Chapter Text
There was a different quality to the light in Florence, warm and broad, as though the air was thick with it. It struck gold in the soft, wayward curls of Will’s hair and the chain of his necklace, peeking out the open collar of his shirt. His skin was already beginning to tan along his arms. Hannibal could imagine him as a boy, browning in the Southern sun.
Hannibal’s pencil moved deftly, gently across the paper, capturing the light from the shadows of the balcony overhang. Will was sleeping lightly, his book open against his chest, hand draped loosely over it. These rare days, he was so relaxed, lazy and indulgent. He let Hannibal take him to the museums and the Duomo, let him buy his boy sweet gelato in the heat of the day and the finest meals at night.
Will indulged them so much in these few, short weeks in Italy. It would all be over too soon as Will’s summer internship at the F.B.I. was starting. But until then, Hannibal would immortalize these moments in amber and fresco.
Hannibal was just fussing over the details in his drawing when Will stirred, slowly blinking awake. He smiled when he saw what Hannibal was doing, wide and lopsided. “Should I stay still?”
Hannibal wanted to capture that smile too. Every one of Will’s expressions was beautiful—but he shook his head. “I was just finishing.”
“Good. It’s getting hot out here.” Will stretched and marked the place in his book. “What time is your sister coming?”
“Around four. We have a few hours yet.”
“Okay.” Will bit his lip.
“You have nothing to be nervous about,” Hannibal assured him. “She will adore you as I do.”
“Hm. If you say so.” Will nudged Hannibal’s leg with his toe, looking sly. “You have time to join me for a nap?”
Hannibal returned his smile. “How could I resist you?"
Will’s nervousness fled when Mischa arrived at their apartment. She greeted her brother with bright, rapid French and a long hug. Her hair was darker, her figure slender, and her emotions came swiftly to the surface—but she was undoubtedly his sister, and shared his severe grace. She was several years younger than him, and wore a long skirt and blouse, far from his formalwear.
“Mischa, this is Will,” Hannibal introduced as he stepped to the side. Mischa beamed at Will—and he was struck, out of nowhere, by a deep pang of longing. He knew how important Mischa was to Hannibal, and that they went through so much together. It seemed incredible that she was here now, for him to meet.
She greeted him with a kiss on each cheek, which he tried to keep up with. “Hello Will! So nice to meet you!” she said with a heavy French accent, likely not speaking English often.
Will blinked away the sudden burning in his eyes and smiled back, trying to meet her gaze. “It’s lovely to meet you too.”
They settled in the living room with glasses of white wine, and Mischa turned calculating, a sly smile on her lips. “So you’re the boy who stole my brothers heart,” she said, fine brows raised.
“I assure you, the thievery was mutual,” Will replied, keeping his eyes at her shoulders. Hannibal sat close to him and rested a hand on his thigh, reassuring.
“ Tu es un cougar,” she said to Hannibal with a little smirk; then, before Hannibal could admonish her for spreading of Will in French, she said, “Hannibal used to be the pretty little thing seducing men. He was a terror.”
Will’s face flushed, and defensiveness made his shoulders stiff. “Mischa,” Hannibal said, a light warning.
“Worried I’ll swindle his fortune and break his heart?” Will said, smiling savagely.
For a moment Mischa looked surprised at the barb in his tongue, and then she laughed merrily. “Nothing so devious, I couldn’t stop you anyway.”
“I must beg Will to let me spoil him,” Hannibal said, smoothing the way.
Mischa waved her hand. “Let’s not talk money, I wished to talk of love. Never thought I’d see Hannibal in love again.”
“I am,” Hannibal said, and Will blushed again. “Very much so.”
“I know.” Mischa looked down at her wine, happy and bittersweet. She wasn’t used to sharing her brother.
“Do you have anyone?” Will asked.
Mischa shrugged. “I have a girl. A boy, sometimes.” She gestured to both of them with her wine. “Not like what you have. Maybe someday.”
That set Will more at ease. They talked about Florence for a while, then Will told Mischa about his research. She liked to test the waters by making barbed statements and watching Will’s reactions—never pushing too far. Will was the same, except with a penchant for going too far.
But Will liked her. It was hard not to, when he saw so much of Hannibal in her, and when she was so full of life.
Hannibal cooked and then they all sat down at the small dining table.
“Because we haven’t had enough Italian,” Will teased, but the fish and gnocchi were delicious.
“I’ve been inspired,” Hannibal said.
“Oh, I’ve missed your cooking,” Mischa said fondly. “This is wonderful, Hannibal.”
“You’ll just have to come to America to have more of it,” Hannibal replied.
Mischa made a little face that told Will exactly what she thought about traveling to America. “No, you two need to come to France next. And then we can visit Murasaki—and then I’ll come to Baltimore.”
