Chapter Text
Chilton breathed a sigh of relief when the airplane finally took off.
And when it landed, and when he departed the airport, and when he arrived at the hotel…
To think Alana had been so adamant that he stayed.
He scoffed.
Specifically, she had been steadfast in her refusal to let him catch a ride on the Verger jet.
“You re-e-eally ought to stay put,” she said with an inconceivably flat expression and crossed arms.
But Chilton had planned for this possibility. It was unfathomable as to how she could be so calm at a time like this. Yet it didn’t come as much of a surprise. It was just like them to continually downplay the blatant danger, even when Death was staring them in the face.
This time, Chilton endeavored—and he certainly had plenty of time to scheme during his lengthy convalescence—I’ll be ready.
He skipped his appointment with Dr. Du Maurier that night. There was no point in calling. If his prior appointment was any indication, which had been delayed by an hour due to a “scheduling mishap,” she likely wouldn’t have been waiting for him anyway.
Cutting her loose was for the best. They say it takes one to know one, and Chilton of all people would know when he was being subject to psychic driving. Still, he liked going for the entertainment value and to puzzle on why she seemed so adamant that he create a person suit.
—literally from the skin of his enemies.
But he had no intention of sticking around to find out. After booking the next available first class ticket out of the country, he stepped into the airport with only his passport, wallet, lacquer cane, and the bespoke clothes on his back.
While criminally overpriced, the on-site boutiques had everything he needed. In record time, he acquired a carry-on suitcase filled to the brim with essentials.
Then after fifteen hours, rife with delays and two layovers, he at last arrived in the only safe haven left in this world.
Lithuania.
Anyone who knew a lick about the cannibal—or better yet, read Chilton’s New York Times Bestseller book—would have known that the ex-psychiatrist was oddly evasive about his childhood abode.
And childhood, in general.
The way Hannibal Lecter would effortlessly dance around that juicy topic was leagues more infuriating than how Will Graham would disassociate during their therapy sessions. It was yet another thing he didn’t envy Dr. Du Maurier of.
—especially after she was discovered sans a leg and allegedly nibbling on what remained of it.
Chilton winced when he read that grisly TattleCrime article.
But it was the dastardly smile Hannibal had left him with that abruptly returned to haunt him. The fool had refuted his insanity defense just to publicly humiliate him. With the beast trapped like some zoo animal, Chilton had looked forward to the day he’d be handed back the keys. As amusing as it was to see him stripped of all luxuries and standing in empty space, far more punishment was owed to the spawn of Satan.
And knowing Hannibal the Cannibal™, Chilton knew to hit him where it’d hurt most.
Dignity.
But he felt no remorse over dishing out that dirty threat, even after their escape. The target on Chilton had been set long ago.
By him and his lover boy.
Speaking of which, Will Graham’s miraculous, continued existence—not unlike his own—had certainly thrown a wrench in the works. While the traumatized cannibal would never set foot on these grounds, his lapdog would gladly go on his behalf. Will Graham had apparently done so before, according to some locals who recalled a broody, bearded American running around with his coat collar turned up.
But Chilton correctly determined that the inhuman levels of codependency between them—especially at this point and likely for the foreseeable future—would never allow the pair to be separated for more than half a day.
So, while the threat remained, Chilton deemed it was minimal. Would Hannibal really risk losing his precious Will for the sake of roasting their old pal Jamón Ibérico-style? It wasn’t impossible, but this geographical safeguard would have to do.
And for one blissfully quiet month, it was.
Barring the short-lived zombie apocalypse hysteria—that was inevitably spurred by their second rising and the discovery of an empty casket in a cargo hold—it truly was a blissful month.
When the plane touched down, Hannibal gently shook Will’s shoulder to wake him. And upon opening his eyes, Will only had one thing on his mind:
“I’d like to see Florence.”
To say that Hannibal was overjoyed was an understatement.
While more or less out of commission, Will knew what he was enabling by handing over the reins like this. Their cargo flight had landed in Spain, and Hannibal found them a quiet, no-questions-asked motel in the countryside.
While perpetually on the run, few things were more comforting than arriving at a decent abode and collapsing into a soft, clean bed. Will primarily spent the subsequent week lying on his side for some much needed rest and recovery. Meanwhile, Hannibal dutifully leapt at the task of playing nurse and, as was long overdue…
Planning their honeymoon.
As usual, Will scoffed while chewing his breakfast and lazily eyed his new name on their train tickets to Italy. Hannibal had centered them in a dainty bouquet of toxic yet enchanting flowers. Although Will was on the tail end of his medicated haze, his brain fog did little to thwart that infectious excitement exuding from his husband’s ever-refined face.
Hannibal was giddy.
Giddy, giddy, giddy as a schoolgirl.
So, as the Spanish, French, and then Italian landscape flew by, they sat across from one another, listened to the rhythmic clack of the train tracks, and enjoyed the view.
Sleeping in bunk-style beds was the most off-putting part of their travels. Will struggled to recall the last time they didn’t share a bed. Needless to say, neither slept particularly well during this time.
