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Will is late. He detests being late, if only for the fact that it doesn't give him time to survey a situation before leaping into action. He is quick to react, but does so recklessly – it has caused more than one problem with his boss, Inspector Pazzi, and the warning he received in the meeting this morning is the precise reason why he is late.
He rushes into the villa with barely a glance at the woman tending the garden outside. Doctor Lecter had been very explicit in his instructions: Will is to arrive on time, which he's already failed at, and head straight up to the studio that he was shown during his interview with the man, who had put out a call for a model for his next grand design.
Will doesn't do this for a living. He does grunt work for the Inspector and assists with cases when called upon, but that doesn't pay as many bills as he would like it to. The monetary compensation for this job is an almost obscene amount, high enough that it drew Will's attention. High enough, he's sure, that whoever Doctor Lecter hired wouldn't ask too many questions.
He is not a fool. There are stories, rumors, about the kinds of things that artists get up to at the expense of their models' comfort. Upon meeting Doctor Lecter for the first time, he had been nervous, and held his tongue. Doctor Lecter's demeanor is that of a man perfectly secure in his position in the world, passionate and learned, and with the gravitas of an Emperor.
Will hurries up the stairs, breathless by the time he arrives at the studio door. It is cracked open, but he knocks anyway, pushing his way inside.
"You're late," comes the greeting, in a smooth voice with a foreign accent. He is not a local, but has lived here for many years, his voice softening to the natural lilt of the Italian tongue. Will finds him, dressed in his normal fine clothes, in black today.
"Forgive me," Will replies, bowing his head as he sets down his satchel. "It won't happen again."
Doctor Lecter's lips purse. He has an easel set up with a canvas already upon it, unmarked. Beside him are two sawhorses holding a hoard of colored, sand-like granules, that he will mix with water to create the shade he desires upon his palette.
His eyes, the color of whiskey and Earth, rake Will up and down. If he has anything to say about Will's disheveled state, he doesn't voice it. Instead, he gestures for Will to come forward, and when Will does, he takes Will by the chin and forces him to lift his head.
He frowns. "I suppose you'll play the part of Remus, today," he says, with an air of disapproval. Will winces when Hannibal lets him go. "Go change – the robes are there." He gestures to a room separator, on the end of which hangs a white toga with a red sash. Will nods, and ducks behind the separator, stripping out of his clothes in preparation to change into his costume.
The air feels much colder as Will dons the costume, slipping his feet into the leather sandals Hannibal provided. He doesn't know if they're appropriate for the time period he intends to paint, but he knows enough about the idea Hannibal has to know that it won't matter.
He wraps the sheet around his shoulder and fastens it with the sash at his waist, as Hannibal showed him, and emerges from behind the separator to find Hannibal already mixing the foundation shades for his piece. He is turned away from Will, but tilts his head in acknowledgement of the sound of Will approaching, sandals clicking against the floor.
"What made you late, may I ask?" Hannibal says after a moment, when Will has been left to stand and shift his weight and grow more and more aware of how out of place he is amongst the fine art and hallowed halls. Doctor Lecter's reputation is one of elegance, grace, and immovable high standards. Will hates that he was late, and hates that it might have soured Hannibal's perception of him in his mind.
Which is…novel. Will has never much cared what people think of him before.
He flushes, when Hannibal turns, brows risen at his continued silence. "My employer wanted to meet with me," he replies, looking down. "He's a…man who likes to know that he is being understood before he lets a subject matter drop."
Hannibal makes a noise, drawing Will's attention again. His eyes are unchanged, still that same dark shade, but the corners of his mouth might be twitching into a smile. "My former teacher was a similar sort," he replies lightly. "I often found it tiresome to be taught by a man who had so little faith in my intelligence."
Will tries not to smile. "I don't believe he thinks me dumb," he replies. "Just reckless."
"Reckless," Hannibal echoes, irises brightening with intrigue. Will nods. Hannibal beckons him forward, and Will makes to move into the halo of light created by a broad circle of candles above their heads, positioned to mimic sunlight where the open windows cannot provide. But Hannibal stops him with a hand on his arm. He turns Will, lips pursed, and winds two fingers of each hand into his sash, tugging it closer to Will's hips, and pulling at the edges so it's wider on his body.