“Have you ever been?” Will asked.
Mischa nodded. “Once. The music hall is lovely.”
“Hannibal hasn’t dragged me there yet. But there was a murder there a few months back.”
Mischa didn’t look fazed by that. “All the more reason to go. Life is short.”
“It’s hard to find time during school.”
“I remember that. Hannibal was in school for ages, you’re not doing that?”
“I’m going to grad school, yes.”
Mischa shook her head with a smile. “Awful. Get out and live.”
“The FBI will be lucky to have him,” Hannibal commented.
Mischa and Hannibal shared a look at that, part of the hidden language of siblings that Will wasn’t privy to. But Hannibal guided the conversation to new territory, and Will could only guess why. He wondered if Mischa knew everything about her brother and his darker desires.
After dinner, Hannibal insisted on doing the dishes, and Mischa tugged Will out to the balcony. They had both had a good amount of wine by then and Will was feeling more relaxed.
“Beautiful night,” Mischa said, leaning on the balcony rail.
“Yeah,” Will said, looking out at Florence’s lights and rooftops. “It’s a lovely place.”
Mischa pulled a tin out of her purse, sitting in the chair. “Do you smoke, dear?” Mischa asked.
Will turned to look at her. “Not really.”
She put a joint between her lips, and clicked a lighter to flame, drawing smoke from the ember. After a few deep drags, she offered it to Will. “I won’t tell if you don’t,” she said, voice strained from keeping the smoke in her lungs.
Will grinned—it was too amusing an opportunity to resist. He couldn’t imagine Hannibal getting high, but didn’t think he would actually be displeased with him. He took the joint from Mischa, and her smile was so wide.
Will coughed on the first drag; he hadn’t done this except for a few times in high school and freshman year, and it burned his lungs. Mischa chuckled as Will wiped his eyes, but the next hits went easier. Will passed it back and sat down, feeling pleasant tingles sweep over his skin from the booze and the night air.
“You don’t do this often,” Mischa observed.
Will rolled his head on his shoulders, sprawled over the chair. “That obvious?”
“Innocent boy.”
Mischa passed it back to Will and he filled his lungs again. His vision went spotty, and time started to get weird, both slower and faster than normal. “Not so innocent,” Will said. The wrinkled paper between his fingers felt huge.
“Neither is Hannibal,” Mischa said, grinning as she took the blunt from Will’s fingers. “But you must know that already, if he’s let you close.”
“Oh, he’s awful. No plastic is allowed in the house.”
Mischa laughed with him, then asked, “He treats you well?”
Will nodded, floating. “He’s so careful with me.”
“I’m glad.”
“I’m not breakable either.”
“Young people think they’re invincible,” Mischa scoffed. “Hannibal did.”
Will took the blunt back to finish, embers close to his fingertips. He was well and truly high, and the stars seemed to swim in the dark blue sky. He closed his eyes for a minute, just feeling his body, breath and blood. He’s sense of self was oscillating, growing large and then very small.
When he looked back, Mischa’s expression was far off, looking not to Florence’s rooftops but some inexplicable beyond. “I often wonder what Hannibal might be, were circumstances different,” she said, words slow and heavy. “Sometimes I imagine him unchanged, like the blows of the world miss him. Other times, I think he would be very different. Has he ever talked to you about time travel? I wonder if he still fools around with equations in his book.”
She chuckled, resting her chin on her hand. “Well, I feel changed by the world. I’m not an old soul. Came out raw. I’m not sure I would be anyone without Hannibal.” She looked at Will, eyes dark. “He’s old as glaciers. I think you’re the same. Already formed. Maybe you can move around in time because you’ll always be you, like the arm of a record player. You know? Wow,” she laughed, “I’m really high.”
Will laughed again, hardly having control over it. He hummed, eyes on the sky again. “I also wonder how things could have turned out differently,” he said, like a confession. “What I would be capable of. Those circumstances feel perilously close. My imagination makes it easy.”
“I worry about him. I see him slipping easily, beyond a place I can follow.”
“Who would you be, then?” Will asked.
“Divided. Like him.”
“Because you would be separated?”
Mischa smiled sadly, and looked inside the apartment, though the kitchen was out of sight. “Because I would still love him. I would be longing for him, across the way.”
Will imagined Hannibal apart from him, behind glass. “I didn’t want to be separated,” Will said. “I looked at the short time we had together, and all those slippery circumstances—and I didn’t want it to end. I want to keep playing the song.”
“You love him. Folie à deux .”
“I can’t let him go.”
“Don’t you dare.” Mischa brightened as Hannibal came up and opened the balcony door. His nostrils flared, and he gave Mischa a disapproving look.
“Misbehaving,” Hannibal said with a tut.
“I have more, if you want to join us,” Mischa said with a giggle.
