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Chapter Text

Will sat on the palatial balcony of their Polanco apartment, nursing three fingers of mezcal and watching the city come alight as dusk faded into night. Their street was tree-lined and relatively quiet, but the restaurants and bars on the nearby avenues would soon be bustling; first with tourists, and then, as the night wore on, with locals, who tended to keep the party going into the wee hours on weekends. Will would spend his night much like this, he knew, retreating inside when the noise pollution grew too irritating, graduating from tequila to whiskey, and holing up in the study; the only room in the entire apartment that didn’t look like it was ripped straight from some magazine ad for contemporary luxury. The two floor loft was mostly decorated with stiff couches and impractical chairs, but the study somehow had a lived-in, almost homey quality that put Will at ease. Mexico City was a vibrant place, perfect for Hannibal, but Will wasn’t well-suited to life here. The city was sprawling, almost oppressively urban, and though it had a decent number of green spaces, there was no peace to be found in its overcrowded parks. And their building didn’t allow dogs. 

It had been Will’s choice to come here in the first place. They had barely made it into Mexico before the borders were shut to them, and wouldn’t have made it at all without Chiyoh and her almost magical appearance with an SUV filled with supplies. When they washed up on shore, Will had been barely conscious, but Hannibal had been knocked out completely, his body a mess of dried and fresh blood, bruising, and broken bones from impact with the sea. His pulse was a faint thing and Will had to lean close to catch a whisper of his shallow breathing. Will had no idea how he would get Hannibal off the beach, let alone to somewhere safe and was just starting to panic in earnest when Chiyoh appeared beside him as if summoned. In retrospect, she likely was summoned by Hannibal himself before their encounter with Dolarhyde, but at the time Will had a hard time convincing himself she wasn’t a desperate hallucination. 

Together, they managed to lift Hannibal’s dead weight, minding his injuries as much as possible. Once he was settled in the far back of her car, Chiyoh turned to Will with the same cold eyes he remembered from years ago. Will tried to remind himself that she couldn’t know his role in what happened, but her gaze held an accusatory note all the same. “You should go. I’ll take care of him.” The way Will’s stomach lurched with a mix of indignation and possessive violence must have shown on his face, because Chiyoh’s neutral expression stuttered, then grew thoughtful. “Or you could come with us.” Will bristled at her phrasing, as if he were the interloper when Will suspected that it would take one of their deaths to separate him from Hannibal at this point and he felt disturbingly unconcerned about the prospect of killing Chiyoh if she tried. 

He didn’t bother responding. Just lifted himself into one of the middle seats where he could keep an eye on Hannibal, instructing her, “drive south to the border. It’ll take some time for them to find the cliff house and circulate an APB for both of us. A day if we’re lucky, and we might be able to make it out before then.” When Chiyoh didn’t move, Will met her eyes with a challenging stare, “unless you have a better idea.” Chiyoh watched him for a moment longer then nodded. She drove for twenty-four hours straight. 

Hannibal regained consciousness about five hours past the border, when they were just starting to look for a motel. Chiyoh was fading from exhaustion and if they didn’t do more for their injuries than makeshift bandages and amateur stitches soon, things could turn critical. Will had been directing Chiyoh to take the highway exit when he realized he was being watched. He turned to see Hannibal’s bleary eyes cataloging the hastily patched gash on Will’s cheek, and the slowly oozing wound on his shoulder. Will looked rough, but Hannibal was much worse off than him. Not, Will knew, from the gunshot or the fight with the dragon, but from Will pushing him off a cliff. Hannibal’s right arm looked shattered and the bruising along the entire right side of his body had deepened in color to an almost blackish red. He felt a swell of sickening guilt whenever he looked back at Hannibal, but the guilt became almost unbearable when he recalled how, as they went over the edge, Hannibal’s embrace loosened momentarily in shock before tightening around Will in a vise-like hold that could only be interpreted as protective. 

Eventually, Hannibal’s searching gaze met Will’s. “Where are we?” He asked, his voice gravelly from disuse. Hearing it still brought an unexpected flood of relief. Chiyoh answered before Will could gather his words, “Mexico, near Monterrey. We’re looking for a motel.” Some of the tension seemed to leave Hannibal at the news that they’d escaped the country. Still he asked, “Mexico?” Chiyoh shrugged, watching the road. Hannibal’s eyes were still on Will, running over his face with a slight frown as though he hadn’t expected him to be there. Will didn’t like it. “I decided on Mexico, but to be honest, that’s as far as my plan went. Don’t suppose you have a Mexican safe house tucked away too?” Will asked, trying for humor. Hannibal held his eyes in silence for a beat too long, before responding, “In fact, I do.” 

And that was how Will ended up on the balcony of a penthouse in Mexico City’s richest neighborhood. Hannibal never did anything by halves. A quiet knock on the open slider door had Will glancing up to find Hannibal, already dressed for the evening in a midnight blue tuxedo jacket with black lapels and a black bow tie. He completed the look with a crisp white shirt, silver cufflinks, and his usual immaculately styled hair. Thanks to hours spent swimming laps in their private pool, Hannibal had regained his lost muscle mass over the past few months and his broad shoulders and strong arms now filled out the jacket to devastating effect. His style here was less ostentatious than the bold patterns he’d favored in Baltimore, but this new, more classic aesthetic was no less eye-catching. He was striking and Will could already imagine how he’d turn heads wherever he went tonight. The sight of him, leaning against the doorframe looking beautiful and utterly untouchable made Will ache. 

Hannibal was watching Will with poorly masked disapproval, as he did whenever he caught Will drinking. It had bothered Will at first, to see Hannibal’s disappointment writ so plainly. Now Will tried not to read into Hannibal’s expressions at all. That way lay madness. 

“I’ve prepared a light dinner if you’re hungry?” The question was tentative as Hannibal often was these days. It was one of many things Will hated about their life now.

He took one last look out at the skyline, the pinkish-purple sunset fading to twilight, finished his drink and nodded.

“Sure. Thanks,” he said, standing less steadily than he would’ve liked. If Hannibal noticed he gave no indication. Merely granted Will a small smile and turned back to the apartment.

********

It all went wrong the first time they tried to kill together. It was five months after their arrival in Mexico city. They were finally, mostly, recovered aside from the limited mobility in Hannibal’s right arm, that required ongoing physical therapy, and a stubborn pain in Will's shoulder that Hannibal assured him would fade in time. The fall and the months of convalescence that followed had given Will time to reflect on his feelings for Hannibal. He understood now, without the equivocation that had plagued him for years, that he wanted a life together with Hannibal, whatever it had to look like. The paralyzing terror he’d experienced dragging Hannibal’s unresponsive body out of the Atlantic was illuminating on that point. But Will also understood that, if he could choose, he wanted Hannibal in every way possible. 

The realization of his attraction to Hannibal crept up on Will slowly. Will saw every part of Hannibal’s body during their recovery, by necessity. Will was the one who stitched his wounds and monitored them for signs of infection, replacing his bandages daily, and for the first two months, when Hannibal couldn’t stand without aid, Will bathed him, supported him as he paced slowly around the room to prevent muscle atrophy, assisted him any time he used the toilet. There was nothing sexual about it in the least, but knowing Hannibal’s body so intimately stirred something in Will. He felt a sense of deep satisfaction at having temporary entitlement to Hannibal physically; to have his touch accepted without question. Will didn’t examine the feeling too closely, but he enjoyed Hannibal’s reliance on him; the fact that by necessity, he had to invite Will into even his most undignified moments, those he’d rather keep hidden. He couldn’t hide anything from Will anymore. Will felt vaguely guilty for just how much he enjoyed it. 