Apparently pleased with that, he nods to the circle of light. "Stand with your back facing me," he commands, and Will bows his head and moves to obey. "I still need you slightly hunched, as though being held up by another." Will nods, curling his shoulders in, bowing his head. It is not an unfamiliar position to him, both from his job and his upbringing. A strict father and overbearing employer made him quick to collapse in on himself, to be small and unobtrusive and ignored. Seen but not heard, as children should be.
He hears the displacement of water, and sees Hannibal dipping his hands in a bowl of it, cupping the water so it liberally coats his hands. Then, he approaches Will, standing slightly to one side of him, and begins to slide his wet fingers through Will's hair. Will shivers as a drop of it runs down his neck, as Hannibal wets his hair down, making it fall at its full length to past his jaw, and then parts the strands, baring the nape of his neck.
When he is finished, he makes another considering sound, and flattens his hand on the back of Will's head, tilting him just so, making his hair fall forward and hide his face.
"There," he murmurs, sounding pleased. Will doesn't smile, but it's a close thing. Hannibal takes his left arm by the wrist and lifts it, angling his elbow and positioning his fingers like Will is a living mannequin. He leaves, for only a moment, and comes back with a tall coat stand, a single pole with some hooks at head height. He manipulates Will's fingers to curl around it. "Hold there, for now. I will adjust you as necessary."
Will nods.
Hannibal moves away and Will forces himself not to turn and ruin his position. He closes his eyes, listening to the wooden clack of Hannibal adjusting his palette, the creak of the easel as he positions it, and the scrape of his stool along the floor as he settles in and readies himself to paint. Will presses his lips together and stares forward. Because of the angle, he can only see the lower half of the wall in front of him. There are canvasses there, leaning against the wall.
One of them is a recent painting – or, at least, it wasn't here when Will was the last time he was in this room for his brief audition, where Hannibal had him pose under different lights, adjusting his hair, his stance, until he'd decided Will would be an ideal model for his piece. The painting in his immediate line of sight is that of the old myth of Leda, and Zeus in his swan form. He arches a brow when he sees that Leda is not at all covered, and wonders if Hannibal used a live model for that piece as well.
"You're tensing," Hannibal tells him, snapping him out of his reverie. "Relax your shoulders. Dead men aren't braced for a blow."
Will sighs, and rolls his shoulders, forcing them to fall. The pleased noise Hannibal makes brings a small flush of heat to his cheeks.
For a long time, there is only silence, broken sometimes by the occasional creak of Hannibal's stool and the brisk swirling of his brushes in a water cup to rinse them of their color. It's meditative, and peaceful. Will is not used to being still and unmoving; his job as a forager of information and surveyor of crime scenes leaves him jittery and anxious, too lost in the mindsets of the killers Pazzi points him towards. But here, he is as Hannibal told him; Remus, the dead man. Dead men have no thoughts to make them suffer.
"What do you do for a living, Will?"
Hannibal's voice, quiet and low though it is, startles him. He forces himself not to move, but allows himself to clear his throat before he answers; "I work for the Inspector," he replies.
Hannibal makes a curious sound. "In what capacity?"
"I have…a certain gift of insight," Will says. It always feels strange to explain his abilities to people outside the immediate circle of Pazzi's influence. "I suppose I see things other men do not."
Hannibal's answering hum is soft, and intrigued. "And what is it that you see, which other men can't?"
Will closes his eyes and sighs, and makes it a motion from his gut so that his shoulders don't move and ruin the lighting. He has no idea which part of him Hannibal is painting, but doesn't want to earn the man's disapproval. "Inspector Pazzi calls it 'the killer's eyes'," he replies. "I am able to…understand them. To look upon a murder and deduce the reasoning behind it."
Hannibal hums again. "Is reason so important?" he inquires mildly.
Will smiles. "Until we have a way to link them in other ways," he says. "The world is too small for most murder to be mindless."
"I imagine that weighs heavily on you," Hannibal says. "Do you find it…difficult?" He hesitates on the word, like it's not the one he wants to use. Will resists the urge to turn and meet his eyes. "I agree with you – taking a life is an intimate act, and rarely done without reason. It must be quite jarring, to feel the anger, the rage of a violent man."
