Archive of Our Own ^beta

Willowmarch Baptist Church was founded in 1863 by Jeremiah Bloom four years after the original settlement of Willowmarch. The shining white of the wooden chapel had been cared for lovingly by three generations of Reverends and their families. As far as religion went in Willowmarch, it began and ended on the tongue of the Bloom’s. Everyone went to Willowmarch Baptist and no one questioned an alternative, likely because there wasn’t one. Morality demanded a religious upbringing, with God present in all homes, like the heavy, invisible hand of a tyrannical father. Belief systems melded to apply to the isolated town enough that Bible verses were uniquely suited to the purposes and needs of Willowmarch citizens. A tradition carried out today by Reverend Alan Bloom. 

Reverend Bloom was a serious man with dark hair he wore slicked in a fashion adopted from his father. His eyes were deceptively kind in the way that hid his righteous tongue, promising a lack of judgement that never came. There was a softness to him, in his cheeks and body. In the pale yellows and blues of his button-downs. He wore the role well, a birthright, something he had passed down to his daughter.

Alana Bloom was, in the simplest terms, a ghost well kept in Will’s past. She haunted the halls of his religious guilt in the tongue of a god he no longer prayed to, sad eyes casting to his mirrors and begging to save him. He had believed she could at one point, Will thinks she believed they all could. But then he grew up and he realized no demon made him the way he was, no grand curse that made his daddy drink himself to death. It was life, in all its gore-filled busted-to-hell glory. And no matter how many hands clasped onto him, prayed for him, begged for him, Will was going to remain the way he was. Even if he didn’t understand it, even if he had to navigate it alone. Anything was better than the clawing heat of Louisiana summers clammed in calloused palms crying out in heavenly hymns. 

Anything was better than confession. 

Maybe that’s why his daddy stopped going.

Though, it seemed, today everyone put their differences aside. Will looked around the packed insides of the church, it swelled with sorrow that leaked into the stripped hardwood like viscera and rot. The stained glass windows shone bright, despite the occasion– perhaps a sick irony– with kaleidoscopic colors, across wet faces. Glistening like riverbends on wrinkled churchgoers, sniffs echoing, and babies whining. 

Will couldn’t fucking stand it. The inescapable stimulation swarm of emotion that clattered into his skin like dull knives. He could feel each thought pressing into his flesh, begging for attention and understanding. His hands grew clammy, heat rising in the crowded spaces of his body as the dull buzz of flies swam through the overhead. Goddamn, we’re all rottin’. We’re all fuckin’ rottin’.

Will gulped down the gasp of air in his tight throat and attempted normality. He needed to play a role today, he needed to be someone who grieved appropriately and gave the shallow sorrows of a funeral attendee. One that said ‘Thank God in heaven it was your boy and not mine’ though no one would admit those thoughts aloud. Those are locked away from even the likes of God. 

Will thought of maroon eyes and their well-kept secrets.

He wondered if he would be here today.

“Si’down Will, Christ sake.” Beau grabbed his sleeve and yanked him down into the creaking chestnut pews of the church. Will felt the pitying glare of those around him like knives under his skin. His eyes flickered upwards, blood thrumming in sync with the statue of Jesus, feeling the nails in his skin. They’d crucify him too, he thinks, given the chance. 

“Sorry.” Will mumbled, voice like thick molasses. His daddy was sweatin’ worse than the lot of them. He hadn’t drank yet today and his sobriety showed in the rejected flush and swallow of his face. His button-down was sticking to his chest, though everyone was gracious enough not to mention it. 

“Just–dammit Will, a boy is dead. Act like everyone else for once in your goddamn life and sit the hell down,” Beau snapped through gritted teeth. His eyes were glassy for an entirely different reason as he shuffled along the pew to make room for others. His attendance was a proprietary act, one that Will was surprised by to begin with, though less so when Bambi joined them where they sat.

Will could see the back of Beverly’s head a few rows up. Her glossy dark hair was braided back and Will could make out the thin straps of one of her Sunday dresses Gramma Katz had sewn her. The intricate little rose pattern was a welcomed distraction as he watched her hush her kid sister, Liberty Belle, down beside her. Hank, her daddy, was sitting to the left, likely clasping the trembling hand of her mother, Lenora. Next to Gramma Katz were the twins, Atticus and Jane, kicking each other under the pews. He could practically hear Gramma Katz now, a picture of matriarchal sternness telling them to ‘act like they got some damn sense’ before clipping both their ears hard enough to make anyone yelp. He smiled.