And neither brought up their separation anxiety either.
But they did share a kiss one night while leaning on the railing of the caboose. And not being shoved overboard made the whole experience a lot more pleasant.
However, the significance of their trip didn’t fully sink in until Will first stepped into their new flat. Hannibal proudly opened the balcony doors to reveal the iconic skyline of Florence and its cathedral. Meanwhile, Will went to stow his suitcase in the wardrobe and found it already stocked with an array of bespoke clothes. One side was obviously Hannibal’s, but on the other…
Will picked up one of the dress shirts. Embroidered on the inner tag was a flowing monogram:
W.G.
And this time, when Will buttoned up that white shirt, gelled back his hair, and joined Hannibal for dinner, there was not a bone saw in sight.
Inevitably, they talked about it that night.
There was no butter or parsley-thyme soup on the menu, but there was a rack of sacrificial lamb.
And a lobster bursting from a cantaloupe.
That one really should’ve given him pause the first time around. But his blindness to it proved how severely tunnel-visioned Will had been that night.
“Do you regret it?” Hannibal eventually asked. Fork in hand, he languidly swallowed his last bite.
We could run away now…
Staring at the tiny cage of ribs, Will sighed and set down his wine glass.
“Hard to regret,” he said under his breath, “what was never to be.”
Hannibal dropped his gaze with a faint, wistful smile. “I suppose not,” he murmured before hiding behind a sip of wine.
Will leaned back into his chair. As the chronic pain steadily became an echo of itself, reclining was a luxury he could now afford. He draped an arm over the back and crossed his legs. “But I’ve always wondered…” he began. “What would we have done?”
“Together?” Hannibal asked a fraction too quickly.
Will massaged his mouth. “You, me…” Then his eyes bored directly into Hannibal’s face. “Abigail…”
Hannibal blinked yet kept his focus downcast. Unable to get the words out, he repeatedly drummed his fingers beside his silverware. All the while, Will observed him with as much objectivity as he could muster. He was happy to wait, now that they could.
But some things warranted being sped along with a little prompting. And here, in the safety of their new home, Will decided to make the request.
Look at me.
Hannibal’s eyes flicked up on instinct. And he saw, in the depths of that empathy, not anger or hatred.
But a quiet curiosity.
Almost too good to be true, yet there it was.
If only they had both known to look.
Eyes soft, Will huffed. “Why don’t you humor me?” he asked while popping the last of his lamb into his mouth. “Where would we have gone?”
“Florence, of course.” Hannibal continued to drum his fingers. Then he paused. “Well, Paris, first.”
It was an amusing notion—Paris, the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre. The choice almost seemed pedestrian in their twisted world.
You would’ve liked to have shown us?
Why not.
Will nodded, grinning. “And whose souls would we have taken?”
“There was a father and daughter.” As was his tone, Hannibal’s eyes were analytical and distant. Yet while his focus flicked aimlessly across the table, the slightest smile graced the corner of his lips. “You could’ve been Dimmond.”
Will blinked. Just as he attempted to recall that name, Hannibal did so for him with a violent flash of splitting skin and lines of crimson trickling down three swords.
“Though not in that form,” Hannibal added with a fleeting hint of teeth.
Will chuckled. “Why? Did he look like me?” And before Hannibal could confirm what he already knew, that most pressing of questions rudely and abruptly dawned on him:
“Did you sleep with him?”
Hannibal immediately parted his mouth.
“…No,” he said the following second.
Will lifted an eyebrow.
It wasn’t a lie, but…
“But you considered it,” Will accused.
Excuses crashed and piled up at the back of Hannibal’s throat. Will could almost hear the metaphorical tires screeching and metal crunching.
With a sigh, Will massaged his temples. Yet as much as his jealous righteousness called for it, he couldn’t bring himself to be mad.
It was endearing.
In that oddly pathetic sort of way.
“Perhaps, at one point, I did have a plan,” Hannibal said at last. Pensive, he continued to stare at the table. “But as with my old life of solitude, I found that I could no longer fathom it…nor maintain the discipline required.”
“You existed on whims.”
“Entropy and indulgence.” Hannibal sighed, working his jaw. “A purposelessness except for pleasure.”
“A vulgar thing.”
“Yes.”
Will took another sip of wine after swirling it for a bit. “Even in the best case, it’s hard to imagine a place for her in this world.”
“…if not impossible.” Hannibal rubbed his chin with the back of his knuckles, subconsciously grounding himself with the faintest scratch of emerging stubble. “Most societies mandate that children take precedent over the parents. It’s heinous to value the life of the partner over that of their child.”
Will downed the last of his wine. “And what are we if not heinous creatures?” he murmured with a soft, self-derisive smirk.
Yet as he set down his empty glass, Hannibal at last lifted his gaze to lock eyes with Will. “I chose to kill her.”
Will met that challenge, steadfast. “—as you chose to save her, spare her, and wrap her up in our fucking mess.”