"Not all of them are angry," Will says. He bites his lower lip before he can say more.
"Oh?"
Will swallows. "I suppose," he says, instead of continuing that train of thought. His fingers flex around the stem of the coat rack. "Sometimes it is…jarring." That's a good word, the one Hannibal chose. "I look at them and feel their offense as my own."
"That is a rare gift," Hannibal notes. "Pure empathy. Assuming any mindset, understanding it, whether you wish to or not." He pauses, and adds; "Invasive, to your sensibilities."
"It's the right thing to do," Will says. "To be blessed with a gift like that and not use it is selfish."
Hannibal laughs, behind him. "I should have used you for the likeness of a martyr."
Will smiles.
They fall back into comfortable silence, and Will closes his eyes again as Hannibal continues to paint him. It might be minutes, or hours, or days, before the sound of Hannibal's stool skating back shocks him from his meditative state. He tilts his head as Hannibal returns to the bowl of water, and wets his hands again.
He approaches Will and wets his hair, returning it to the limp length that had been lost as his hair dried. Hannibal's hands are large, his touch lacking any hesitation.
"We will be able to take a break, in a moment," he promises. Will nods, breathing out shakily. Hannibal returns to his seat and continues to paint, and another impossible to measure stretch of time later, he sits back with a sigh. "There. You may straighten. Stretch, and walk around."
Will obeys, releasing the coat rack and rolling his shoulders. His injured one, his right, twinges in protest of being still for so long. He's glad that Hannibal chose a costume that covers the scarred wound on the back of it. Hannibal offers him wine, which he takes with a grateful nod, sipping at the sweet drink as Hannibal stands and takes his used brushes to another bowl of water and begins to clean them.
Will circles to the canvas, to see the progress. It is rather plain, so far, but Will does not doubt Hannibal's ability, not with the other art he has seen. He is sure, by the end, the cloth of his costume will look so real that an observer would be able to touch it and expect to feel the fibers for themselves. Hannibal has, in great detail, shadowed his hair and the bloody brightness of his sash, and noted the subtle flush on the back of his neck, which Will is sure he will darken to the bloody reality of Remus' death, once he's finished.
Hannibal's shadow darkens his periphery, and Will turns and gives him a small smile. "You have an eye for the play of light," he says, nodding to the subtle shades in his hair, how the golden light of the candles and the sun outside has brought out the lighter browns.
Hannibal smiles, and inclines his head in a proud nod. "Light and shadow are the entirety of our existence," he says. "Without one, the other cannot exist. We are all explosions of light and color in the darkness of the world."
"Is that why you chose the twins for your next piece?" Will asks.
Hannibal tilts his head.
"Rome was watered with Remus' blood," Will adds.
Hannibal smiles. "A great tragedy, from which was born an even greater triumph. Such is God's sense of humor," he says with another small laugh. He reaches, and thumbs at the flush on Will's cheek, so quickly Will doesn't have time to flinch away. Then, as soon as the touch lands, he finds he doesn't want to. Hannibal's lips purse. "You will need to be paler for the part of Romulus. He just killed his brother, he would not look so healthy."
Will swallows.
"Though," Hannibal continues, head tilting in thought, "perhaps this is where your unique talents will work in your favor." He smiles. "Are you able to assume the mindset of a man who has just killed his brother?"
"Their relationship was fraught, as I understand it," Will breathes. Hannibal's hand is still on his face, touch so light it is like a ghost, though he is far warmer than any of the dead. "Though I don't imagine he felt much satisfaction, in the moment."
Hannibal nods in agreement. "No," he says. "I want to portray his anguish, but also resignation. Have you ever had to do something terrible, Will, for the greater good?"
Will swallows, his fingers clenching around his cup of wine. "I have thought of things," he confesses, "but never had the chance to act upon them."
Hannibal's eyes flash with another bright spark of intrigue. He smiles. "Perhaps you will tell me about it, one day," he says with a nod, and finally drops his hand. "But the day is growing old, and the lighting is not suitable for what I have planned. Are you available tomorrow?"