The Katz family was one of those real put-together types that made sense to see on a Hallmark card. All glistening smiles that were actually genuine. Will owed a lot to them, more than he liked to admit really. When he was younger and his daddy would need to sweat off the drinks in his system, Captain Katz would take Will home with him and get him set up in the cot at the end of Bevvy’s bed. He never made it seem like a chore, like Will wasn’t one of theirs to begin with, and sometimes Will imagined what his daddy would do if he never came home. Would he come looking? Or would he just be glad that the remainder of Amelia was gone? That he could continue to kill himself slowly by proxy of whatever brown liquor he could find in peace? Will would never know because, despite all—he always came home. The image of his father dying alone choking on his own vomit was too cold a thought to harvest as just nonsense. 

The ringing tone of the organ cut through Will’s mind like a thick syrup, reverberating something awful in his eardrums. He fought the urge to clasp his palms over his ears, a slight tremble making home in the core of his palms. Ahead, at the organ, was Alana Bloom. A portrait of purity and perfection that dwindled down to linen dresses and a golden cross on a necklace. Will tried not to make eye contact with her, the last thing he needed was her divinity. 

“Friends, family, and neighbors, it is with heavy hearts we gather here today,” Reverend Bloom stood tall and proud. An aching symbol of the moral high ground in a land of sinners. Beside him, a large photo of Clyde was displayed and encased with flowers of religious iconography. 

Will felt his gut twist. The wrongness settled in his bones. His eyes veered to the stained glass angel that painted the skylight, bringing down a rainbow to seek out the divulgement of sins. He stared and he thought and he knew . He knew he didn’t carry a heavy heart, in fact, he didn’t carry anything. The core of his sadness, grief, and anger was sourced through a well of others’ reflections. But, just like a well without water, it was just a cool wet stone. Will felt nothing decent about the murder of Clyde. After the shock wore off, there was a distant acknowledgement that he, in sincerity, found the air around him easier to breathe without the boy. The reality that every party would now be devoid of his reeking sense of self-righteous dignity that drove him to grope, grab, and gaggle amongst them–was startling in its freedom. 

And Will did not care.

He knew he should. A boy he graduated with, grew up around, and knew personally wasn’t just dead but – if the Gazette was to be believed–slaughtered. Body a tattered evidence of ribbons and viscera that made up dinner for the morning flies and buzzards in the lower swamps. The heat and moisture had washed away any concrete evidence leaving nothing but the eviscerated body of a teen boy and a town in utter awe of what on Earth was capable of such malice and cruelty. 

He was sure he should feel saddened by that.

Instead, all he felt now was a distant, exciting sort of curiosity at what exactly–or who exactly– could be capable of that kind of violence.

By the end of the hour-long service, communion was shared and tender words exchanged before the closing hymn rang through the cramped room. Will was drowning, sweltering heat like a chokehold on his neck, eyes rampaging around the room looking for a way out. 

“We gon’ stay for the cookout. Pay our respects right.” Beau whispered, hand gripping Will’s arm. It wasn’t hard, but it left no room for debate. 

“Ain’t no cookout gon’ save Clyde, ain’t gon’ save us neither.” Will frowned, eyes looking at his father to say everything he couldn’t. Beau didn’t say anything, he knew he couldn’t. He clasped his son’s shoulder, searching his averting eyes for something Will could not offer him.

“You look like ‘er today.” His daddy whispered and it was as close to an ‘ I love you’ and ‘ I am glad you're safe’ as Will was ever going to get. 

“I always do.” Will whispered back. I know.

Beau nodded.

The church was situated on a sizable chunk of land that had been converted into a communal space with a few park shelters and grills. After service, there was always a cookout and games and the friendly feeling of community. Picturesque. When the crowd cleared, Will cut ties from Beau and went to find Beverly. Hopefully in time to beg her to stay long enough that he didn’t have to stick through this hellscape alone. Besides he had yet to tell her about the Hannibal situa—

“Will? My goodness, I didn’t know you was gonna be here.” Soft, delicate, and smooth like lace.