And while that bitter truth departed from his lips, Will’s voice waned to scarcely a whisper.
In that moment, an epiphany struck him, resurrected from the abyss. He last thought of it while trapped in the hazy aftermath of his drug-induced coma.
While tracing his smile’s stitches through threads of the white bandage.
…and imagining some other world.
They were just alike, after all.
“You still dream of her,” Will said.
The immediate silence was as unbearable as the cacophony of their thoughts.
“Yes,” Hannibal finally admitted. After a shorter pause, he took a sharp breath and added, “Not always.”
Yet not rarely.
Will could only nod.
Perhaps it’s long been apparent to their peers, but he could no longer deny that they both had exceedingly poor means of dealing with loss.
And what’s to be done about that?
It seemed the first step was the same as what began their dinner conversation—turning to face it.
“What you desire is sweet and easy peace,” Hannibal recited from that distant palace room.
“And I’m not the only one,” Will remarked, crossing his arms. Then, exhaling through his nose, he allowed the years-old bitterness and dread to slip away with his breath.
Shoulders more or less at ease, he glanced at the over-the-top decorations of flowers, feathers, and tiny animal skulls.
Typical.
Just so typical.
And Will couldn’t help but smile at it all. “So, now that we’ve miraculously returned to this moment, what is it that you’d like to show me?”
Hannibal showed those crooked teeth in his smile, and accented by the wrinkles near his eyes was all the adoration he could give. “Florence is where I became a man.”
“So, we’re stumbling down the halls of your beginnings.”
“A stroll down memory lane, as they say.”
“Your tryst with Bedelia not enough?” Will asked knowingly. He reached over to refill his empty glass.
Hannibal held out his glass as well. “You could say the company left much to be desired.” As Will replenished it, Hannibal thanked him with a nod and hovered the opening near his nose. “Care to join me?” he asked on the exhale.
Will set aside the decanter and held up his glass in a subtle, celebratory gesture. “Do you have to ask?”
Hannibal grinned.
It was a tender joy—honest as it was sincere and growing more frequent by the day.
Never taken for granted.
Especially not with the strands of gray that were steadily encroaching and tinging his hair a sandy silver.
“As I said before, if I saw you everyday, forever, Will…of which I have been and fully intend to…I would remember this time.”
“Then how ‘bout a few more times?”
Hannibal smirked. “There’s always room for seconds.”
Will reflected him with a scoff. “I’ll drink to that.”
The chime of thin crystal solidified that pact.
Ringing sweetly into silence, it hailed as yet another checkpoint in their ongoing saga.
In the vastness of their shared palace, there existed an array of dining rooms. Though each had their place, the last supper that perpetuated Hannibal’s Baltimore dining room and Jack bellowing “Nooo!” from their old Florentine one weren’t exactly their favorite places to frequent.
So, this new palace dining room would do just nicely.
It was a hybrid of both those times, revived and rewritten.
Forgiven.
With Will steadily on the mend, Hannibal planned their days accordingly—a casual walk, sightseeing, dining out.
It was amazing what a bit of facial hair and unconventional attire could do for those who wished to hide in plain sight.
For some reason, no one seemed keen to scrutinize the gruff pair of men who lurked in sunglasses, tracksuits, and sneakers.
As time continued to heal all wounds, both mental and physical, their activities, in turn, became a bit bolder.
A murder here, a tableau there…
And many works of art.
Yet it culminated in what Will could only describe as a “rude” wake-up call several weeks into their stay.
Of course, it was a given that he had married the Devil incarnate.
But it was easy to forget—under that airtight facade of refinement, decorum, and grace—that Hannibal also possessed equal amounts of daredevil in himself.
So, at a secluded rendezvous late one evening, Will was startled from his memory palace upkeep by the deafening roar of an engine. It grumbled and gurgled like some hellish beast. Yet as the gangster closed in, Will didn’t have to see beneath the jet black helmet to know who was fucking grinning at him from within.
Sheathing his knives, Will watched the man—a black knight clad in an armor of padded leather and ebony boots—kick out the stand and unbuckle the chin strap.
Of course, Hannibal ruffled free his helmet hair with one suggestive shake of his head.
Damn.
Aside from sensing his blood pressure spike, Will genuinely wondered if midlife crises exist among cannibalistic serial killers.
Well, we’re only human, after all.
“This isn’t a midlife crisis,” Hannibal cut in, hanging the helmet on the handlebar. He swung over his leg to dismount the motorcycle and opened a compartment at the front. “It’s an invitation.”
From it, he drew a matching helmet and jacket.
“Let’s go for a ride, Will,” Hannibal said in the ensuing silence.
It occurred to Will, that in some other ancient world, said vehicle would be a mighty steed.
And in that light, the sentiment admittedly made a bit more sense.
So, Will took the items with a sigh. Hannibal didn’t even try to hide his immense satisfaction of seeing Will zip himself up in that perfectly-fitted leather. Despite the protective padding, the jacket complemented—and hugged—his toned form in a rather flattering way.