"Yes," Will says, nodding. "And I won't be late, I swear."
"Good." Hannibal turns away. "Go change. I will make sure everything is ready for tomorrow. Have a good evening, Will."
"And you, Doctor Lecter. Thank you."
Will is waylaid by a messenger on his way home, who brings summons to the Inspector. He goes, and finds Pazzi pacing his room, muttering to himself with a dark, angry scowl on his face. He whirls on Will as though Will's presence is a personal affront to him.
"He struck again," he snarls by way of greeting.
Will frowns. "Are we sure it's him?"
"Yes," Pazzi says. "The monster has claimed another life."
"I will go with you," Will says. Pazzi nods, and leads the way out of the building. Florence is a large city on foot, and it takes them almost an hour to walk to the scene. Pazzi does not like to take coaches, or rely on the abilities of a stranger to get him to where he needs to go.
When they arrive, Will audibly gasps. The victims are two brothers, so alike in the face they might be twins, though one of them is significantly more grey in the hair and heavyset in the body. He is posed, his hand buried in the open cavity of his brother's chest. The heart has been removed, the disemboweled brother on his knees, looking up with his features twisted into a plaintive expression.
"Oh, God," Will breathes.
Around them, blood is sprayed in an artful halo, much too uniform to have simply been done in the act of killing. It is an almost perfect circle, like a ring of light. The image conjures memories in Will's head, of that circle of candles – a frame, for the canvas. His stomach turns.
He has suspected, for a while. Il Mostro is an artist, no one can deny that. His precision and brutality is unmatched; he is a master of his own designs. He knows the models, the canvas, the means through which he will display his art. A painter, and sculptor, and learned man for how cleanly he makes his kills. He is a keen study of the human body. There is never any hesitation.
Will looks upon the scene. Though the injured brother is anguished, the one posed holding him is serene, cupping his face, with a smile almost affectionate. Dual sensations of horror and peace surround Will as he looks upon the man.
It is the first time Il Mostro has been so public with his display. They are in the middle of a square, stood in front of a clock tower. Above them, the bell rings for midnight.
"This was recent," Will says, noting the lingering brightness of the blood. It has yet to dull to the blackened hue it takes in the moonlight.
"Yes," Pazzi replies with another scowl. "But, again, totally unseen. There are no witnesses that have come forward yet."
No, there never are.
Will swallows, a strange, certain dread curling up in his stomach. It's impossible to look upon this scene and ignore how similar it is. A learned man, an artist, someone with reputation and skill, whom no one would suspect.
"He didn't know these men," he murmurs. "We won't find a personal connection. This was an example."
"An example?" Pazzi says. "For who?"
Will knows. But he says, "For himself, perhaps? Inspiration? He's…testing something. Trying something new." He approaches the men, and his fingers hover an inch from the comforting smile of the older brother. "He wants to show someone his intentions, in this piece."
Pazzi scoffs. "You grow more metaphorical by the day, Will," he snaps.
Will winces. "I can't tell you something I don't see," he replies, and drops his hand, turning to look at the Inspector. "This was not done by a member of their family, nor a lover, nor a betrayed friend. There is no purpose to this, for their death was the purpose. It is…his art. An expression of himself he hopes someone will see."
Pazzi frowns.
"I'm sorry, Inspector. I have no more insight for you," Will lies.
Pazzi is clearly unhappy with that answer, but cannot force Will to conjure observations from thin air. He dismisses Will with an angry sound, and Will steps back so that he can approach with the coroner and begin the process of removing the bodies. Will imagines this will join the ever-growing pile of unsolved murders claimed by Il Mostro.
He returns to his home close to three in the morning, and does not sleep.
Doctor Lecter eyes him, as Will returns to his villa, right on time. He is smiling, though it's faint, and there is a note of concern in his voice when he says; "I did not think you would dedicate yourself so readily to the role."
Will knows what he means. His eyes feel heavy, and he is sure there are dark circles beneath them, his eyes rimmed with red from lack of sleep. He moves lethargically, and accepts the wine Hannibal gives him. He knows, at least for now, he is necessary for the creation of Hannibal's art, and will not lose his life just yet.