“No, thank you.” Hannibal turned to Will, sweeping his hair out of his eyes. “How are you feeling, love?”
“He’s high, it won’t kill him.”
“I’m alright,” Will said, grinning. He caught Hannibal’s hand and kissed it softly. “I feel good.” But the wine and weed was getting to him, and he was only half aware as Hannibal and Mischa talked. They wandered back inside and Will had a glass of water in his hands, then Mischa was saying goodnight—they would have lunch the next day.
Then he was laying back in their bed as Hannibal unbuttoned his shirt. “You mad I got high?” Will asked. “I can’t really tell your emotions, it’s weird.”
“Not at all mad, my love. I am happy to be taking care of you.”
“And getting me naked,” Will said, laughing.
Hannibal did take his clothes, leaving his boxers. “Come back,” Will complained, when Hannibal stepped away.
“Just a moment.”
Dressed in his pajamas, Hannibal slipped into bed beside Will and drew him close. Will sighed at the full body contact, the touch singing through him and reverberating beyond. They were so close, so entwined. “I love you so much,” Will breathed, surrounded by Hannibal’s strength and warmth. “It’s too big to contain.”
“Will, the word is not adequate. But I love, love, love you so.”
Will kissed his neck, and then the soft stubble of his chin, and finally his lips—once, forever. Soon they would return back to the States and Will would begin his internship with the F.B.I.. They would live together for the summer, and the following school year. Will didn’t know what awaited them. There were so many unknowns: if someday he could introduce Hannibal to his dad, if the consuming desire between them would eventually calm, if they would succumb to forbidden urges. A whole life of possibilities.
They would decide together. They could make their own fate. Nothing was inevitable, and all was possible.
“Someday, we’ll do it together,” Will muttered sleepily, barely a whisper.
“What was that, my love?” Hannibal asked.
But Will had already fallen asleep.
Fin
Epilogue
“Can we talk about Will Graham?”
Jack Crawford looked up at Alana Bloom. No greeting for him, this time. He gestured to the chair before his desk. “Congratulations are in order,” he said. “Your star pupil has been accepted to the internship.”
“I know,” Alana sighed.
“You don’t sound very pleased about that.”
“I can be happy for Will and also worried for him,” Alana said. “It’s a stressful environment. And while Will has the smarts, I don’t know if he has the social experience to thrive.”
“Do you think I should rescind?”
“No. But I would appreciate the opportunity to keep an eye on him, make sure he has a friend here.”
Jack considered her for a long moment. “Do you know Hannibal Lecter?”
Her brows furrowed. “Yes, he was my mentor back in the day.”
“He’s an esteemed psychologist, yes?”
“Yes, but what does that have to do with Will?”
Jack gave a little hum. “So you’re not aware that they’re dating.”
Alana hid her surprise fairly well, but her shoulders went tense. “No, I wasn’t. How did you hear about that?”
“We were investigating Dr. Lecter for Budge’s murder. Nothing came of it,” Jack assured her. “Except for his relationship with Will. It seems like Will has a number of psychiatrists looking out for his well being.”
“And you want to keep an eye on Hannibal?” Alana shook her head. “I know him, he couldn’t do something like that.”
Jack shrugged. “There’s no evidence against him. But I have a hunch. Somehow, he’s involved.”
“A moment of your time, Will?”
Will tried not to grimace, adjusting his glasses as Chilton ‘requested’ him to come to his office. Will entered but didn’t sit, staring with faux-interest at the decor.
“I trust your interview went well?” Chilton asked.
“You were listening,” Will huffed.
Chilton chuckled. “Guilty as charged. Gideon can be quite the conversationalist. Good sense of humor.”
“Humor can be a sign of good adjustment.”
“We all have to find ways to say sane. Please, sit down Will.”
Will glanced at his tie. Chilton was doing Will a favor by allowing him to interview Gideon for his thesis, and he always took the opportunity to remind Will that he was owed. It made Will sick. He sat down after a long moment. “What can I do for you?” Will asked, tone far from generous.
“A student such as yourself understands that interviews with unique minds are invaluable,” Chilton said. “Your research on Gideon could help countless patients, or help catch future killers.”
Will winced, anticipating what was coming next.
“Yours is one such unique mind,” Chilton said, all but purring as he eyed Will. “We could conduct the tests and interviews here, convenient for continuing your interviews.”
“I’m not interested in anyone poking around in my head,” Will sneered.
A muscle twitched in Chilton’s jaw, angered at being denied. “If you want to continue your interviews, I suggest you be more grateful for my generosity.”
“Tit for tat,” Will said.
“Precisely. Think about it, Will. I’m sure you’ll come around. After all, this is a rare opportunity for such a young, inexperienced student.”
Will adjusted his glasses again, and imagined taking the heavy gold paperweight to Chilton’s temple. “Of course, Doctor.”