Fuckin’ hell.

“Hey, Alana.” Will stopped, knowing better than to try to shirk a conversation with the ever-persistent young woman. When Will finally turned around it was with a strange sort of comfort to realize Alana had changed entirely and not at all. Still those dark waves and bright features, blue eyes that just knew things about you in a way you didn’t entirely want to be known. A belittling fashion of judgement beneath the soft deception of acceptance. As if to always say ‘You can be better, but only if you do it the way I tell you’. Will couldn’t help but let out a huff of something close to laughter. His dark button down was sticking to him horribly but he couldn’t find the courage to roll up his sleeves. Casual movement invited familiarity and a level of fondness that Will didn’t want to foster.

Her smile was as sudden and unexpected as the hug that followed. She dove into a full embrace with no warning and clasped hard to Will. He froze up, body rigid in surprise before she let go. The itchy discomfort returned to his skin like fire and he tucked himself back.

“Oh, I forgot you have that thing about people touchin’ you.” Alana looked guilty, though not apologetically so. She’d wanted to hug him and so she did, “Seems everyone was kind enough to come out. Even saw Hobbs and little Abby. She scowled at me harder than a coyote in a bear trap. It’s a real shame. A girl like that needs proper guidance, you know? It can’t be easy not havin’ a mom.” Alana rambled, hands clasping around her cross necklace back and forth and back and forth. Her words seemed to catch up to her audience as she paused and threw her hands over her mouth. 

“Oh! Will, I’m sorry I didn’t mean it like that—“

“Alana—It's fine,” Will rubbed his face softly and attempted a smile. If anything, just to escape her roiling eyes. “I’m gonna go fin—“

“I ain’t ever see you at church anymore.” Alana cut in, seeming to finally get to her initially desired topic. Will knew it was coming, he also knew she wasn’t just talking about not coming to church. There was a pout of hurt there on her lips like she truly did not understand. 

“We don’t go no more, didn’t seem worth the, uh, ordeal.” Will shrugged, unwilling to give her what she wanted. He’d done that too often. 

“Isolation is never the answer, Willoughby. Through community we can understand, love and heal. Through that community you can finally be free of–”

Will couldn’t help but to let out a bark of bitter laughter. It was such a rehearsed line that it nearly pained him. Alana spoke with her father's words, always echoing the moral divinity of an invisible savior. She didn’t even realize it either, that was the worst part he thinks. To not even realize how much your voice doesn’t belong to you. At least Will knows when his tongue isn’t his own. Or at least, that's what he likes to tell himself. Lately, it’s been getting harder. 

“Look, Alana, I know you mean well but there ain’t nothin’ about me that your god can fix. What your daddy put me through, claimin’ righteousness? That was fuckin’ cruel.” Will snapped, gritting his teeth. He felt the tension of his small body curled on the floor, hands of churchgoers above him like some angel of doom praying hymns he couldn’t forget if he tried. 

Alana clenched her necklace again, a nervous habit she’d carried for years. Her eyes went to the grass beneath their feet, shaking her head softly. Sometimes, Will wondered if she knew, if she really knew. If she could smell the sin of desire on him, where it was pointed. If that’s why she was so hellbent on saving him. 

Once more, he thought of maroon and mahogany cologne.

“We thought it would help.” She spoke, trying to meet Will’s eyes.

“Really? God, ya really believe that dontcha?” Will tilted his head and felt the pit of something sickening his stomach.

“The Reverend said–”

“ The Reverend said there was a demon possessin’ me, Alana. I was ten years old. There was no demon, there was no grand vision from the Almighty, it was bullshit. What I needed was a friend, but you just wanted a project. It’s been almost a decade, Alana, and you’re still tryna save me. Do you even know me? Do you even care to?” Will asked her, voice low with a hidden pain and dogtooth bite in his molars. He licked his canines, mouth taut.

“I was your friend.” Alana spoke weakly.

“You were my keeper.” Will replied simply, “So, yeah, sorry we don’t come to church no more, place is a damn curse.” Will fisted his hands on his jeans and attempted to cool the heat rising in his body. This is what Alana did, he knew, she walked around thinking her morality was king. Usually that was fine, Will hardly saw her anymore, but today it stung. 