As Hannibal healed, the need for Will’s constant assistance passed, but Will’s desire for access to his body did not subside in the slightest. In fact, it took on an almost obsessive quality. He couldn’t stop watching Hannibal — how his forearms clenched as he chopped vegetables, how his powerful shoulders propelled him through the pool when he swam his morning laps, the delicacy of his hands as he labored over a drawing. And eventually Will realized that the curiosity he felt watching Hannibal had an edge of sexual desire. The first time he let himself explore that desire, taking himself in hand and letting his mind wander to images of Hannibal’s body, including the most private parts he got a glimpse of when Hannibal needed Will’s help to bathe, Will came like a freight train in under a minute. After that, he couldn’t deny that he wanted Hannibal, and he cursed Bedelia for planting the concept of Hannibal as a sexual being, and one who might want Will. Because for all Will’s clarity, Hannibal was still frustratingly opaque. It felt like they were in a holding pattern, the terms of their partnership still in flux and Will had no idea where they’d land. So when Hannibal proposed a celebratory dinner to mark their recovery, Will chose to take it as a positive sign and an opportunity to make his own preferences known.

Will dressed for the occasion. A slim fitting aubergine button down, black slacks, and Italian leather shoes. All commissioned by Hannibal from his tailor in Condesa. He shaved as well because even with the scar, Hannibal seemed to prefer it. He was glad he had when Hannibal gave him an appreciative look as they met in the foyer. The restaurant Hannibal had selected was a trendy spot in Roma Norte specializing in seafood. The meal seemed to meet Hannibal’s exacting standards, and the wine and conversation flowed steadily. Will didn’t think it was his imagination that Hannibal smiled more easily and touched Will more freely as dinner went on. It gave Will hope. 

Will suggested they walk back and Hannibal agreed. The weather was perfect and the city had a romantic feel at night that Will hoped would feed the intimate atmosphere that had developed over dinner. They’d been walking in companionable silence for a few streets, and had reached a quieter stretch when the thought crossed Will’s mind to take Hannibal’s hand. Hannibal was looking up at the sky, as if searching through the ambient light for stars, a barely there smile of contentment on his face that made him look strangely young. Most of the time, it was hard to remember how he’d seen Hannibal when they first met, but watching him now, Will could see how he’d believed that Hannibal was nothing more than his friend and psychiatrist. These days, when Will looked at Hannibal, he always saw the coiled threat, even when Hannibal was at his most ostensibly docile. Like a sheathed knife. Will thought, for far from the first time, that he’d never seen anyone more beautiful.

He sidled closer, bringing his hand forward slightly, tentatively, toward Hannibal’s, when he was suddenly shouldered into a building by a man passing them. Will unbalanced clumsily, nearly falling to the ground. The man looked back at Will with disgust as he walked by, muttering, “fucking f*g,” in accented English. Will brushed at his pants, red faced with embarrassment at being taken down so easily. He looked up at Hannibal as he regained his footing, a disparaging joke on the tip of his tongue, but Hannibal’s eyes were locked on the man as he walked away, and his stare was deadly. Will knew what Hannibal meant to do, and he felt an anticipatory thrill knowing he’d soon get his first real glimpse behind the veil. Will scanned the distance, thinking quickly, “if he stays on this road, we’ll pass an alley in three blocks,”

Hannibal glanced up in surprise at first, as if he’d almost forgotten Will was there. But then Will’s words registered and the look that Hannibal gave him was hard to describe. It was too intense to fully categorize, but there were threads of relief and hope and a dark kind of joy. Will wanted Hannibal to look at him like that everyday. But it was over too soon, and Hannibal’s focus was back on their quarry. He moved quickly to make up ground, but not so fast as to draw attention. Will kept pace, his excitement building.

When the man neared the mouth of the alley, Hannibal and Will were a few paces behind him. Then Hannibal struck, with unnatural speed and efficiency. He bodily lifted and hurled the man into the alley, punching him brutally in the throat before he had the chance to scream. The man collapsed on his back, watching Hannibal in confused pain as if he hadn’t quite put together what was happening. Instinct had him crawling backwards away from Hannibal, but he was just taking them deeper into the privacy of the alley. It all happened impossibly fast, but when Will looked into Hannibal’s face, he showed no sign of exertion, and was wearing an almost bored expression. Understanding seemed to have dawned on the man now and he was pleading, as much as he was able with the damage to his throat, tears already streaming down his face from the pain and panic. Then he looked past Hannibal and saw Will. His face contorted in fury, but before he could say anything, Hannibal slammed his head into the concrete with his hand covering his mouth, and with his other hand, twisted the man’s arm until it snapped with a violent crack. The man screamed at that, even with his damaged throat, and his body jerked wildly, but Hannibal’s grip on his mouth was relentless, and he kept the man’s body firmly pressed to the ground as he muffled his screams. Through it all, Hannibal’s expression stayed eerily impassive. 

Finally he spoke, “You were unspeakably rude to my friend. And your language was despicable. I’m going to remove your tongue first for that. Then I’m going to take you somewhere where I can remove pieces of you one by one until your body gives out. I warn you now, this will take much longer than you might expect. The body is a resilient thing. If there’s a part that you would like me to take first, you should tell me now before you lose the ability to speak.”

This speech was given in the same matter-of-fact tone Hannibal used when walking Will through a new recipe. The effect was chilling. The man watched in growing horror as Hannibal spoke. By the end, he was crying in earnest and Will noticed that he’d soiled himself. Hannibal looked at the man for a moment, as if waiting for him to say something, then continued. “If there are no requests, I believe my friend has earned the right to take your tongue, given that you used it to speak such filth to him.”

He turned to Will then, and Will noticed that Hannibal had a wicked looking switchblade in his right hand. He held it out to Will, some hesitancy in his eyes for the first time, but it melted away as Will stepped forward and took the knife. Hannibal gave a small smile and took a step back to give Will space. The man was glancing frantically between them, clearly trying to puzzle out if it was worth trying his luck with Will. He must have seen something that gave him some hope, because he rallied what little capacity for speech he had left.

“Please, you don’t have to do this,” he begged, voice like broken glass, “I’m so sorry for what I said and did. I’m fucking terrified, I’ll never do it again, please.” His pleading stirred a twinge of unease in Will now that it was directed at him instead of Hannibal, but he violently suppressed the feeling as he started towards the man.

His pleading grew hysterical as Will approached him, “please, don’t do this, I’ll do anything. I have some money, I’ll give you whatever you want,” he gulped pathetically. When Will didn’t slow, he seemed to finally realize that there was no escaping his fate. With a resigned, but desperate look, he said softly, “I have a wife and a daughter. Please. Don’t let them find me like this. Not like he said it would be. Don’t make my little girl see that.”

Just like that, the scales were falling and Will could see it. His wife waking to the call from police, being shown crime scene photos, unable to make sense of the inhumanity of what was done to her husband; sitting down to tearfully explain it to his daughter. The man was in his thirties, so she would probably be too young to really understand, but old enough to be traumatized; to have nightmares through her adolescence, maybe longer. He could see the man’s grieving parents huddled in the front pew of a church before a closed casket. 

And when Will came back to himself, he was gripping his hair so tightly he thought he might pull it out. He was on the ground with his back slammed against the cool brick wall of the alley and there were tears streaming down his face. He just had the wherewithal to feel incredulous that he was having a panic attack about a dead homophobe when Hannibal was there in front of him, directing his head between his knees with firm, but gentle hands. It took Will a moment to realize that Hannibal was speaking, “breathe with me, Will. Just breathe when I breathe. In. And out.” And that’s when Will noticed that he was hyperventilating. But the cadence of Hannibal’s voice alone was soothing, and slowly, as he followed Hannibal’s directions, his breathing returned to normal. When Will was relatively calm, he raised his head to find Hannibal looking more worried than Will had ever seen him. He was also entirely unconcerned about the fact that his bespoke suit pants were ruined, caked in mud and whatever else coated the floor of the alley. Will glanced to his right and saw that Hannibal had hastily knocked the man unconscious. Will let his head fall back to rest against the brick wall and closed his eyes. They sat there together for a moment, humiliation clawing at Will's throat. Eventually Will broke the silence, “he’s still alive.”

“Yes.” Hannibal responded without inflection. 

Will swallowed, “we can’t linger here. We’re already lucky no one came by.”

Hannibal didn’t respond immediately. They both knew it was true. But he said the next delicately, “We can’t leave him. He’s seen our faces.” Even more softly he continued, “you can return home, Will. I’ll finish here.”