Will had gotten better at cooking, under Hannibal’s tutelage. Reading his recipes was an exercise in deciphering code—Hannibal’s neat script Will could read easily, but he was still learning the cooking terms, and finding his own definitions of ‘to taste’.
The lamb was in the oven and the turnips ready to be puréed when Hannibal came home. It would be a late dinner, even for them. When Will heard the door open he opened the wine and poured it into the decanter. “Welcome home,” he said when Hannibal stepped into the kitchen.
Will smiled when Hannibal came up behind him at the stove and wrapped his arms around Will’s waist. “It’s good to be home,” Hannibal said warmly. “Smells delicious.”
“We’ll see how it tastes. I think I drowned the poor lamb.”
Hannibal hummed against his neck. “A terrible way to go.”
Will turned to give him a quick kiss on the lips. “How was consulting?”
“My olfactory gifts lead us in the right direction,” Hannibal said, stepping back to give Will room as he ran the food processor. “We found the bodies that he didn’t discard.” Hannibal paused. “All 62 of them.”
Will looked over at him in shock. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m afraid not.”
Will scrubbed a hand over his face. He gestured to the decanter. “I need some wine.”
Hannibal poured for the both of them. “It was quite the feat. All the bodies had been preserved and sewn together into an arrangement resembling a huge eye. It filled an entire grain silo.”
“No wonder you couldn’t identify the motive,” Will said. “They were all… brush strokes on his masterpiece.” Hannibal handed Will a glass and he took a sip. “Have you found him?”
“No. But the F.B.I. is monitoring the site for when he returns.”
Will nodded, and turned back to their meal. He was quiet until their dinner was at the table.
“Well done, Will,” Hannibal praised after his first bite.
“I just followed your recipe,” Will said, distracted. He was pleased with the results though, especially being able to feed Hannibal after a long day of work. “That’s a lot of victims.”
“It is.”
“He’ll get the death penalty.”
“Most likely.”
Will bared his teeth. “A quick death is too good for him.”
Hannibal paused in his meal, and gave Will a carefully masked look. “He’s having an existential crisis of the highest degree. I doubt he would understand cruelty.”
“An existential crises?”
“The eye that looks upon God sees only emptiness. In his view, there is nothing looking back.”
“What would you do with him?”
Hannibal looked away. “I wouldn’t do anything with him.”
Will shot him a glare. “Don’t lie to me.”
Hannibal took a slow sip of his wine. “It’s best not to entertain such thoughts.”
Will gave him a moment to reconsider his answer, swallowing back his anger, and putting his attention to his plate. He hated when Hannibal pulled the veil on him like that.
Hannibal sighed, and ceded. “I don’t agree with his philosophy. I’d like to show him that life has meaning after all.”
Will raised his eyes. “How could you persuade someone so set on their vision?”
Hannibal smiled with morbid amusement. “I’ve always found art to be the greatest road to meaning.”
“Sorry for the intrusion,” Margot said when Will opened the door. “We met outside Dr. Lecter’s office.”
“Told you I wasn’t a patient,” Will said.
She gave a brittle smile. “I can see that.”
“What’s the heir to the Verger meat packing dynasty doing at our door?” Will asked. “Hannibal’s not here, and he doesn’t take work home.”
“I was hoping to speak to you. Inside? It’s cold.”
Will let her in, to the sitting room, on guard but curious.
“I’m not the heir anyway,” Margot said, taking a seat as she took in the surroundings. “My brother is. I don’t have the right parts, or the right proclivity for parts.”
Will smiled at that. “I can relate. That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I’m here for a character reference,” Margot said. “Your boyfriend gives unorthodox therapeutic advice.”
“Unorthodox is one way of describing Hannibal.”
Margot narrowed her eyes, evaluating. “Does he ever give you reason not to trust him?”
Will didn’t say anything for a moment. Technically, the answer was yes—he wasn’t sure he could entirely predict Hannibal. But he didn’t want to give Margot a reason not to trust him. On the other hand, it was obvious that Hannibal had said something to make her doubt his intentions. “What advice did he give you?” Will asked.
“I tried to kill my brother,” Margot said smugly. “He told me to wait until I could get away with it, and try, try again.”
Agent Graham spun his ring on his finger. It was the only thing keeping him grounded as he entered the scene, stepping carefully around all the shattered glass. Every mirror in the house, broken. Every member of the family, murdered.
Just like the previous family.
He took a deep breath, and gave Crawford a nod. He led Will through the evidence, first to the kids room, sheets splattered with blood, and then to the master bedroom, where the shards of glass had been put to use in the display. Will absorbed it all. Every splatter, every desecration, every last calculating move.
Then, when the room was cleared, he closed his eyes, and let the pendulum swing.