"A happy accident," he replies. "I had a late night."
"Yes, I heard the news this morning," Hannibal says. "A terrible tragedy, to be certain. Does the Inspector have any suspects?"
Will narrowly manages to avoid glaring at him. "No," he replies, for that is the truth. "And I couldn't tell him anything, either."
The edge in his voice, whether Hannibal notices it or not, goes without comment.
Hannibal bids him change into his costume again, and Will takes his position in the halo of candles. He shivers under their light, thinking of the murders from the night before. It is difficult not to see the ring of blood on the floor, not to watch Hannibal's hands as he mixes his paints and positions his canvas, and think of how he must have torn into the younger brother. Is his heart in the ice cellar, he wonders, or has it already been disposed of?
Il Mostro always takes trophies. What he does with them, Will does not know, but the red paint looks particularly vibrant today.
Hannibal goes to the corner of the room and hefts a thing like a body, stuffed with straw. He hands it to Will, who takes it, wrapping his fingers around the back of it. There is a hole straight through the chest, and Hannibal carefully takes a long wooden stick, and works it through the body to mimic the shaft of a spear. He holds it out to Will, who takes it in a white-knuckled grip.
Hannibal smiles, pleased with the position. "Let me know if it becomes too heavy," he says, and Will nods. "And I want you to look directly at me. Can you do that?"
Will doesn't know if he can, but he nods anyway. If nothing else, he can focus on the line of Hannibal's hair, or his nose, or some point beyond his shoulder if it gets too much.
Hannibal smiles, pleased, and reaches up to drag his fingers through Will's hair, pulling some of the waves over his forehead, and in front of his ears. The way he touches Will, as though Will were no more alive than one of his statues, sends another shiver down Will's spine.
Hannibal considers him, and says, "I will work on the pose, first. I can perfect the features of your face without you holding the mannequin. I will work as quickly as I am able." Will nods, as subtly as he can, not wanting to ruin Hannibal's positioning of him. Hannibal smiles, and goes to his easel. He is standing, this time, stool tucked into the corner.
Will sucks in a breath and tightens his grip on the mannequin, forcing himself to be perfectly still. But his mind is racing. He is here, in the presence of the man he is more and more sure is Il Mostro. Now that he has seen what the monster did the night before, it seems so obvious now.
Hannibal looks up, briefly, from his work, brows rising when he meets Will's eyes. "You must have had a very emotional night," he notes.
Will swallows, and blinks once in answer.
"You have the look of a man dying to speak." Hannibal smiles. "You may, if you like; as I said, we will work on your expression after the main pose is done."
After. Will doesn't want to think about what happens to him after. He clears his throat and says, "Forgive me. I just have a lot on my mind." Hannibal doesn't break his gaze, and Will feels his cheeks heating again. "The…. The murder last night is sticking with me."
Hannibal's expression smooths, and he gives a nod of understanding, finally releasing Will from his gaze as he goes back to his piece. "Is it the mindset of the killer that haunts you?" he asks, as though they are discussing nothing more scandalous than the weather. "Or, perhaps, something about the victims?"
"He didn't kill them because of any offense," Will says before he can think better of it. His fingers clench more tightly around the shaft of the wooden pole. Hannibal doesn't pause in his work. "He was…experimenting. Creating a draft."
"A draft," Hannibal echoes. His hand goes still, and he meets Will's eyes.
Will nods. "A practice sketch," he says. "For the real thing."
Hannibal's head tilts curiously. "One might argue there is no 'first draft' for a murder," he says with a slight smile. "It is rather final in and of itself."
Will winces, and bites his lower lip, looking down.
Hannibal hums. "Lift your chin, please, Will." Will obeys, and receives a nod of approval that makes his stomach clench with that warm feeling again. "Better, thank you."
They remain silent, though Will is thrumming with energy. His hands are starting to shake, and he's sure it's ruining the shadows in Hannibal's work, but he doesn't comment. Finally, he straightens with a sigh, and smiles at Will. "You can set the props down now, thank you."
Will nods, and obeys.
"If you're up for it, we can continue. I don't want you to strain yourself."