There was no judgment in Hannibal’s voice, but Will hated himself a little bit all the same. Still, he knew he wouldn't be any help now. The best thing he could do was get out of the way so Hannibal could do what needed to be done without worrying about sending Will spiraling. Will nodded, “yeah. Ok.” And started to stand. Hannibal got to his feet first with unfair grace and pulled Will the rest of the way up. When they were both standing, he met Will's eyes, “I’ll be along shortly,” Hannibal said it with that same softness, and Will realized he was starting to resent that tone. It made Will feel breakable. He wanted to get out of there, but the man’s pleas were still bouncing around his head. 

“Don’t…” Absurdly, Will realized he’d almost said something like ‘don’t hurt him.’ “Don’t take anything from him,” is where he landed. But the look on Hannibal’s face said he’d heard everything Will wasn’t saying. 

“It will look like a mugging gone wrong, Will.”

Will wondered if that was even possible after what Hannibal had done to his arm, but he nodded anyway, feeling so stupidly grateful he was on the edge of tears again. He did walk away after that. Crying because of Hannibal’s strange act of mercy would have been damning in a way he didn’t want to think about.

He didn’t return to the apartment right away. He just walked for hours, even though the leather shoes he’d worn to dinner made his feet protest. He walked until the street traffic started to thin and the panic and humiliation had receded somewhat, but he couldn’t walk off the guilt. Guilt for having a hand in that man’s death, guilt for being too weak to actually kill him. For derailing their plan so spectacularly and leaving Hannibal to clean up the mess. When he finally got back, just after midnight, Hannibal’s coat was hanging by the door, his keys dropped neatly into the bowl on the table in the foyer. During the elevator ride up, Will worried he’d be expected to talk about what happened, but apparently Hannibal’s merciful streak was sticking. Hannibal had gone to bed, but left most of the lights on like a beacon guiding Will back. Will didn’t bother turning them off. Just went to his room, collapsed on the bed, and tried to find sleep. 

The next morning, things were bizarrely normal. When Will hesitantly entered the kitchen, Hannibal was flipping pancakes and turned at the sound of Will’s footsteps. He greeted him with a warm, “good morning, Will,” pressing a perfectly brewed cup of coffee into his hands, “breakfast will be ready in five minutes.” The whole meal, Will was on tenterhooks, trying to guess at the fallout from last night. But Hannibal didn’t mention the kill and Will didn’t bring it up. By the time evening rolled around and Will realized he was the one making things strange, he resolved to let it go, but promised himself that he’d be ready next time. He wouldn’t disappoint himself, or Hannibal, again.

But there was no next time. Everything related to killing just…stopped. There was no talk of securing a place to take their kills, no more oblique references to acquiring meat, or researching creative ways to incorporate it into new recipes. And when Will brought Hannibal a listing for a small warehouse on the outskirts of the city, Hannibal barely glanced at it, muttering, “perhaps.” Hannibal had seemingly decided, unilaterally, that killing wasn’t something they would do. Or more specifically, that it was something Will couldn’t do. And not just couldn’t do, but couldn’t be asked to think about. As though if they discussed it at all, Will would fall to pieces. At first Will’s anger at his presumption had been palpable, but something kept him from confronting Hannibal. A part of him wondered if Hannibal, and Bedelia, he thought with bitterness, might have read him correctly. Capable of righteous violence, but never going to delight in sadism in the way that came naturally to Hannibal. Perhaps Hannibal saw Will more clearly than Will might have preferred. And Will had no idea what it would mean for them if it turned out that he couldn’t kill in cold blood. So Will didn’t force a conversation that he knew he wasn’t prepared to have, taking some comfort in the knowledge that any break Hannibal took from killing could only be temporary.

********

But with no upcoming plans to hunt, and with their injuries largely healed, Hannibal turned to other diversions. He set about rebuilding his life in the image of Baltimore. Mexico City was a global cultural hub, far more so than Baltimore had been, and Hannibal soaked up all of it like a flower in a storm. After three years of deprivation, he reveled in the abundance the city had to offer. Opera at the Palacio de Bellas Artes, gallery openings in Condesa, museum galas, the philharmonic. He’d even established a small psychiatric practice, which Will thought was utterly insane, but Hannibal insisted was vital to maintaining his cover. Hannibal embraced this new life. And he was embraced in turn, a steady stream of sycophants enamored by his European manners, and his culinary talents, and his cheekbones. Hannibal was a bright new star among the twinkling elite of the city, and to Will’s mind, he outshone them all. But with Hannibal’s schedule rapidly filling, Will felt a strange, unfamiliar insecurity brewing. There wasn’t a clear place for Will in the world that Hannibal was creating for himself and as pathetic as it was to admit it, Will felt left behind. On Hannibal’s fourth evening out in a row, as Will sat slumped on the couch in the living room flipping through channels, he started to wonder if, with killing off the table, their bond was really as immutable as he’d assumed. So when Hannibal mentioned offhandedly that he had a spare ticket for the opera, Will jumped at the opportunity with an eagerness that surprised them both.

Will made an effort to look the part, to the extent possible. His curls were ruthlessly tamed using Hannibal’s gel. He was wearing a new dove gray three-piece suit courtesy of Hannibal’s tailor. He’d even briefly considered trying to cover up his scar with makeup, before discarding the thought when he couldn’t picture Hannibal’s reaction. But none of it mattered in the end. As Hannibal circled the room, Will in tow, introducing him as his “dear friend Patrick,” Hannibal’s new acquaintances all shook Will’s hand politely and dismissed him entirely. With the exception of the one guy who kept glancing at Will’s scar as he exchanged pleasantries with Hannibal, by and large, they spoke around Will and looked through him. It didn’t help that Will had nothing to contribute to the conversations about opera productions and the upcoming season of the symphony. It was very much how Will always imagined it would go if he’d joined Hannibal for an event like this in Baltimore. But back then, he wouldn’t have cared if he made the right impression on Hannibal’s fancy friends. He cared very much now and he felt every bit the son of a boat mechanic from rural Louisiana. 

The worst part was how it affected Hannibal. Will managed to stay positive through every awkward introduction, but Hannibal’s smile dimmed each time Will was brushed off, and the elation Will had seen in his eyes whenever he returned from a night out at the opera before now was nowhere to be found. By the time the show began, Hannibal’s smile was brittle and he was radiating displeasure. He watched the first act distractedly, even fidgeting at points. And every time Will glanced to the side and saw Hannibal staring away from the stage, his regret grew. Bringing Will here had been a mistake. When the lights rose for the first interval, Will made a quick escape to the bathrooms and Hannibal watched him go with an unreadable look.

The bathrooms for the boxes were oddly empty, probably because most people were anxious not to miss the intermission gossip. As Will washed his hands, he looked into the vanity mirror, assessing, trying to see himself as a stranger would. And as he looked through their eyes, their reactions made a strange kind of sense. It was hard to pinpoint why, but his perfectly tailored suit still looked ill-fitting, probably because he couldn’t help exuding an air of discomfort. He looked like someone who’d been scrubbed and dressed, but who couldn’t wash the working class off. 

And then there was his face. Will had never given much thought to his looks. His scar never bothered Hannibal for some reason, or at least, he never let on that it did. But looking at it now, Will was reminded that Hannibal’s attitude towards scars and beauty was not the norm. It was objectively ugly, almost repulsive in the fluorescent lights. The scar dominated his face and pulled at his cheek giving his smile a permanent, lopsided quality. Will was just self-aware enough to recognize that he had been, at a time, decently attractive. But the boyish good looks he’d had when he first met Hannibal, and could even claim when he took up with Molly, were long gone now. Aside from the scar, he had permanent dark circles from lack of sleep and his skin had a sallow quality after months of arduous recovery. No one would call Will attractive now. Most would probably say the opposite. Will had never been quite a match for Hannibal. Even in his prime, his good looks had been hidden under baggy flannel and dog hair. But now, he and Hannibal didn’t make sense at all. And the confusion Hannibal’s peers felt at their association would not have escaped Hannibal’s notice. 