“Will, watch your language on these grounds— now I don’t care if you don’t come around anymore there’s a way to do things and it ain’t decent the way you go about. You struggle, I see it, I can help.” Alana went to reach out and Will stumbled backwards quickly.

“Not to cut into what seems to be an enlightening conversation but, uh, he don’t need help, Alana. You know that well and true, gospel or not, sweetheart.” Beverly Katz was an angel, likely the only one to ever truly exist. Her thick drawl was like sweet syrup in his ears muffling out the noise as she saddled up beside him with all the suave of a woman uncaring of judgement. Her hair was down, a burger dripping ketchup in her hands. Eyes staring at Alana appraisingly. 

“Beverly, it’s nice to see you.” Alana attempted her usual kind smile and Bev raised a brow.

“Is it? Coulda fooled me yous been avoidin’ my sorry ass like the plague—oh sorry, language,” Bev winced and licked the ketchup from her fingers. She cursed again when a glop of it fell on her boot, Will suppressed a laugh. He really did love her.

“I’m not avoiding’ ya, neither of ya. I actually wanted to just talk to Will about maybe comin’ ‘round more often.” Alana pointed to Will who, by this point, had taken careful steps back to the initial space between them. His boots dug into the dirt as his eyes flickered up with a raised brow.

“I ain’t gon’ do that Alana.” Will muttered.

“But—“

“Sweetheart, he said no. Go save someone who needs it, don’t you got a quota to meet or some shit?” Bev rarely got sharp, her words always smooth as whiskey. But in the moment there was a barb, poking out from the seams of her personality.

“I’ll pray for you.” Alana called after them as they walked off. 

“Yeah, Alana, pray for me.” Will frowned, shaking his head and knowing there wasn’t a point in being upset. Alana used to be different, he thinks, or maybe she never was. Maybe schoolyard play was just a byproduct of environmental circumstances. Maybe Alana was always going to try and save him. He shook his hands out, the tension in his body tight and uncomfortable with memory.

“Wanna duck out?” Bev nudged him and he blinked back to reality. 

“Please.” Will whispered and Bev nodded, she tossed the remainders of her burger in a trash bag and waved down one of the twins.

“Tell everyone Willie and I are headed out early,” Bev told Atticus. The fourteen-year-old scowled at her and nearly spit.

“I wanna leave! This sucks!” He whined and Bev shoved him aside fondly.

“Go play with LB she’ll be bored too.” 

Bev took Will and they turned towards the parking lot where Bev’s truck was parked. They didn’t say much, it wasn’t needed. They both had their qualms with the Willowmarch Baptism Church, for similar and entirely different reasons. And as they turned onto the main road, windows down and the sweet summer scent of earthy greens filled the air, Will was grateful. In the church of this beaten-up truck, angelic hues gleaming through sunshine with the hymn of cicadas and a busted cassette filling the air. He was grateful to be alive.

“There ain’t nothin’ wrong with us.” Will spoke aloud, a gospel truth read from his own bible. 

Maybe if he said it enough he would start to believe it.

________________________________________________

Something was wrong.

He knew this for sure in the way he knew that the weight on the bed was wrong. The phantom weight of a figure that should be sinking the mattress was not there. Why wasn’t it there? He felt across the bed, hands grasping a small stuffed lamb, the torn edges patched by careful hands. Her teeth had begun to fray the fur, nervous habits becoming imprints of adoration. He stared at it in his hands and frowned.

It was too quiet.

He stood and felt the coolness of the stone beneath his feet, that wasn’t right. His mother had chosen a rug for his room when he had complained of the cold hardwood. Why was there stone? He shook his head and began walking, holding the small lamb in his hands.

“Mischa! ar jūs lunatikuojate?” His voice came out strange, echoing through the home. He knew if she was sleepwalking she would not be able to answer him, but his mama had told him that talking to Mischa would sometimes bring her back. He had not quite understood the logic but his mama was rarely wrong, so he digressed. 

The halls were dimly lit, as they normally were for the hour. Candlelight to provide some warmth given the season. It was a cool winter, colder than normal and the snow had smothered most of the farmland in a pillow of white. He saw no real issue with this other than the inconvenience of being unable to have some of his favorite dishes. His mama had said raspberry scones were off the table for the foreseeable future. He was only slightly upset. Mischa had thrown a fit. 