"I'll either look worse or better tomorrow," Will says. "That's up to you. You're the artist, after all."
Hannibal's head tilts. "You do look rather perfect, as you are," he says idly. Will bites his lower lip, and tries to stop his cheeks from heating. He's not sure it works. "But there is a certain…anguish, I wish to portray."
"I'm not sure how to do that," Will confesses.
"Have you suffered no great tragedy in your life?"
"Nothing akin to killing my brother."
Hannibal tilts his head. He approaches Will, and Will stiffens as, from one of the pockets of his smock, he produces a small knife, expertly opening the blade with a flick of his thumb. Will flinches back, heart racing, eyes wide.
"Shh," Hannibal says soothingly. There's nowhere for Will to run, and his breathing is coming fast as Hannibal takes his chin and forces him to be still. "A small amount of pain. I won't do grievous harm, I promise."
Will wants to shake his head. He knows Il Mostro is a creature unique in his blood lust. Hannibal must, surely, be able to feel how heavily his blood is pulsing in his neck. His fingers tighten on Will's jaw, like he's holding a snake that means to strike him. Will's lips part helplessly, he sucks in a breath as Hannibal comes closer.
"Hold out your hand."
Will doesn't know why he does it. Perhaps it's because Hannibal's gaze is hypnotic, his voice so soothing like a snake charmer. Maybe it's curiosity, to see if Hannibal will, indeed, take his life with so small a blade. If he even could – Will is sure he could. Maybe it's because Will, still, wants to please him, and doesn't want to offend him. Or maybe he's so dizzy with adrenaline and anxiety that he doesn't think to fight back.
He offers his hand, and Hannibal takes it with a smile, releasing his chin. He cradles Will's wrist, again with that poised control as though Will is nothing more than a doll. He places the blade in Will's palm, and presses until it severs his skin. Blood wells up, burning pain a moment later, and Will's mouth twists into a tight snarl in reaction to it.
Hannibal smears his thumb through the blood, and paints a single line of it on Will's cheek. "There," he breathes, his eyes near black. "Perfect. Just like that, dear boy."
With that, he leaves, taking the knife with him. Will can only stare, trembling, as Hannibal takes his seat and begins to paint with a fervor he has been lacking until this point. He looks to Will more than the canvas, hands moving his brushes and taking coats of paint from muscle memory alone. Will swallows, and presses his thumb into his cut palm so that it burns, sending shards of stinging pain up his arm.
Hannibal smiles. "Your dedication is admirable," he says. "You're the first I've ever had that has allowed me to go so far."
Will thinks of the model of Leda. The man Hannibal painted in his famous depiction of Achilles, drenched in blood as he lunged for Horatio. Of Saint Sebastian, pierced many times over through the chest and thighs with arrows and spears. That model, most likely, had not been living at the time of being painted. The emergence of that piece came soon after the live reenactment, with a priest's death a week prior, torn to shreds after rumors had been uncovered that he was doing terrible things to the altar boys in his care.
Will laughs, to himself. He has been so blind. Now that he sees it, he can't unsee it. How each of Hannibal's most noted masterpieces came in the wake of a violent murder. Not all of them were said to be done by Il Mostro. But now, now, Will can't ignore it.
"Doctor Lecter," Will rasps, "how far do you plan on taking this?"
Hannibal smiles. "I won't insult your intelligence, Will, if you do not insult mine. I'm aware of our unique circumstances."
"I never said -."
"No, you never said," Hannibal agrees. "But you have expressive eyes."
Will wants to close them, but he dares not take his eyes off Hannibal for a second.
Hannibal sighs, a moment later, his gaze moving from Will to the canvas, his hand lowering. A single drop of paint lands on the floor. His lips purse, and he tilts his head. "Come closer, Will," he says, beckoning with his free hand. Will is a fool, and obeys.
Hannibal rinses his brush and dips the tip into a blue so brilliant it is like a cloudless summer sky. "It is your eyes that made my decision for me," Hannibal continues conversationally. Will bites his lower lip, too aware of the heat of his own blood as it drips from his fingers to the floor. "I knew I had to capture them. If nothing else, I needed your eyes committed to canvas, in whatever way I could."
