followed Hannibal’s suggestions without question, lacking an impulse to question his knowledge, instead trusting that Hannibal could predict his experiences before he got to play them out himself.
A faint smile ghosted across Hannibal’s features, so restrained it was almost unnoticeable. He reached for his glass once more, his movements possessing the same calculated grace of a man who’d spent years perfecting his appearance.
They spoke of music after that, literature, the evening settling into gradual normalcy.
Hannibal gently sat down his cutlery, his fork and knife lined up on the plate, precisely symmetrical. A brief silence settled over the table. This time, its presence was beautifully comforting, a stark contrast to the previous hours. Will took a look at his plate, noticing that the majority of his food had been consumed. He couldn’t pinpoint a moment in the night where he’d eaten so much, yet he evidently had.
“I’m glad you enjoyed the food,” Hannibal uttered, a genuine smile playing at the corners of his lips. “I have enjoyed your company, Will.” He stood, balancing his plate gently on the midsection of his fingers. He collected the plate from will with habitual precision, the swift movements of a man who’d repeated this action many times before.
Will attempted to move his chair back, straightening his knees. Hannibal responded with a tender push at his shoulders, pushing him back down onto the chair. “You’re my guest. Please.” Will mindlessly obeyed, the act lingering in his mind, the line between dismissal and care blurring.
Whilst Hannibal was in the kitchen, Will was alone. For the first time since their conversation, he was left isolated, his mind a free place to explore. Down the hallway, the silhouette of Hannibal reflected from the moonlight shining in through the lancet like windows.
He stared, observing. Hannibal was coursing through the kitchen, washing various dishes and restocking the kitchen. Even when hiding from the public eye, Hannibal held a particularly consistent gracefulness in his movement. Every move he made was done elegantly, as if the shadow of a ghost was inhabiting his body.
Hannibal returned from the kitchen without warning. He was holding a tiny box, its cardboard red and brown. Thick, bubbly text was imprinted on the front, reading “One Wish Willow.” The box was a rough triangle, its edges sharp and defined.
Will laughed audibly at the sight. Hannibal spoke, “I was gifted this by a friend. I didn’t want it, I thought you may like it.” The room was silent, devoid of any reaction. Will sat there, a priceless look in his face. Not wanting to be rude, he huffed, taking the box into his hands. “Thank you, I guess,” he responded, a satirical tinge mingling in his words.
“The dining room has served its purpose,” he said, the sentence radiating a suspicious vagueness. He left the room as if he was certain Will would follow, his movements confident and defined.
He was correct to think that. Will stood at attention, his response instinctual yet perfectly timed. He did a slight jog in attempt to catch up with Hannibal, closing the distance between them. A small laugh escaped Hannibal’s laugh at wills behaviour, whether it was founded off judgement or astonishment was a debatable topic.
The sun had now set, the moonlight seamlessly glaring through the tall windows. The smell was thick with the copper tang of blood, masked poorly by the sharp, medicinal burn of rosemary and crushed juniper berries. Thick, blood-crimson maroon wallpaper absorbed the light, whilst heavy velvet drapes muffled the sound of footsteps, locking the house in an oppressive, breathless silence. Overhead, a single iron chandelier painted skeleton like shadows across the room, warping and stretching as it reflected.
Will hesitated on the threshold of the front door, the little triangular box turning idly between his fingers. Its cardboard edges dug faintly into his palm each time he adjusted his grip. He still wasn’t entirely convinced the thing wasn’t some elaborate joke. With Hannibal, even the smallest gestures often carried layers of intention buried beneath immaculate politeness.
Hannibal stopped beside the open doorway, one hand resting lightly against the dark wood. Cool night air drifted inside, stirring the loose strands of Will’s hair. His expression remained perfectly composed, though the corners of his mouth hinted at quiet amusement.
“I am told,” Hannibal began, his voice smooth as polished marble, “that one snaps the willow branch concealed inside, closes one’s eyes, and makes a wish.”
Will lifted an eyebrow.
“You’ve researched it?”
“I was forced to endure a rather enthusiastic explanation.”