Then Will pulled on the helmet and was unsurprised to find the straps pre-adjusted for him. With one last smirk, Hannibal secured his own helmet and assumed position at the handlebars.
Feeling that all-too-familiar twinge of self-consciousness, Will braced a hand on Hannibal’s shoulder and swung his leg over the back. It quickly occurred to him that there was no personal space to be had here.
More or less balanced, Will lowered his hands to the shallow bar beside the seat, though Hannibal stayed put.
“You should hold on.”
“I am.”
Hannibal glanced over his shoulder. “More.”
With a sigh, Will leaned forward and reached around Hannibal’s middle. He linked his wrists for good measure.
He didn’t need to see Hannibal’s face to know that the little shit was supremely pleased. Victorious, his gallant knight kicked in the stand and charged forth.
And for the next 27 fucking minutes, Will clung to him for dear life.
From all their European wardrobes, one particular item had been conspicuously absent.
That charcoal and crimson suit.
Sated by their dining with—and of—their old friend, Hannibal decided to bid this material possession farewell. Holding on would have only increased its risk of falling into undesirable hands.
And so, while on their way to the airport, they made a delivery—or more accurately, a donation—to what would become its final destination.
The Evil Minds Research Museum.
But while suiting up one last time for that fated dinner date, Hannibal had noticed something tucked into the jacket’s inner pocket. He poked his fingers inside and drew an ivory envelope. Brow raised, Hannibal glanced over his shoulder. But Will, in the middle of his drug-induced power nap, was still out cold on the bed.
Free from prying eyes, Hannibal cleanly split the adhesive and drew the glossy paper.
On the back were the handwritten words:
For my dearest Murder Husbands…
Congrats.
♡ F
With a subtle smirk, Hannibal flipped to the front.
It was a photo that hadn’t made its way online, of which he was sure, being the avid follower that he was.
And so, he forgot to breathe while his eyes took in the novel sight.
It was the night of their wedding.
Before the rain had stopped, before Will had locked away all those distracting emotions and sentimentalities…
There he was, singlehandedly holding their shattered pieces together.
On his face, as he cradled his dying love, was a look as if he himself had been dealt the fatal blow. Teeth bared and eyes squeezed shut, he buried his head in the crook of Hannibal’s neck, as if bracing against a hail of fire, and allowed his tears to cut paths through the blood.
Here was exquisite beauty on the threshold to death.
…and profound guilt for scaring him so.
Perhaps there existed a world in which Hannibal had died that night. That possibility was a certainty, according to Will.
When all was said and done, that first morning alone would have been the most unbearable.
Hannibal glanced over at his sleeping husband.
The urge to lie beside him became just as irresistible. And Hannibal subsequently concluded that he could use a little break. Bedelia’s leg wasn’t due for another hour, after all.
But the wedding photo wasn’t their only gift. True to her shallow exploitative nature, there was no such thing as a free lunch in her world.
So, tucked into the corner of the envelope was a nickel-sized tracking device.
Meant to be noticed.
And meant for the ever-curious Hannibal to intentionally overlook.
He would have, if it weren’t for the third gift that he noticed was haphazardly sewn into the left shoulder pad. He split the messy, mismatched thread and fished out yet another tracking device from the stuffing.
It was identical to Lounds’ one.
But what caught his eye was a single strand of dog hair stuck to the plastic.
Hannibal grinned.
As a crossroad parted before him, only two paths were particularly appealing. So, he simply did as his nature demanded and retrieved a coin.
With it perched on his thumb, he flicked it high into the air and watched it spin. As it descended, he fancied some dramatic convergence of possibilities—a burst of stardust collapsing into an event horizon, bending space, time, and light.
The coin landed in his palm, leaving a faint pressure on his scar. He peered at the timeline they arrived in and nodded.
One tracker was placed back into his suit.
The other stayed on his person.
For safekeeping.
While passing through, Chilton admires the garish interior design of the lobby. Fine details are etched into seemingly every inch.
Baroque, he thinks this style must be.
While his suitcase rumbles behind him, his ebony lacquer cane clicks with each alternate step on the polished floor. On seeing him approach, the front desk clerk quickly dons an amicable smile.
“Labas vakaras,” she greets.
“Hello,” Chilton answers, feeling a tad self-conscious. After many failed attempts, he deemed it was much easier to resign himself to his first language, at least for the time being.
The receptionist pauses for a moment. “English?” she asks with hardly an accent.
“Yes.”
She nods and scans her computer screen.
“Mister…” She furrows her brow. “Klaus?”
Chilton blinks several times. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Patrick…Klaus?”
“Um, no, it’s Fre—” He scowls for a moment before his latest alias finally hits him. “Frank Charleston.”
He beams proudly, but the clerk continues to stare at her computer with a frown. Then she waves in her coworker. Chilton does his best to hide his irritation while they hurriedly consult each other. His grasp on Lithuanian is still very much a work in progress, but he can garner from their expressions and tone that there’s been some sort of major hiccup with his reservation.