He was pulled from his thoughts by the arrival of a boisterous group of tuxedoed men, and decided he’d hidden in the bathroom long enough. When Will arrived in the bar area, Hannibal was holding court with a small circle of onlookers. Will opted not to approach him right away. Instead he leaned back against the wall, snagging a drink from a passing waiter, and watched, hesitant now to rejoin the fray. Hannibal was telling a story that had all eyes glued to him and in Will’s absence, his dour mood seemed to have lifted, Will realized with a pang. One woman a little younger than Will looked particularly enamored as he spoke. She was strikingly beautiful, caramel skin, full lips, and luscious black waves, in a plunging green silk dress. Every time she laughed at something Hannibal said, she grabbed his arm and subtly insinuated herself further into his space. At one point, when another young man joined their circle, she leaned in to whisper some comment to Hannibal that had him flashing her an amused smirk. Will hated her instantly. She had an easy laugh, a sharp smile, and intelligent eyes. The kind of woman Will might have been attracted to in the past, if she hadn’t had a certain unattainable quality to her. But she looked perfectly attainable to Hannibal; in fact they made a beautiful pair. 

“Patrick!” It took Will a second to remember his alias, but then he glanced up and saw that Hannibal was looking right at him, waving him over and looked genuinely happy to see him, Will noted gratefully. All eyes in their little circle had swung to Will and he took a fortifying swig of his champagne before making his way over.

“I believe there are one or two people you’ve yet to meet,” said Hannibal, turning to the dark haired woman who was eyeing Will speculatively. “Adriana, I’d like you to meet my very good friend, Patrick. He’s visiting me here from the U.S. as he works on his latest novel. Patrick, this is Adriana. She’s the curator of the Nuevo Mexico art gallery in Condesa and has been my indispensable guide to the Mexico City art scene.” He gave Adriana a winning smile, and Will's grip on his glass tightened.

“Nice to meet you.” Will said with as much sincerity as he could muster. 

“And you, Patrick. A writer, how impressive,” she said with enthusiasm that rang hollow, “what kind of novels do you write? Anything I might have read?” She sipped from her champagne glass, still watching Will carefully, as one might regard a threat. 

“Crime thrillers mostly.”

“Ah, not my usual genre, I’m afraid. But I’ll be sure to look out for your titles. Is your next set in Mexico City?” 

Will found her feigned interest less tolerable than anything he’d experienced so far. “No. Just looking for a change of scenery.”

“How very lucky you are to have friends like Sven to oblige your wanderlust,” it was calculated to sound affable, while implying that Will was a freeloader. Will suspected everyone already assumed something to that effect about him, but it still made him uncomfortable. “Well, you should be sure to come out with us soon. Art is always evocative, you might find some unexpected inspiration.”

Will nodded noncommittally, eager to have the spotlight shift to someone else, but Adriana apparently wasn’t finished with him. 

“If you don’t mind my asking, how did you come to have such a scar?”

Even Hannibal frowned at that, but Will was completely done being played with, “I do mind actually.”

Now Hannibal glanced back up at Will, looking displeased. Will knew he shouldn’t let her get to him like this. Especially since Hannibal seemed to genuinely like her. But it was hard to control his reactions when he was still feeling raw from the revelations in the bathroom, and she knew precisely where to slide the knife. No wonder Hannibal liked her, Will thought wryly. 

Her face took on an expression of exaggerated remorse, “my apologies, I didn’t mean to overstep. You must tire of people asking.”

A backhanded way of saying it was too obvious and disfiguring to pass without comment.

“I find most people know better than to mention it.”

“Patrick,” warned Hannibal. 

“I’m truly sorry, I hadn’t realized it was such a sore spot.” She sounded so damned earnest. She was good. And she was winning. Will looked petty and sensitive in comparison. He briefly pictured wrapping his hands around her slender throat and squeezing.

“Sure you are,” Will said, dripping sarcasm, and downed the rest of his drink. 

Adriana tossed Hannibal an exasperated look, but his eyes were locked on Will and his disapproval was plain as day. 

Quietly he said, “she apologized. No harm was meant. This oversensitivity does you a disservice.”

To have Hannibal scold him like that, in public, was humiliating and unprecedented. Will could feel an angry flush rise in his cheeks and when he looked back at Adriana, there was a gleam of victory in her eyes. An awkwardness fell over the group for a second, then Adriana clapped her hands, “so who’ll be at the exhibition opening at the MUAC next Saturday. I’ve been granted early access and I assure you, it’s truly spectacular.”

“Tickets are impossible to get,” someone responded, clearly grateful to move on from the unpleasantness.

Adriana smiled coyly, “I might be persuaded to request extra tickets.”

“Does that mean I’d get to attend with you on my arm,” said a young man with a flirtatious smile. Adriana laughed lightly. 

“Actually I was just about to ask Sven to be my guest. What do you say?” She looked up at Hannibal, running her hand up and down his arm in a gesture that was simultaneously soothing and claiming. Whatever threat to her position that she intuited when she first saw Will was gone now. 

Hannibal didn’t respond right away. His face was grim and he looked lost in thought. After a beat, he seemed to finally process what she’d said and he offered her a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “I’ll have to check my schedule.” Her smile dulled slightly at that, but she turned back to the young man, “well then, your plans for the night depend on Sven’s schedule. You’d better hope he’s as in demand as usual.” More trite laughter, but Will was focused on Hannibal now.

The confident glow he’d had when Will first walked in had vanished now. He seemed diminished. And Will was responsible.

“Excuse me,” Will muttered turning away. He saw Hannibal open his mouth, but Adriana spoke first, “of course. It was nice to meet you.” She offered Will a thin smile and turned back to Hannibal, “so Sven, when last we spoke you were working on a new piece, how’s it coming along? Sven is the most talented composer,” she explained to the group at large, to a hum of interest. Will was out of earshot before he could hear how Hannibal responded.

Will passed through the rotunda and down the main staircase. Hannibal had both of their coat check tickets, so he continued straight out into the night in just his suit, wandering his way to the Zocalo. When he eventually returned home that night, his coat was hanging next to Hannibal’s by the door. Hannibal was asleep, or at least in his room, but Will already knew sleep would elude him. He made his way to the study, poured four fingers of whiskey, and stared blankly out the window until the half light of predawn colored the sky. 

Will managed a few hours of sleep, before the smell of bacon and coffee woke him. When he glanced at his clock, he saw it was around 9 a.m. He swung his legs off the bed and sat there for a few minutes, delaying the inevitable. He was dreading facing Hannibal after last night; after embarrassing and abandoning him, leaving him to explain Will’s absence for the rest of the evening. If anyone he met had actually thought well of Will, they certainly didn’t anymore. God, Will thought, shoving his face in his hands with a groan. He was such an asshole sometimes. But whatever cold reception or reproach awaited him in the kitchen, he deserved it. He shouldn’t have let Adriana and her obvious interest in Hannibal get under his skin like that. 

He padded quietly down the hall, but froze when he reached the doorway. Hannibal was there and, apparently, cooking enough food for a small army. He moved frenetically from station to station, flipping pans, beating eggs, and stirring batter. Will watched in bemusement for a minute before clearing his throat to say, “good morning.” Hannibal actually flinched, which meant he hadn’t noticed Will’s arrival. Will was sure he’d never managed to sneak up on Hannibal before, even when he was trying. Hannibal could literally smell when Will walked in the front door, no matter where he was in the apartment. He swiveled around and met Will’s eyes, and Will started to understand why he wasn't in top form. Hannibal was showered and in fresh clothes, but he looked worn. His eyes were red and bleary with exhaustion, and now that Will looked closely, his movements lacked his usual clean efficiency. Given how little rest Hannibal needed to be perfectly functional, he must not have been able to sleep at all, and that uncharacteristic display of anxiety was oddly heartening. Hannibal was still looking Will up and down, probably absorbing Will’s own state of sleep deprivation, though for once, Will thought he was actually in better shape than Hannibal. 