A silence settled between them before Hannibal continued.
“I’ve never been inclined towards wishing.” His gaze lingered on the small box. “People tend to mistake wishes for solutions. They become substitutes for action.” His eyes lifted back to Will’s. “Still… if one insists on indulging in fantasy, one should at least wish ambitiously.”
Will scoffed beneath his breath.
“You actually expect me to use this thing?”
“I expect nothing.” Hannibal smiled with infuriating restraint. “But if you do…” His eyes glimmered with unmistakable satire. “Don’t squander it on something pedestrian. Use the wish well.”
The deliberate emphasis made Will roll his eyes.
“I’ll be sure not to waste my magical tree stick.”
“I would hate for such a rare opportunity to be mismanaged.”
Despite himself, Will laughed.
“Goodnight, Hannibal.”
“Goodnight, Will.”
The gravel crunched beneath his boots as he crossed the drive. The house loomed behind him, every window glowing amber against the darkness, resembling the watchful eyes of some enormous creature refusing sleep.
With a swift movement, he slipped into the driver’s seat, the door shutting behind him with a dull, muffled thud. Silence immediately engulfed the seat. Beyond the windscreen, the world stood unnaturally still, the estate bathed in pale moonlight as though time itself had slowed to a crawl.
The tiny box laid in his hands. His thumb absentmindedly traced the cheerful lettering again.
One wish willow.
He huffed quietly through his nose, the noise a substitute for a satirical laugh. His hand instinctively moved to toss it onto the passenger seat, his foot already reaching for the clutch, eager to leave the absurdity behind. Yet before he could, curiosity,or perhaps simple exhaustion,controlled his hand. With a reluctant sigh, he lifted the lid. It was stupid, and he knew it.
Nestled inside lay a brittle willow twig, dark with age, its dry fibres splitting along the grain. It looked impossibly ordinary, almost laughably so, as though someone had plucked it from the ground and decided to market it as something miraculous. He stared at it for a long moment, turning it carefully between his fingers. A part of him dismissed it as childish nonsense. Another, quieter part lingered on the impossible thought of what if. The feeling irritated him more than he cared to admit.
With a snap that required a higher level of force than anticipated, he broke the willow in half. The sound was startlingly loud inside of the car, reverberating a small, peircing ring. Before he took his time to reconsider, the words escaped his mouth, coated with quiet desperation.
“…I wish Hannibal loved me more than anybody else in the world.”
The request echoed and confirmed more to be an admission. His words hung in the air long after he spoke, the vulnerability in his speech evident.
Nothing happened. No spark of light, no divine intervention. Just the sound of the ticking engine as his car stayed stationary, the aroma of heating petrol surrounding him.
As Will shifted the car into reverse, movement caught the corner of his eye. His gaze drifted towards the front entrance, where the heavy door remained open, warm amber light spilling across the stone steps. Hannibal stood framed within it before descending with the same measured elegance that seemed inseparable from him, each step unhurried, impossibly controlled. His hands rested neatly behind his back, his expression unreadable beneath the moonlight. He wasn’t calling after him, nor offering a final farewell. He was simply walking towards the car, a slow, deliberate movement.
A chill settled beneath Will’s skin. For a fleeting moment, the sight felt deeply unnatural, as though the darkness itself swallowed fragments of Hannibal’s movement before reluctantly giving them back. He blinked once, then again, and Hannibal seemed farther away than he remembered, standing almost exactly where he had first stepped outside. You’re tired, Will told himself. You’ve had wine. You’re imagining things. Hannibal had always possessed strange habits; perhaps he merely intended to see his guest off from the drive.
With a quiet scoff at his own overactive imagination, Will eased his foot onto the accelerator. Gravel crackled beneath the tyres as the estate slowly disappeared behind him, the amber glow of the windows shrinking into distant rays against the endless darkness. He glanced into the rear-view mirror one final time. For the briefest instant, he could have sworn Hannibal was almost running at his car, his stride collected and straight, in the middle of the drive, watching him leave. Then the road curved, the house vanished behind the trees, and both the man and the estate were swallowed whole by the night.