As the hold-up stretches on, he awkwardly shifts his gaze to the floor. Behind him, he hears the hotel doorman greet their newest arrival.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Charleston. There was a mistake with your room,” the first receptionist says. “It will be fixed soon. Please wait here.”
Chilton turns and walks over to a chair by the fireplace. He reclines into the upholstery with a loud sigh. His mind wants to jump to the worst possible conclusion, and perhaps he should be calling up other hotels. But he mentally swats away that pesky anxiety and instead tries to focus on the fire’s soothing warmth and soft crackle. His heavy eyelids flicker shut.
From some fifteen feet away, the next few guests arrive at the front desk.
“Sveiki,” a man says.
Apparently, not well enough, since the clerk chuckles and asks, “Are you Patrick Klaus?”
A bit embarrassed, the man huffs. “Um, yeah.”
“Identification, please.”
There’s a pause as the man fetches his wallet. On a hunch that these folks have something to do with the delay, Chilton hones in on their conversation.
“Thank you, sir.” There’s a sound of rapid typing and then a sigh. “I’m very sorry, sir, but there’s been a mistake with your reservation. I understand you and your, uh…”
“—business partner,” he blurts after a split second pause.
Chilton listens with intrigue. The man has a British accent.
“…had booked the adjoining rooms,” the clerk continues, “but an error in our system caused us to overbook. Would you be so kind as to allow another guest to stay in the adjacent room?”
Chilton can’t help but grin maniacally in the ensuing silence. Obviously, some sort of “business trip” affair is going on here, and he knows for a fact that there is only one bed in each of these rooms. He almost scoffs at the feigned hesitation. They must be trying to save at least a little “face.” But surely the hotel staff couldn’t care less.
“I suppose…that’s…fine,” the man answers, almost as if he has a gun to his back. Then he chuckles. “I mean, if the other person doesn’t have a place to stay…”
“Thank you so much, Mr. Klaus! We appreciate your understanding.” After a bout of rapid typing and clicking, there’s a pause as she must be handing over the keycards. “The couch can be convert into a bed. Or we can send up another one—”
“—No, thank you,” he cuts in, voice low.
Chilton glares at the fireplace. After some obligatory well wishes, he hears the two elopers walk off, and judging by the sound of their shoes, they’re both men.
It’ll be an interesting few nights. But odds are he’ll decide to switch to a different hotel once he finally gets settled in his room.
As for tonight, he desperately needs rest.
“Mr. Charleston!”
With a heavy sigh, Chilton struggles to his feet and departs from his cozy seat by the fireplace.
He feigns shock and gratitude at the good news.
“Well, that worked.”
Like the good old days, Will tosses aside his briefcase like how he once did to his messenger bag. Behind him, Hannibal hangs the equivalent of a “do not disturb” sign on the outer doorknob. Then the door closes and the deadbolt clicks into place.
“And here I thought I’d at least try to craft a story…” Casting aside his glasses and plain gray suit jacket, Will chuckles and crosses over to close the curtains. “What are the odds, right?”
Yet Hannibal says nothing as he picks up Will’s discarded jacket, smooths out the wrinkles, and neatly hangs it in the closet by his own.
Will watches him from the edges of his vision.
He had expected something would happened once they crossed the border, and Hannibal hadn’t been shy about hinting as much. But nothing could have prepared him for the reality.
It was a semi-gradual change. With each passing town, the growing familiarity of the names and landscape had an inverse effect on Hannibal’s social skills.
He grew quiet, he became “not fond” of eye contact, and his posture appeared perpetually tense, as if he was always holding his breath.
Bracing for impact.
It was now or never, according to Hannibal. And he told Will this not through words, but through empathy alone. Will’s short death in Hannibal’s arms had opened a new chasm in the floor of their palace. At least, it was new to Will, who was startled when he stumbled upon it during a dream.
Curious, he ventured closer.
Flecks of snow wafted from the gaping maw where their dancing skeleton once was. Shattered remnants of the mosaic lined the edges like serrated teeth. From within, he could make out four more jagged layers until nothing was discernible in the opaque darkness.
A fitting gateway to the Hell of old, where the climate of eternal suffering was not that of fire and magma, but of ice and the horrific cold.
Without a sound, Hannibal stopped beside him.
Only here because of Will’s presence, he simply said:
“I need you, Will.”
I need your help.
In time, Hannibal could patch this up himself—fashion an iron grate, board it up, coat it with cement, and replicate their memento mori piece by piece. He could restore it to where the imperfections mimic the original’s centuries of wear. He could take this part of his palace to his grave and devote his remaining days to a life of ease.
And never know true peace.
…and we can’t have that, now can we?
For now, at their temporary pit stop at this hotel, Will pours two glasses of wine. Finished with their light unpacking, Hannibal has seated himself beside the fireplace.
Yes, the fireplace, which was their main draw to this location.
Hannibal nods in thanks as he takes his glass and indulges in analyzing the fragrance. He keeps his eyes on the hypnotic flames.