"Then will you cut off my head and keep them forever?" Will rasps.
Hannibal smiles. "Don't be coy, Will; the rest of you is rather lovely as well."
"Doctor Lecter -."
"Please, Will, I think we can be on a first-name basis now."
Will swallows. "When you are done with your piece, what will be your next one?"
Hannibal seems to give that question some thorough consideration, occasionally looking to Will as he darkens the blue, or lightens it, and then moves to a shimmering golden color that reminds Will of treasure. "I think you would make a good Patroclus," he says idly.
"Dead or alive?"
"Why not both?" Hannibal asks with a smile.
"If it's an act," Will says.
Hannibal laughs, and sets his brush down. He laces his fingers together in front of him, surveying his work with a critical eye, and then nods to himself. He holds out a hand, beckoning Will forward. Will goes, and Hannibal turns him by the shoulders, so Will can see his work.
The canvass is still lacking a background, and the spear has no head. There is no blood on the bodies, yet, not even the smear he painted on Will's cheek. That will come later, Will supposes. Perhaps in real time, once Hannibal is done with him.
"It's beautiful," he breathes, for that is the truth. Hannibal managed to capture his exhaustion, his sorrow, his fear, all in a single snapshot of his face. He looks at himself and sees a man on the precipice of great tragedy – from which, perhaps, victory will rise as a phoenix.
"I'm glad you think so," Hannibal replies, voice close to Will's ear. Will shivers, biting his lower lip hard. He closes his eyes as Hannibal takes his injured hand, and leads him to the bowl of water he used the day before to wet down Will's hair. He dips it in the water, cleaning it with thorough, gentle touches.
Will lifts his gaze. "I understand if you think you need to kill me," he says. Hannibal pauses, and meets his eyes. It's difficult to hold them, but Will forces himself to. "And I know that I can't prove my silence except by faith."
Hannibal smiles. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, dear boy," he purrs. He lifts Will's hand from the water. The cut was shallow, and Will watches as he takes the red sash from the day before – Will is wearing a red toga, today, to denote him as Romulus, the victor. Hannibal cuts off a piece of it and binds Will's hand with capable, practiced motions. Of course he's practiced; he's a doctor, after all.
"I think I would like to depict you in several different pieces," Hannibal continues. "You are…inspiring."
Will blushes.
"Yes," Hannibal says, with a nod that feels more final than the last nail in a coffin. "I think you and I can create masterpieces together. If you're willing."
Will gets the sense that Hannibal is not strictly talking about paint upon a canvas, anymore.
He swallows. His fingers flex, still trapped in Hannibal's hand. The choice is clear: silence, for survival. Will supposes it was tempting fate, to give the monster hope that he could be seen, and understood.
"You needn't decide tonight," Hannibal finally says, when Will remains silent. "Are you hungry? I imagine so; I have kept you here all day."
Will looks to the window. It is dark outside. Time flies in this place where the laws of men do not apply.
He presses his lips together. "What are we having?"
Hannibal's smile is wide, and shows his teeth. "Heart."
Of course.
Will nods, and steps back. "May I get changed?"
"Of course," Hannibal says, and leaves him to pack up his paints. "Take your time. I will see to the meal." He pauses, and says; "If you do decide to act on your nature as a righteous man, and not a curious artist in the making, I only ask that you give me time to complete this piece." He nods to the canvas. "I do hate leaving something unfinished."
Will follows his gaze. Sees his own eyes staring back at him, almost accusatory. As though Romulus himself would judge Will for taking such a drastic action and not seeing it through. Without the creation of Rome, Remus' death means nothing.
He nods. "I will," he promises. Hannibal's smile lingers in the back of his mind as he ducks behind the room separator, to shed his skin and don the visage of a normal man. But clothes cannot change what he knows, and the fact that he has decided to remain, and accept Hannibal's offering of food and company and wine.
He thinks of Leda, and wonders if she wished Zeus would stay with her, after their night together.
When he emerges, Hannibal is gone, and the room is dark. The scents of cooking meat waft up to him from the kitchen. Will sucks in a breath, squares his shoulders, and goes downstairs to partake in the monster's offering.