“Good morning, Will. This should be ready soon,” he gestured generally to the room, which made sense. There were at least six different breakfast items being prepped or cooked on the stovetop, and Will thought he spotted a quiche baking in the oven. The sight of it all filled Will with tenderness for Hannibal. Will wanted to apologize for his behavior last night, but more than that, he wanted to ease whatever apprehension had pushed Hannibal to make breakfast for twelve. With a soft smile, Will offered, “this looks great. Can I help?” Hannibal clearly hadn’t been expecting that because he did a small double take, another unusually transparent reaction from this strangely human version of Hannibal. Then he gave Will a smile like the sun, so bright with relief that Will’s own smile widened in response. And that’s how Will ended up standing at the counter crumbling feta cheese to top the shakshuka while Hannibal, now far more composed, put the finishing touches on the rest of the dishes. 

*******

Will hadn’t expected to be able to avoid a real conversation with the rift between them so out in the open, but in retrospect he shouldn’t have been surprised. Hannibal had compartmentalization down to a goddamned art form. So in the end, nothing was said of the opera, of Will’s rudeness, of Adriana, and they both seemed more than happy to move past that night without any formal resolution. But after that, by unspoken agreement, there were no more invitations. Hannibal even forewent throwing dinner parties. Will couldn’t tell if he was keeping Will from his new pack of followers or the other way around.

And between Hannibal’s days spent at the office and the nights he spent out on the town, Will saw him only a fraction of the time. To make matters worse for Will, it seemed his physical longing for Hannibal had moved from nascent to consuming in a matter of months. He hadn’t jerked off this much in his life and had semi permanent teeth indents in his left hand from biting down to stifle his moans. He’d even gone out to purchase toys while Hannibal was at work one day. When he first brought them home and shoved them into the back of his bedside table drawer, he was convinced he’d rarely, if ever, work up the courage to actually use them. But as his fantasies increasingly involved Hannibal pounding him into the mattress, he found he made use of them regularly. If Hannibal noticed the uptick in Will’s self-pleasure, as he probably did, bloodhound that he was, he studiously avoided drawing any attention to it.

But it wasn’t just sexual. In fact, that was the least of it. Sometimes Hannibal would smile at him as they prepared dinner together or watched the sunset on the patio, and Will would feel a swell of emotion so strong he’d have to turn away. He now understood the ache Bedelia asked him about so long ago. But nothing in their interactions hinted at any romantic interest on Hannibal’s part. Hannibal obviously felt an enduring attachment to Will. And Hannibal seemed to enjoy Will’s company as much as he always had, even though they saw each other far less these days. But that look they’d shared before the failed kill, which had filled Will with such hope for their future together, never made a reappearance.

Still, Will was appeased somewhat by the obvious effort Hannibal put into trying to make him happy. Will’s favorite meals were noted and appeared on the rotation with frequency. The house was ever stocked with his preferred brand of whiskey. One day, Will came back from a walk to find an obscenely expensive lure making kit set up in the study. His room was redecorated in a style better suited to his tastes, and Will even caught Hannibal researching boats with moorings in nearby lakes on his iPad. He clearly wanted Will to feel settled and invested in their life in Mexico. And so it seemed that Hannibal wanted to keep him, but he didn’t want to have him. And while on occasion Will found it hard to set aside his own yearning for more, not everyone was a sexual creature, and if Bedelia hadn’t planted certain expectations in his mind, he may never have needed that from Hannibal. 

Except at some point Hannibal added casual sex to his list of hobbies that did not involve Will. And, as it turned out, that was the limit of what Will could stand. 

It was sheer chance that Will discovered it at all. Hannibal arrived home just after 2 a.m. one morning after attending some play or other. Insomnia had Will up reading when he heard the front door open and close gently. He could hear Hannibal hang his coat and remove his shoes, before treading nearly silently down the hallway to his room. Will knew he could have been trying to be respectful, given the hour, but something in his caution made Will suspicious. He walked out of the study as Hannibal was halfway into his room.

“Late night?” Will asked, and Hannibal went completely still.

He turned slowly, “Hans wanted to show me a new mezcaleria.”

Hannibal was lying. He was also freshly showered, his hair neatly combed, but no longer gelled as it had been when he left. Will’s stomach sank to the floor. Hannibal watched Will notice these details, his face inscrutable. “Glad you had a good night,” Will murmured faintly.

Hannibal nodded, something like regret in his eyes. “Goodnight, Will,” he said as he walked into his room and gently shut the door behind him. 

Will stood frozen in the hallway. He wasn’t sure for how long. But when he finally moved, he returned to the study in a daze and filled a glass of whiskey to the rim. When he was too drunk for shame, he stumbled over to the gilded mirror on the study wall and scanned himself critically again. He could see that he looked better than he had the night of the opera. He’d gained back some muscle and now that he was running again, his skin looked sunkissed and healthy. Though still an eyesore, his scar faded more with every passing week. But then he noticed the things he couldn’t change. A smattering of new wrinkles, gradually receding hair, and he seemed in some way to lack the vitality he’d had in his youth. The past few years had not been kind.

In contrast, there was Hans. Will met him only once, picking up Hannibal before a show. He couldn’t be much older than thirty, with silky brown hair, curious bright green eyes, and a slim, but athletic build. He was fashionable and clearly moneyed, but he lacked the arrogance of most of Hannibal’s acquaintances. He’d asked Will questions with a kind smile and genuine interest. Will had actually liked him. 

Hannibal valued beauty in all things and Hans was objectively stunning. Will was sure if he looked, he’d find Hans’s face and body set in charcoal in Hannibal’s sketchbook. And Hannibal had a weakness for the finer things. Expensive aged wines, the rarest and most sought after ingredients, flawlessly executed haute cuisine. He was a hedonist, a perfectionist, and a bit of a snob. Of course he’d welcome the chance to sleep with a young, lithe beauty like Hans. The painful reality was that no one would choose to bring Will to their bed when Hans was offering. Especially not someone with Hannibal’s standards. He and Hannibal might always have a certain indelible connection, but that’s a far cry from wanting to fuck somebody. Will had to swallow against the nausea rising in his throat at that thought.

And Will couldn’t help wondering if this was the first time Hannibal had indulged. If there had been others. If he’d been sleeping around the whole time while Will sat at home none the wiser. Then he remembered Adriana’s possessive hand wrapped around Hannibal’s arm and before he realized what he was doing, his rocks glass was across the room, shattered. Will just stared at the scattered shards for a moment. Then dropped to the floor, face in his hands. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed that way, or when he eventually stumbled off to bed, but as soon as his head hit the pillow, he slipped into the merciful oblivion of sleep.

Will woke the next day around noon. It took a few beats after his eyes opened for the previous night to come flooding back, and with it came a rush of emotion that felt depressingly like heartbreak. The house was silent and he vaguely remembered Hannibal mentioning a garden party he had to attend that afternoon. He was grateful for the reprieve; he didn’t think he could face Hannibal yet. As he passed the study, he dipped his head inside and noticed, guiltily, that Hannibal had cleaned up the remains of his broken glass. He forced himself not to guess at what assumptions Hannibal might have made seeing that.

As he turned into the kitchen, he stopped short in the doorway. Hannibal was sitting at the island sipping a cup of tea.

“Hello, Will.” He looked completely normal, like nothing about last night was unusual at all, and Will wondered again how many times Hannibal had ended his evenings with sex while Will was home in bed. 

Hannibal wasn’t dressed for a party. He was wearing the linen shirt and slacks that passed for casual wear for him. Will always liked this outfit. It softened him, made him look comfortable and approachable, and with the midday light filtering in through the kitchen windows, catching the streaks of gray and blond in his hair, he looked unfairly handsome. Will found, with some unease, that it hurt just to look at him. At Will’s silence, Hannibal continued, “I was just about to prepare lunch, then thought we might take a drive into Oaxaca. Take in some of the sites, have dinner. It’s supposed to be a lovely evening.”

Will moved at that, making a beeline for the fridge so he could avoid meeting Hannibal’s eyes. It was a nice offer. They’d only had snatches of time together all week, and it had been at least a month since they’d spent the whole day together. But Will couldn’t imagine anything he’d rather do less.