Will slouches into the chair opposite of him and observes Hannibal over the tilt of his glass. As he swallows, his mind strays to the lingering aftertaste. The delayed bitterness catches him off guard. It isn’t appalling, but he can’t say he’s fond of it.
Glancing across the fireplace, he sees that Hannibal hasn’t formed any opinion on the matter. His distant eyes are only on the steadily encroaching past.
Suddenly, Will tips his head back and gulps the rest of his wine. Hannibal’s gaze at last flicks over to him as Will gags and lurches out of his chair.
He blinks once while watching Will approach.
Blocking his view of the fire, Will leans an elbow on the mantle. “Is there something you want?”
The venom in his voice is striking. Yet taking in that gorgeous silhouette outlined with the vibrancy of the setting sun, Hannibal’s eyes soften. “…Is this a distraction?” he finally asks, voice frayed at the edges from disuse.
“They say there’s value to entertainment.” Will unbuttons his cuffs and rolls up his sleeves to a quarter below the elbows. “Hobbies, pastimes…”
“I would agree.”
Will exhales through his nose and returns to leaning on the mantle. One foot is crossed over the other. “Well, the night’s still young.”
Hannibal nods. He averts his eyes in thought. Already, there’s a hint of mild amusement returning to his tired eyes. He knows what Will is itching for, yet he catches that the door has been left open. “I suppose there exist activities that I’ve had little opportunity to pursue. Certain sports, for example, or perhaps a game of chess.”
Will smirks and leans his temple on his knuckles. “Why haven’t we played chess yet?”
Hannibal answers with a delicate smile. “Why, indeed?”
“Well, I’ll leave you to it to carve us a fancy, thematically fitting chess set.” He licks his lips. “But what else? What’s something we can do now?”
Hannibal’s smile widens ever so slightly. “Are you feeling restless, Will?”
With a sigh, Will pushes himself off the mantle and paces toward their wine bottle on the coffee table. “I feel like I’ve been doing nothing but rest as of late.” He pours himself another glass.
Hannibal swirls his own glass. “You’d like me to choose.”
“I just find it hard to fathom that there exist things that elude your expertise.” Will brings his refilled glass to his lips. “Besides fly fishing.” He swallows. “And I’m guessing also football.” He grimaces after a moment. “Remind me not to get this brand anymore.”
Hannibal smirks. “Not all activities intrigue me enough to warrant studying them.” Eyes closed, he breathes in his remaining wine, also preferring the scent over the taste. Then his voice lowers. “And not all activities offer enough chances to perfect them.”
Will eyes him expectantly. “So…?”
“So.” Hannibal sighs and, avoiding eye contact, sets down his wine glass. He stays like this for a moment before slowly rising from his chair. He smoothes the wrinkles from his dress shirt and stops several paces in front of Will.
All the while, Will’s eyes never leave Hannibal’s face. His brow somewhat furrows as he takes in what he sees—an insight privy only to him. And as the seconds tick by, he can still hardly believe it. Yet those mirror neurons effortlessly reflect back that baffling, wondrous truth.
Bashful, Hannibal works his jaw while his fingers incessantly fidget by his side. Then, with one more quick sigh, he at last meets Will’s wide eyes and asks:
“Would you like to learn to tango?”
Perhaps it’s ironic that the first step is not a step at all, but an embrace.
“Closer, Will.”
As with all lessons, there exists a degree of trust from pupil to mentor. And despite the numerous instances of close contact, not once while teaching knife throwing or judo did Hannibal press his advantage.
From start to finish, these were all real lessons.
So, guided by Hannibal’s gentle hand on his back, Will moves in until the front halves of their bodies are touching. He places his left palm on the back of Hannibal’s shoulder.
Keeping his elbow relaxed and bent, Hannibal holds his left hand out to the side. Their faces scarcely an inch apart, Will tilts his head to the right and snakes his right fingers across in inside of Hannibal’s open hand. Their palms meet—both soft and callused, somehow. They feel each other’s shallow breaths.
The intimacy is goddamn striking.
“Wait.” Abruptly recalling what he’s seen in movies, Will furrows his brow. “Why are you leading?”
Hannibal vainly suppresses his smirk. “Simply a habit.” And after a quick pause, he adds, “Naturally, this is the position I learned and thus am most accustomed to.”
Will bites his tongue, yet Hannibal continues.
“But in studying others, I’ve noticed that a common technique for partners like ourselves is to alternate who leads and follows.”
“You mean, they switch?”
Hannibal blinks. And after a particularly weighted pause, he asks, “Is that what you’d like?”
Will shows a bit of teeth in his smirk. “It’s only fair.”
“Relax.”
“Would it kill you to slow down?!”
Chilton blinks a good five times in rapid succession. Now in pajamas, he had just stepped out of the shower to finish applying his full-body scar cream.
But even more striking than the salacious words seeping through the paper thin wall and adjoining door…
…are those voices.
