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Hannibal learns to keep his wrist hidden at all times.
Men with other men’s names on their wrists don’t get very far in this line of work. In fact, anyone who shows off their wrist doesn’t get very far in this line of work. Advertizing your weak spot to anyone who cares to glance down isn’t a good move for any criminal, not even bosses.
So Hannibal buys metal wrist guards, and wears them under layers of silk shirts and jackets, so even a stray knife strike won’t reveal even a letter.
As the years wear on, the Kaiju keep coming, and Hannibal’s empire grows, he begins to doubt that this “Newton” (what kind of name is that, anyways?) will ever materialize. Hannibal isn’t as young as he used to be, and with all the Kaiju attacks and migration of refugees, running into that one-person-in-a-billion is increasingly unlikely. People are shacking up with any warm body these days, not waiting out for their soulmates, because life is short and sex is a great stress reliever.
Hannibal has his fair share of one night stands, people his bodyguards allow to get close enough for a drink and a chat before tumbling into bed with him. It’s … sex. Sweaty thrusting and halfhearted intimacy before the stranger leaves, usually before morning.
His hair goes gray, then white, and he lets it.
He loses his eye to a fight in a shelter, and wears dark glasses to obscure the worst of the scarring.
He makes piles and piles of money, more than he knows what to do with, and the Kaiju keep coming.
No Newton walks through the door, and Hannibal is starting to resign himself to never finding this mystery man.
Then one evening a kid barges in, staring at everything and getting underfoot, clutching a card from Stacker. He’s got full sleeves of Kaiju tattoos, and glasses, and stupid hair, and so much giddy energy he’s practically bursting at the seams.
And when Hannibal sticks his butterfly knife up the kid’s nose, and the kid whimpers and twitches and stutters out that Stacker sent him … Hannibal notices that it’s not just Kaiju on his arms.
There’s a name, on the kid’s wrist, framed in a curl of colorful hearts, tentacles clutching the hearts and spiraling up his arm.
His name. The name his mother called him. She was the last person to call him that, from her hospital bed twenty years ago. His name died with her.
Hannibal’s a bit rattled by that. Even more so when he finds out the kid’s name is Newton Geiszler (“but my friends call me ‘Newt!’ … um, are we friends? I mean, you didn’t kill me just now, that must mean something, right?”)
He’s so rattled that, when the Kaiju alarms blare, Hannibal grabs Newton and drags him to the shelter, his private shelter, and stays there. He makes up some bullshit about Stacker having his head for letting Newt die, but really it’s about not letting his soulmate out of his sight.
That’s something that becomes incredibly difficult when the baby kaiju swallows Hannibal whole.
That … puts a bit of a roadblock in his plans.
Not for long, though. He cuts his way out, alerts his people to his continued existence, and storms off for the Shatterdome, and his goddamn shoe, and his goddamn soulmate.
Newt is at some party, and stares at him in shock when Hannibal storms inside, limping slightly and covered in Kaiju guts.
“You,” Hannibal points, advancing on Newt. The kid waves aside some of the pilots, who are stepping forward to protect him.
Hannibal growls about his shoe and Newt leads him away, to his room, which is good, because the things Hannibal needs to do now don’t need an audience.
“Kid, I need to show you something.” Hannibal says, once they’re behind a closed door.
As Newt stares, Hannibal rolls up his sleeve and removes the metal guard. His skin is very pale, hasn’t seen sunlight in decades. The name, simple dark markings on his wrist, are like any other soulmate name.
“That’s … my name …” Newton says slowly. “Wait, is your name …” he blinks, glancing down at his own wrist. “You said … you said ‘Hannibal’ was a name you picked …”
“I’m going to tell you something nobody alive knows.” Hannibal says, softly. “My name.”
He whispers it, and Newt bounces a little in place, in shock and excitement.
“You can’t tell anyone,” Hannibal says, replacing his wrist guards and refusing to meet Newt’s eyes. “No one. Not even –”
The kiss catches him by surprise, Newt leaping at him like a flying squirrel and clinging to his jacket. Hannibal catches Newt around the waist and hauls him up, returning the kiss with bites and licks and growls. Newt pulls off his glasses, then Hannibal’s goggles, and presses a kiss on the scar tissue just below Hannibal’s eye.
“I can’t believe we found each other,” Newt moans as Hannibal starts pulling at his shirt, mapping his chest tattoos with his tongue. “What are … oh god, what are the … oh yes, what are the odds?”
“I’d given up,” Hannibal admits, clearing the nearest desk and laying Newt down on it. “Thought you were dead, or in some refugee camp somewhere with a wife and five kids to take care of, thinkin’ I was dead and gone.”
“I hoped you were alive. I hoped I’d find you, somehow. But I was starting to doubt it. Everyone said I was a hopeless romantic,” Newt wriggles with delight as Hannibal pulls at his skinny jeans. “Guess I’m not so hopeless, huh?’’
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Hannibal smirks, lifting Newt’s legs up and letting them hooks over his shoulders. “Feel free to scream all you like, but don’t say my name.”
Newt doesn’t. He does make a variety of interesting, obscene, and increasingly loud noises, but none of them are Hannibal’s real name.