Mischa, right, where was she?

“Mischa! jau vėlu, esu pavargęs.” He whined, rubbing his eyes and stumbling further. He was beginning to worry, though, some part of him knew that she was likely in the kitchens. Mischa’s appetite was monstrous. He changed course. 

The dark hallways of his home were like a blanket of quiet and flickering warmth. He passed his parent's room, the mahogany door was shut and dark beneath the crack. Perhaps his mother would be granted sleep tonight, she so often had terrors. Wild-eyed with porcelain tears down her face as she held onto Mischa or himself and whispered her lullabies. He never asked what she dreamt of, he thinks she was grateful for that.

“Tai nėra juokinga!” He shouted once he made it to the lower level of the castle. 

He tripped over something, feet catching beneath him as he was thrown forward and into the snow.

He screamed, voice raw with desperation as he clenched his body. The lamb was bloody in his hands, now ripped apart and stuffing thrown everywhere. He couldn’t fix it. He wouldn’t be able to, not like this. 

Where was Mischa, dear God, where was Mischa?

“Mischa! prašau, aš bijau! nepalikite manęs ramybėje!” 

He hated the snow, it bit at him like a starving dog and he cried out at the suddenness of the chill against his thin body. It was snowing again. He had left to get her food, she was so small–too small. He could feel the knobs of her spine and the lines of her ribs when he held her at night.

Why had he left her?

“Atsiprašau! Atsiprašau! Atsiprašau!” He cried out.

Then.

“Hannibal! Hannibal, kur esi? Pagalba!” Hannibal!” Her voice screamed through the forest, echoing against the woodgrain of trees long since fallen. He could not reach her. He didn’t know where she was, he shouted and ran–

“Hannibal, atsibusti. Sh, va bene,” Chiyoh’s voice was a smooth hum as she guided him slowly back to the waking world.

Hannibal jolted upright, arms striking out with his pocket knife, blade slashing through nothing as he gulped warm Louisiana air back into his lungs. A cry sat at the tail end of the motion, a name like a ghost in the air cut off by the blinking awareness of his surroundings. But, he knew what he was going to say, they both did. It did not make such a thing easier. His arm fell to the bed, soft cotton beneath his hand. His heart was racing and the sickness turned his stomach with something he did not wish to name. Everything felt wrong in the way grief makes things wrong permanently. The weight in the bed is always wrong, his body accommodating to a body that would no longer sneak in to fend off nightmares. It was his job, he thinks, to fend off her monsters. And he had failed.

“Was I shouting?” Hannibal asked, voice hoarse with emotion he hated to show. Chiyoh sat on the edge of the bed, careful hands taking the knife from his palms and tucking the blade away. She never feared him, never once. It was an odd reminder that he was human.

“Just slightly, you only woke me up because I am right next door.” She explained and the moonlight caught her features like an angel, soft with a milky haze that was enchanting.

“I apologize.” Hannibal cleared his throat. It hurt. He was sure he was screaming.

“Come, I am craving a cigarette.” Chiyoh stood and stretched, mindlessly digging into Hannibal’s closet for a sweater before nodding her head. It was a grace, small and kind in the way Chiyoh normally was–understated in her actions. She was never outwardly welcoming, off putting on a good day, but her love for Hannibal was bathed in a familial intimacy of which they shared.

Hannibal wordlessly stood and grabbed his own sweater before following her to their shared balcony. The doors burst open with the midnight smell of something sweet and earthy. Hannibal could make out the way the moisture stuck to the windows, bending the new wood in a persistent battle to reclaim what was always hers. He smiled, finger going down the glass of the door and wiping it on his chest. It was not cold, in fact the night as it stood now was incredibly humid with moisture. Hannibal could feel the tails of his hair curling as he ran his fingers through the strands. Somewhere in his chest something released, a tension perhaps, at the feeling of being hot and not cold. Like being dunked in a pool unexpectedly and forced to gasp as you breach the surface. 

He had survived, whatever that may mean now.

“Do you wish to speak about it?” Chiyoh asked, hands routinely lighting a self-rolled cigarette with the dull glow of embers in the night. It flickered to life and dimmed to a steady burn as she inhaled.

“Not entirely.” Hannibal replied, taking a drag as it was passed to him.