Eyes wide, Chilton creeps toward the flimsy door. He can already feel his heart rate spike within his ribs. But in abject denial, he leans in, careful not to make a sound, until his ear is flush with the painted wood.
“Stay connected to me. Ease into the motion.”
“Shit. Wait.”
Zero doubt remains in Chilton’s rattled brain. He’d recognize that low, un-pinnable accent anywhere. And now in the absence of a once infallible British accent, it’s clear and wholly unsurprising just who is with him.
“Feet together here.”
“Then I cross over?”
“Yes.”
Chilton removes himself from the door. He doesn’t understand what depraved position this must be, but he couldn’t care less as a tidal wave of hesitant hope hits him.
Could it be they don’t know?
He furrows his brow—or what remains of it—and thinks surely this must all be a ploy. The bastards have been hunting him every step of the way, simply waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The hotel staff must be in on it. Of course! Now here he is, housed next door to his mortal foes and subject to the taunting noise of their vile debauchery.
He rushes to grab a chair and hushes his movements while bracing the back beneath the doorknob. Perhaps he still has a chance. The hinges are on his side.
Chilton reaches for his phone. But in his panic, it slips from his grasp and clatters onto the floor.
Frozen in the deafening silence, he realizes their muffled voices have stopped.
He picks up his phone anyway and, not even considering the police for a millisecond, frantically scans his contacts.
Jack—convalescing.
Alana—blocked.
Freddie—capitalizing.
Mason—
Frowning, Chilton deletes that number.
But as the adjoining door decidedly remains un-kicked in. A blip of hope dares take root in his rattled mind.
Could it be?
Maybe there’s still time, he hopes as the sound of repetitive activity resumes beyond the wall.
And so, with no other choice but to go for it, he does what any self-respecting rabbit would do once meat’s back on the menu.
He packs his bags.
Turns out there are many mistakes to be had in the tango.
Much like life.
It started out stilted and hesitant. With tense shoulders and terse breaths, Will set his eyes to their shoes and unconsciously tightened his grip.
“Breathe, Will.”
“I’m focusing.”
Yet with each repeated stride and turn, the frequency of expletives and stepped-on toes became less and less, along with his internal mantra of each maneuver.
Not unlike how a curmudgeonly cannibal once learned to fly fish, associations came quickly. It only took several tries for Will to etch that muscle memory into the floorboards of this newest room.
Only when they managed their first flawless round did it occur to Will what was happening.
Each step was taken with grace, perfectly in sync, and Will realized there came a subtle ecstasy in successfully reading the other’s rhythm, matching their shifts in weight. Though it remained a work in progress, he re-learned to control the weakened muscles in his once busted left ankle.
In those fleeting moments of imbalance, Hannibal supported him, held him close, and Will, in turn, trusted him to do so. And what he did expect, though not necessarily appreciated, was the spark of mischief in those deep-set eyes, which preluded a sudden dip or twirl.
Just a little excitement. But there was no hiding Hannibal’s wide, devilish grin whenever he managed to elicit a gasp or irritated scoff from his husband.
“You little shit,” Will hissed with much endearment.
So, during the next twirl, Hannibal’s Reckoning came back to bite him when Will wrenched free from his hold and hooked his right arm behind Hannibal’s neck. Before the bastard could react, Will grasped Hannibal’s right hand with his left.
And oh, how the tables have turned.
Of course, Hannibal knew the motions in theory. Yet in reality, his movements were undeniably choppy—each step delayed by a half-second hesitation, followed by a slight rush to make up the lost time.
Will also adapted to his new role, which he found to be easier, and he cherished Hannibal’s bumbling while it lasted.
And when at last they found their rhythm again, Will heard it.
Music.
Lush strings ebb and swell like the tide. A piano signals each crashing wave before gracefully carrying back the tune.
Beneath their synchronized steps shine polished tile—checkered like a chessboard. Above them looms the distant ceiling adorned with sparkling chandeliers. Bordering them tower the rows of gilded windows.
Once upon a time, this was a crowded ballroom in Florence.
Now, just the two of them dance to Hannibal’s choice of soundtrack—a classic. At the conclusion of the first verse, they switch once more.
Following Hannibal’s lead, Will listens to him murmur. While the room blurs around them, those lilting lyrics meld sweetly into the fiery melody, perfectly in tune:
“Por una cabeza…
“…todas las locuras.”
Su boca que besa…
…erases the sadness…
……calms the bitterness.
“Por una cabeza,” Will murmurs, joining him.
If you forget me…
“¿Qué importa perderme mil veces la vida?” Hannibal asks.
¿Para qué vivir?
Pivoting around the contact of their bodies, they reunite in a passionate embrace. Their mouths are parted as they stare fiercely and devoutly into each other’s eyes, contact as sustained as the final chord.
In the remaining quiet is only the sounds of their catching breaths.
Bellisima…
So beautiful…
Hannibal tells him, solely from the expanse of their shared hall. Written plainly on his face and sharpened crow’s feet is a joyous, grateful smile.