“I can’t. Sorry. You should go though.” He said, as he rifled aimlessly through the fridge, eventually pulling out the fresh squeezed mango orange juice just to give himself something to do with his hands. They both knew Will didn’t have plans. He had no possible reason not to go, other than to avoid Hannibal’s company. It was borderline rude, but Will knew that a day spent with Hannibal, on the heels of last night's revelations, would break him. Hannibal didn’t seem bothered by his refusal. Nor was he deterred.  

“That’s fine. Maybe we could get dinner somewhere in the city. There’s a new tapas restaurant I thought you might like.” 

“Did Hans introduce you to that too?” It fell from Will’s lips before he could stop himself and he immediately felt like a childish asshole. He turned on his heel and headed to the glasses cabinet just to avoid seeing whatever expression the remark brought to Hannibal’s face.

“No actually, I found it myself,” Hannibal said, completely ignoring the jealous subtext of Will’s question, “but if you’d rather stay in, I have a new recipe I wanted to try that I think you’ll enjoy.”

Will had a sneaking suspicion that Hannibal had set his mind to spending the day with Will. And if Will said all he wanted to do was stare at the wall in the study for the next ten hours, Hannibal would nod with approval and start preparing a charcuterie board for the occasion. But Will was equally committed to putting Hannibal off. For both their sakes. “Look, Hannibal, I’m not feeling social today. Why don’t you see if one of your little groupies is free? I’m sure they’d love to take a long drive with you or eat at some pretentious restaurant.”

Hannibal was silent at that, and Will felt some mix of guilt and relief. He was suddenly tired of acting as though everything was fine between them. And he didn’t want to help Hannibal pretend either. He took advantage of Hannibal’s temporary silence to escape the room, bypassing the study, where Hannibal might still seek him out, and heading to his bedroom instead. He closed and locked the door and Hannibal didn’t disturb him again that day.

When Will finally left his room around 9 pm, Hannibal was nowhere to be found, but when Will looked in the fridge he found a glass Tupperware container with a portion of some kind of stew, still slightly warm, with reheating instructions written out in Hannibal’s careful script. The sight of it brought unwanted tears to Will’s eyes. He poured himself a healthy glass of straight tequila and ate the meal cold, straight out of the Tupperware. It was still delicious. But the lack of food earlier in the day meant that by the time Will finished, he was dizzy and felt perilously close to throwing it all back up. He cleaned up quickly, leaving Hannibal’s reheating instructions on the counter, and retreated to his room to pass out. 

******

The casual sex was new, Will thought. He was sure it hadn't been a part of Hannibal’s life in Baltimore, but it had apparently become a favorite pastime rather rapidly. Always done respectfully. He never brought them home, never came home disheveled or smelling of the night’s exertions, never even spent the night away, almost as though he felt he owed Will that much. But now that Will knew to look, he found signs of Hannibal’s little dalliances constantly.

And after that, Will discovered that Hannibal’s company was suddenly unendurably painful. It was spectacularly unfair. Will recognized that. Hannibal didn’t owe him that part of himself, but telling himself that did nothing to assuage the grief he felt whenever Hannibal came home after a night out. Will couldn’t stop picturing Hannibal with some faceless beauty; imagining what he was doing with them or to them. He found it easier to bear when he was truly drunk, so he spent his days drinking himself into a state of numb indifference. 

At first, Hannibal was concerned at the sudden change in Will, but over time that concern gave way to resignation and disapproval. And apparently drinking and jealousy made for a nasty combination because their relationship took a nosedive. Will grew surly and sullen and on occasion, cruel. And Hannibal, at a loss and reluctant to provoke Will, withdrew even further. 

********

But dinners like these were still rare moments of detente between them. The dining table was set simply, but elegantly, a mix of their preferences, with Hannibal at the head and Will to his right. Hannibal disappeared into the kitchen and returned with two plates, “skirt steak cooked rare with chimichurri, roasted fingerling potatoes, and grilled asparagus spears.” Will couldn’t help smiling, a light dinner for Hannibal usually meant only one course. Will cut a bite of the steak, which had an attractive char and bled slightly when the knife pierced it. Will ran it through the bright green sauce and brought it to his lips. It was delicious of course, salty and savory with a hint of heat and brightness from the fresh chilies and herbs in the chimichurri. Hannibal watched Will eat first before trying his own. “It’s excellent, thank you,” said Will, and as usual, Hannibal’s face brightened with a smile that was subtle, but genuine. These were some of the only interactions they had these days that didn’t end in icy quiet, so Will cherished every smile he managed to earn. 

A companionable silence settled over the dinner, but Will already knew he wouldn’t let it rest. Will couldn’t accept shallow peace with Hannibal, even for the length of a meal. His resentment made him ugly and he hated himself for it. Hannibal avoided engaging him, taking his digs in stride, artfully steering their conversation to calmer waters, or stepping away entirely when Will was particularly raring for a fight. But like a child tantruming for attention, Hannibal’s implacable calm just made Will want to push harder. The whole dynamic made him feel small and pathetic. But there was seemingly no limit to Hannibal’s tolerance for Will’s petty slights. He was a bottomless reservoir of smooth redirection, ceaselessly meeting Will’s meanness with civility. Maddeningly polite, Will sometimes thought with bitterness.

“So where are you headed tonight? You look nice.” Hannibal glanced up at Will in surprise and seemed pleased at the compliment. But any pleasure was short-lived. He knew Will’s new temperament well enough at this point to be suspicious of even such a benign question. Hannibal turned his eyes back to his plate, cutting and chewing another bite of steak before answering. “Adriana has acquired tickets to the opening of la traviata.”

Adriana. Of course. She’d been monopolizing Hannibal’s schedule for a month.  Hannibal had been to dinner with Adriana twice this week already. Will knew they fucked three nights ago, and if Hannibal’s reddened lips, and the faint edges of finger nail marks peeking above his collar were anything to go by, it hadn’t been especially tame. Will wondered vaguely if that was a reflection of her preferences or Hannibal’s. He shook that thought from his head with force. But he couldn’t help pressing his finger into the bruise. 

“Any plans for after the show?” 

Hannibal hesitated, paying more attention than necessary as he sliced through a crisp potato. Will knew, as with most things these days, Hannibal didn’t want to share the truth of this and Will felt a sick satisfaction at making him twitch. “Nothing specific. Perhaps we’ll grab a drink.”

The image rose in Will's mind with noise and clarity. Hannibal taking Adriana back to her apartment, pressing her up against the wood paneled foyer wall, and capturing her mouth in a biting kiss as he deftly unzipped her dress. He imagined him tugging her closer as he ran his fingers through her loose waves, cradling her head gently, but firmly. She’d smile as his other hand followed the slit of her skirt to her upper thigh and dipped in. Will hadn’t realized his eyes had actually fallen shut and he was shaking his head until he opened them again to find Hannibal watching him carefully with a slight frown. “Will?”

Will was angry at himself for that lapse. And as usual, he took it out on Hannibal, fixing his face in a sneer that he knew made his scar look especially ghastly. “Well, enjoy.” He let the disdain drip from his voice, and Hannibal’s expression went from concerned to resigned, steeling himself for another round of Will’s vitriol. For some reason, that thought stung more than usual. “Jack would be thrilled to see the Chesapeake Ripper so domesticated,” Will said without much forethought. Hannibal leveled a look of surprise at Will. And warning. But now that Will had brought them to it, he found he couldn’t reign in his need for answers, “can you honestly say you don’t miss it? You were locked up for three years, Hannibal. How long has it even been since you killed? Not in self defense, but by your own design?” He pressed.

Hannibal’s face was inscrutable. He continued eating his meal, not holding Will’s glare, “killing has never been a compulsion. And hunting always carries risk.”

That was not quite an answer, and Will was suddenly certain that Hannibal had killed since that night months earlier. Just not with Will. Hannibal watched Will piece that together before dropping his gaze to his plate once more. Will felt unaccountably betrayed and it hit him like a physical blow. He could hear his pulse thrumming in his ears and he had to physically work to slow his breathing. He waited to respond until he was certain his voice would come out steadily. 

“Ah, I see. The guise of domestication is for my benefit then?” He said faintly. It had the inflection of a question, but it wasn’t one. Hannibal still busied himself with his plate, but the more time passed, it felt less like composure and more like fidgeting.