Once thought impossible, for the first time since setting foot on these hallowed grounds, he feels free.
Safe.
Basking in this victory, Will nods.
It won’t last, he knows.
All the more reason to grasp Hannibal’s nape and close the gap.
As he once considered on that moonlit night, Will takes Hannibal’s parted mouth in his. Their eyes squeeze shut as Hannibal reaches up to hold the sides of Will’s head, as he loves to do while deepening the kiss.
In darkness, they hear waves.
Crashing far below.
But the skies are clear tonight. And when they part for air, Will observes the faint flecks of their stars in Hannibal’s watery eyes.
With a fleeting smirk at his sentimental husband, Will decides to return them to that moment.
Clutching Hannibal’s shoulder, he leans forward.
He rests his head on Hannibal’s chest.
He loses himself to the soothing breaths and the depths of that steady heart.
Will’s distant eyes close when Hannibal presses the side of his head to Will’s hair and curls his fingers into the back of Will’s shirt.
Here they linger, in the aftermath of their dance.
In the ephemeral present.
Here again, despite their destination.
Without blood sacrifice or crippling pain.
And while not endless, as they’ve long accepted…
It’s peace.
Sweet and easy.
Shaking madly, Chilton waits in the cold while frequently checking his six.
Of course, it’s mostly fear that’s fueling his incessant quaking.
He’s bundled himself up in the layers of his double-breasted suit, duster, scarf, and hat. With only a hasty, uneven coat of concealer applied, he flipped up his coat collar for good measure.
As he watches his foggy breaths billow into the night, it occurs to him that it’s times like these when he wishes he knew how to smoke. Each swing of the front door causes him to flinch, and each time he glances back, he fully expects to meet his maker.
At last, a taxi turns up the driveway and takes its sweet time pulling up to the roundabout. Chilton waves his cane at the driver and collapses down his suitcase’s handle.
He breathes a sigh of relief as the driver greets him and heaves the massive suitcase into the trunk. Chilton practically dives into the back seat and slams the car door shut. Exhaustion hits him like a ton of bricks, and he reclines into the worn leather. His heart remains thundering in his ears, yet he closes his eyes and tries to recall those meditative breathing exercises.
After a moment, however, he opens his eyes.
The car wobbles while the driver struggles to fit the suitcase into the trunk. And so, with each passing second, Chilton feels his anxiety begin to spike once more.
Finally, he hears the trunk close. The driver makes his way to the front and slumps into his seat behind the wheel.
Then he turns the key, and the engine growls and sputters and then…
Nothing.
The driver mutters curses as he tries again. All the while, Chilton sinks deeper into the backseats.
Of course, it’s then that the hotel doors open and out step two harbingers of death.
In all black coats, suits, shirts, ties, and shoes.
The better to hide the blood.
And to easily pass off as mourners.
Eyes nearly below the bottom of the car window at this point, Chilton watches as they stroll by from roughly ten feet away.
There’s no denying it now that he finally has a good look at them.
Both of them are smiling and chatting casually while they wait for their valet.
Chilton furrows his brow. Hannibal now has a streak of silvery blond in the midst of his sandy windswept bangs. And damn, does he look good. It isn’t fair. He should’ve aged at least twenty years from all the abuse he’s been subject to. Yet here he is, appearing fresh as a daisy and ready to strut down the red carpet.
Just as sickening are the heart-eyes Hannibal is constantly making at Will, who in turn looks descended from royal lineage. That, too, was ridiculous from how unpronounced his facial scars are. Even though barely visible in the dim lighting, he appears to wear them proudly with how his tousled hair is brushed back and his beard is kept perfectly trim.
The hell is their skincare routine like?!
And how no one but Chilton’s own internal monologue is screaming bloody murder is beyond him. Surely the entire world must know their faces by now—even Will’s.
Suddenly, the taxi’s engine rumbles to life. Chilton barely manages to stop himself from throwing his hands in the air and cheering. Just as well, since he was about to resort to prayer, which didn’t particularly work out well the last time.
He’s long accepted that he’s been put on this earth just to suffer.
But as the taxi finally pulls away, Chilton can’t resist pushing his absolute dogshit luck.
He’s doesn’t know why he does it. He hadn’t even been thinking about it.
Yet he looks back.
Through the rain-spotted window, they stand with their backs to him and facing the arrival of their valet.
Chilton’s gaze is to the gentle hand on Will’s shoulder when suddenly Hannibal turns his head.
Their eyes meet.
A scream perched on his tongue, Chilton whips to face forward.
But maybe he didn’t see. Maybe he doesn’t know.
And perhaps doomed by his curiosity, Chilton just can’t resist looking back a second time.
When he does, he finds that Hannibal has seemingly returned to business as usual. They thank the valet and head toward their car.
Relief crashes over Chilton in waves.
However, just as he’s about to release his long-held breath, his taxi turns onto the main road. And as it does, Chilton peers at the hotel from the corner of his one good eye.
…only to see the trademarked cannibal glance over his shoulder.
And wink.