“Hannibal, why am I even here?” He hadn’t quite meant to say that out loud, but there it was.

Hannibal looked up at that, unmistakably irritated, “I’d assumed you were here because you wanted to be, but please correct me if I’m wrong on that score.”

“Here to what end?” Will’s voice raised slightly, “to sit at home while you hop around art shows and concerts and fuck your way through half of Mexico City high society.”

Hannibal’s eyes widened in surprise at that which, for him, was practically a jaw drop. Will continued before Hannibal could rally a response, “while you kill in secret, like it’s five years ago,” Will said, tone vibrating with anger. Hannibal’s expression hadn’t shifted much, but his eyes had a vacant quality now that suggested he was furiously thinking of ways to redirect the conversation. 

Will wouldn’t allow it, “Tell me, have I eaten anyone recently?” He paused at this, actually wanting the answer. If it was yes, he was pretty sure he’d break something. 

The question hung in the air for a moment. Eventually, Hannibal replied, “No. I wouldn’t have been able to disguise the flavor of the meat.” Will had to close his eyes to bring his anger under control at that.

“What was the point of everything we went through if you’re just going to keep me on the other side of the veil?”

Hannibal’s brow quirked in confusion for a moment, and Will realized that he was never party to that particular metaphor. He caught on quickly though. 

“It is not my preference to exclude you, Will.” He said softly, and Will was reminded suddenly of that condescending gentleness from the alley. It just angered Will more.

“Fuck you, Hannibal. You don’t get to just decide things for both of us. We’re not supposed to be that way anymore,” he said, startled by the thread of pleading in his voice, “We’re” Will stuttered to a stop, stumbling over how to define them, “partners,” and felt foolish as soon as he said it. How were they partners? They weren’t partners in crime. They weren't lovers, “equals,” he corrected lamely, realizing only after he’d spoken that his voice lacked an ounce of conviction. 

Hannibal looked genuinely surprised by the tentativeness of that declaration and Will saw something disturbingly like pity cross his face. And suddenly Will couldn’t stand to hear whatever he had to say to that. He wanted to snap back with claws and teeth. He wanted to wound.

He plastered a mean smile on his face, “if I’d realized I was trading in one life of sham normalcy for another, I would have stayed with Molly. At least there I could go fishing.”

Another silent agreement broken in mentioning Molly. The whole comment was outrageous and Will felt the immediate urge to take it back. But it was the first time Will had seen Hannibal’s eyes deaden in fury since before the fall. It was terrifying and thrilling. 

“And I didn’t realize I’d be living with a shell of the Will Graham I knew.  By all means,  Will, if you’d rather return to your wife and son and your dogs, be my guest. Though I don’t know what I’ll do without a sullen wraith skulking around my apartment, drinking himself into a stupor. Nevertheless, perhaps Molly is better suited to accommodate your brokenness.”

All at once the fight left Will, and the phrase “be careful what you wish for” danced mockingly through his mind. Hannibal still had that uncanny ability to wield words as cruelly as knives, and for all Will had wanted a reaction, he hadn’t been prepared to hear his inadequacies laid bare in so many words. Nothing Hannibal had said was inaccurate, in any case. Will wasn’t looking at Hannibal. Wasn’t sure how he'd be able to look at him again. 

“Will…I…” Hannibal trailed off, at an apparent loss for words, which was unprecedented enough Will couldn’t help glancing at his face. He looked stunned. In fact, he looked almost panicked. It was gratifying to know he hadn’t wanted this to go that far. But it didn’t really matter. Whether or not he’d intended to say it, he’d meant it. They couldn’t unring the bell.

Will breathed through the hollow feeling enveloping him and said, “if you want me gone, Hannibal, just say it.”

Hannibal just held Will’s eyes in silence, his face thoughtful. It felt like an answer and Will’s eyes fell closed. He stood as steadily as he could manage, realizing he was trembling slightly. He wished he could blame it on the alcohol. With his eyes firmly on the dining table, tracking the wood grain, he said, “you should go, you’ll be late.” 

“Will,” said Hannibal, more sharply now, but Will was already turning away, headed toward the study in a numb daze. Once safely behind the door, he slumped into his usual armchair, his face in his hands. Twenty minutes must have passed before he heard the front door open and shut again. 

When he heard the door clang home, he rose from his chair and started pacing. Now that he was alone, something very like panic was rising in his chest. He couldn’t leave Hannibal, even if he asked him to. Will doubted very much that he’d survive the separation. He rubbed his face roughly in frustration. How the fuck had he expected this to end? Baiting, pushing, always pushing. He realized he’d been expecting violence. Some way to crack Hannibal’s peaceable facade, even if it meant Will would bleed. He wanted to bleed. If he was losing Hannibal, he wanted to lose him in a flurry of fists, and bites, and fresh scars. Not this quiet separation. He realized he would truly rather Hannibal kill him. 

A kind of despair was overtaking him, and as if in a trance, he made his way to Hannibal’s room, not quite sure what he was doing. Only thinking that he’d almost never been in here and he might not have another chance. Hannibal would probably be able to tell, but at this point, what did it even matter? The room looked very like Hannibal’s bedroom in Baltimore, which Will only saw once. It had an almost sensual aesthetic, or maybe Will just felt that way because it was Hannibal’s room. He had a navy blue satin bedspread over a walnut bed frame. There was a sitting area near the window with a small bar setup and a brown leather arm chair. Will took this all in while making his way to the walk-in closet. It was, unsurprisingly, meticulously organized, his formal attire to one side, his casual and summer wear to another. There was even a small bureau with drawers of rolled socks and ties, and a special drawer for cufflinks and watches. 

Will made his way to the sweaters. His attention caught on a crimson cashmere knit sweater that he’d seen Hannibal wear several times before. Usually he wore it on colder mornings, when he opted to make breakfast before getting dressed. It always felt like a privilege seeing him in it; like he was stripped of his armor. It was impossibly soft in his hands, and Will recalled the way it hung from Hannibal’s shoulders, the deep V showing off his collar bones. On impulse, Will shoved his face into the fabric and realized that under the crisp scent of Hannibal’s detergent, something of Hannibal’s own smell lingered. He was surprised by how much it aroused him. He gripped the soft fabric in his fingers, bringing it more firmly to his nose, and inhaled deeply. It was a weakness and an indulgence he never would have allowed himself even a few hours earlier, but everything seemed different now. Will didn’t think anything that he did now would change the course of his future with Hannibal, and that thought was so painful it took his breath away. But it was also strangely freeing.

In an instant, his mind was made up. He took the sweater off its hanger and made his way to Hannibal’s bathroom. His laundry hamper was right by the door, and with just a slight twinge of embarrassment, he lifted the lid. As soon as it was open, he was assaulted by scents, all of them Hannibal’s. His orange ginseng shampoo, his cologne, with notes of leather and citrus, and under it all, a musk that was uniquely his own. Will went in search of it. He lacked Hannibal’s olfactory abilities, but he ended up grabbing a t-shirt Hannibal wore on a recent run, and a pair of dark, silk briefs. 

He carried the items back to his own bedroom and laid them on the bed. He almost couldn’t believe what he was about to do, but he brutally squashed the tendrils of shame before they could take root. He stripped methodically. Once he was naked, he pulled the red sweater over his head and got on the bed face down, pressing his nose into the shirt and letting his cock brush against the silk briefs. It felt sinfully good and Hannibal’s musk and the lingering scent of his shampoo surrounded him. He turned onto his back and trailed a hand down his chest to his cock. He was already half hard before he even got a hand around himself, just from feeling Hannibal’s satiny clothes rubbing against his body. And from the knowledge that Hannibal’s own body felt these same sensations. He imagined the way the briefs clutched Hannibal’s ass, how their velvety texture would have caressed his dick. How the cashmere sweater would have brushed Hannibal’s own nipples as it was teasing Will’s now. He started touching himself slowly, just reveling in sensation and scent, but as usual his mind started to wander. And he imagined Hannibal there with him, crawling up the bed to straddle him. 

The Hannibal in his mind was silent, maybe some subconscious defense mechanism, but he shuffled up Will’s body until his legs were wrapped around Will’s shoulders and he was sitting on Will’s chest, intent clear. Will opened his mouth automatically and pictured Hannibal steering his thick cock inside until it hit the back of his throat. Will shoved four fingers into his mouth, nearly gagging. He yanked Hannibal’s briefs from under him and threw them over his face. The scent of Hannibal was stronger and earthier on his briefs, and made it easier to imagine the ache in his jaw was from Hannibal’s cock. He bit at the fabric of the briefs, tugging them into his mouth to add a dimension of taste. It couldn’t be described as a good flavor, but the fact that it was Hannibal’s had his mouth watering and spit pooling around his fingers. Will's cock was soaking, thrusting almost violently into his tight fist. He could feel himself barreling towards orgasm and slowed down slightly. It was so good, he didn’t want it to be over too soon. The Hannibal in his mind found his voice as arousal pushed any unpleasantness further from Will’s thoughts, “good Will, so good. You take me so well," Will flushed at the imagined words, even as they made his cock pulse with fresh precum. He let his fingers drop from his mouth for a second. “I want to be good for you Hannibal,” he said out loud, “please, tell me how to be good for you,”

“You’re doing so well, Will, such a good boy,” Will groaned at that. 

“Is it enough?” Will mumbled into the empty room. He and the imagined Hannibal both knew just how much he meant by that question. 

Hannibal paused, “can you give me more?”

Will moaned as his hand pumped ruthlessly, “god, yes, I can give you anything. I’ll do anything you want.”

Another pause from Hannibal, “show me then.”

Will flipped onto his front again, widening his legs so he could start scissoring himself open. He set a brutal pace, shoving two spit-wet fingers in to the knuckle, stretching them a few times before adding a third. The burn was just this side of painful, but Will didn’t slow down. The Hannibal in his mind just watched him expressionlessly.

 When Will deemed himself loose enough, he reached into the drawer of his side table and withdrew his largest toy, a thick thing he used when he wanted to fuck himself hard enough to forget how to think. He’d never used it without luxuriously fingering himself for at least twenty minutes first. Now he lubed it up perfunctorily and brought it to his rim. He didn’t go slowly, even as his body protested, and he didn’t give himself a breath to adjust. It hurt, fuck it hurt. Not the usual simmering discomfort, but real pain and Will was distantly worried that he might have actually hurt himself. But the pain erased any extraneous thoughts, and when the full length was seated inside Will and he was sweating and panting from exertion, Hannibal leaned down to his ear and said “beautiful. You take me so well, darling.” 

The endearment, more than the discomfort, brought hot tears to Will’s eyes. “Please. please, Hannibal.”

“Shhh, I’ve got you, Will. I know what you need.”

Will withdrew the toy, then pressed back in, imagining Hannibal setting a maddeningly slow pace. The gentleness of it made the tears spill over and they ran silently down Will’s cheeks as he rocked. Hannibal had self control of steel, refusing to cave to Will’s keening pleas. Bringing him to the edge again and again, then pulling back. Eventually Will started sobbing in earnest, “please Hannibal, please fuck me, I need to feel you. Make me feel it,” he was babbling, incoherent, but Hannibal finally relented and the pace picked up. His thrusts became quick and brutal and perfect. Will was moaning unabashedly, when Hannibal asked,“Tell me, Will, what do you want from me? Do you want me to use you? Are you here for my pleasure, is that why I’ve let you stay?”

Will gave a pained groan, “Fuck, yes Hannibal, always yours. Only yours. Use me,”

Hannibal met his eyes approvingly, “say it again.”

“I’m yours. Do whatever you fucking want just don’t…don’t.” Will was losing control now, his hand pumping the toy furiously, as his other hand gripped his cock. His orgasm was so close he could taste it.

“Don’t what, Will?” the imagined Hannibal was watching him with an indulgent and knowing look. 

Even in his mind, on the edge of orgasm, he couldn’t beg Hannibal not to leave him. Not to send him away. “Don’t.” He practically whimpered.

As he was reaching his peak, Hannibal took pity on him. He leaned forward, pressing his mouth to Will’s ear, “I’d never leave you, Will. You're such a good boy for me. Now come.”

Will actually screamed as he came, jerking wildly, and working himself through it. Eventually his hands slowed to a stop and he pulled out the toy as gently as possible. It still stung. When it was finally over, the shame his arousal kept at bay came flooding in, and he had to close his eyes at the strength of it. Hannibal’s sweater was ruined, streaked with Will’s come, and his shirt and briefs weren’t much better off. He’d have to throw them away. The idea of Hannibal finding them was unthinkable even now. 

He threw the ruined clothes in the corner of his own closet and headed to the shower, turning the water on as hot as he could stand, scrubbing his body roughly, as if he could wash away the act. His fantasies always brought his most desperate hopes for Hannibal to the front of his mind in a way that made Will regret them when they were over.

 He finished his shower routine efficiently and stepped out onto the mat. Wiping the condensation off the mirror he saw that his face was flushed and his eyes were red rimmed from crying. He looked a mess. He was just considering whether to drink more or retreat under the covers when he heard the front door slam again. He glanced at his phone; it had only been a couple of hours since Hannibal left. That meant he skipped the opera. The realization filled Will with trepidation, even as he felt some satisfaction imagining Adriana’s disappointment. 

Will threw on a pair of sleep pants and a t-shirt and made his way to the hallway. He could smell Hannibal before he saw him. He smelled like a saloon and looked more disheveled than Will had ever seen him. His bow tie was loosened and askew. He’d shed his jacket, and his hair was sticking up at angles as though he’d been running his fingers through it. Hannibal was struggling to keep his balance while toeing off his shoes when Will approached him in the foyer. The sight made Will ache with fondness. Hannibal glanced up at Will, his eyes bloodshot and glassy from overindulgence. But his expression quickly turned sorrowful and Will realized it must have been obvious to Hannibal that he’d been crying. He expected to feel embarrassed at being caught in such an emotional state, but the feeling never came. 

“I thought getting drunk to escape your problems was my thing?” He gave Hannibal a gentle smile, which was returned

“The circumstances seemed to warrant some measure of escapism. It felt prudent to follow your example.”

Will took a breath, “What circumstances are those?”

Hannibal’s smile disappeared and he just looked at Will for a moment before padding past him, in the direction of the study. After a moment, Will followed like a man headed to the gallows.

Hannibal made his way to the bar, though the last thing either of them needed was more to drink. He poured a large portion for himself and for Will, handing him the glass and they sat for a moment in silence.

Eventually, Hannibal took a sip and said, “we can’t continue as we have been.”

 “No.” Will agreed. Not after tonight.

Hannibal said nothing for a time, then asked, so quietly Will would not have heard it outside the silence of the study,“do you want to leave? Return to your old life, or make a new life elsewhere?” He looked up at Will, something brittle, but earnest in his eyes. It was gratifying to see him so affected, even as his words burned, “I will do what is necessary to facilitate either course. But you must let me know what you want now, Will. You've been… silent and unhappy for too long.”

Will felt sick and the tears were rising again unbidden. He couldn’t leave Hannibal. But they couldn’t go on living this half life. Will searched Hannibal’s face and thought of all the things he wanted from him; the things that had been and would continue to be denied him. He wouldn’t ask for a place in Hannibal’s bed, the thought was humiliating. But if he couldn’t have that part of him, maybe he could still have something else. The part that, by necessity, Hannibal could share with no one but Will. 

“I want to kill together again.”

 “Will..”

“No listen. Please.”  Will’s voice broke on the “please” and sounded so desperate, he could hardly recognize it. It seemed to alarm Hannibal too, as he was watching Will carefully now. Waiting. And really listening. Will needed this. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if Hannibal said no. But Will knew he could make it work. He had to make it work. “It won’t be like last time.” He said firmly, sternly cutting off the, “I promise” that he wanted to tack on to that sentence. It felt like Hannibal heard it anyway, and his eyes softened. Will turned back to the cold fireplace, and shut his eyes.

“Alright,” said Hannibal.