“Can I say something anyway?” 

“You would not be yourself if you suddenly held your tongue.” Hannibal smirked and she smiled playfully as she smoked. 

“Quite right, cousin,” She paused and turned to him, arms leaning against the balcony, “Do you think it helped?” It was an unexpected question. They rarely spoke on the matters of Florence, most of the time that portion of their lives remained in limbo. Floating in an unreachable circle of hell.

“I think it will, when it is over.” Hannibal replied and Chiyoh nodded.

“You intend to go back.” It wasn’t a question.

“I hate to leave my work unfinished.”

“It will not bring her back. Some ghosts are better yet to remain as such.”

You play God.

He took a drag of their shared cigarette, the embers flicked on the wet ground and dissolved. He shook his head.

“I am not seeking a resurrection.”

I play a game with God.

“And yet?”

What’s the prize?

“And yet.”

Violence.

Chiyoh nodded, accepting this and feeling it on her tongue. Hannibal knew she wished peace for him, and her brand of violence was different than his own. She didn’t seek it out or desire it the way he did, but she did not judge those who did. Her darkness was a creature sitting in the shadows, participating only when the moment was needed. Like a lazy panther perpetually playing with a rabbit only to go for the kill when they sensed another predator. It was always fascinating to watch her control. Admirable.

They finished their cigarette in silence and when Chiyoh retired once more Hannibal decided to remain outside. It was nearing morning and he wanted to watch the sunrise over the sea of Weeping Willows that resided on their land. His eyes cast forward, letting the morning breeze pick up softly around him like a curious butterfly. And he wondered softly of divinity and the afterlife, he wondered if his sins had prevented the rest of his sister. His stomach lurched and he swallowed thickly, the tar on his tongue thick with emotion. But, slowly that receded too with the coming of the sun bursting bright shades of pink and purple upon the sky. The trees swayed and the air began to smell of honeysuckles. Summer was here, kind and soft in the morning light, captured right before the sweltering sun beat upon the backs of men.

“ Jos tokios gražios.” 

“Yes. Yes, it is.” He smiled, utterly alone.

Hannibal began his morning routine soon after the sun rose, wanting to get it done with and perhaps head to the butcher shop early. There was supposedly some sort of large delivery to be made today and despite being beyond prepared, Hobbs was greatly stressed over the matter. Not to mention it was Abigail’s last day of school as she so gratuitously reminded him.’ He knew Hobbs would not be the most pleasant company today but Abigail’s joy would make up for it, she had been looking forward to showing him her art portfolio since she could finally bring it home.

Hannibal’s suspicions of Hobbs have been an increasing issue when it came to their interactions. It was not that Hannibal could not fake his way through conversation with the man but there was something about him that was starting to paint itself into clarity as time passed. He knew, somehow, it had something to do with Abigail and that was likely why he was so unnerved. He also was self-aware enough that he knew the increase in his nightmares likely had a direct correlation to his worry for the girl. Not knowing what kind of monster Hobbs was grated at Hannibal, and he had made it a needed task to figure that out. 

It would be harder with Abigail around, though. Considering how much the little girl hated people, she did not hate Hannibal.

Hannibal smoothed down his black t-shirt and double-checked his hair before heading to the front door. It was still early enough that the majority of the house was asleep. A few clanks could be heard from the kitchen but that was likely one of the maids. 

“Hannibal.” 

He nearly thought he imagined it, the smooth accented voice that brought with it memories of tea and shared secrets and an intimacy that shattered with the blade of a poorly hidden knife. He frowned, confused at first at the breach in their agreement. He had been so careful to respect her wishes, so willing to remain silent and give her a wide berth of life he would not be a part of. He had not mentioned what happened between them with anyone, as was her desire. Hannibal felt his mind struggle to make amends with the sound of his name on her tongue again, somewhere in his mind a door creaked open.

He turned around and looked at Lady Murasaki with calculating eyes, likely more warm than he wished. He wanted to be cold, wanted to ignore her voice. He wondered faintly why he could not.

“May I speak to you?” Her request came like a punch to his stomach, a cool chill running down his spine with phantom memories of a time he had long since locked away. His hand trembled as it latched onto his jacket. He twitched for a sense of control in what was quickly becoming a complete loss of it. All he could see was her tear-stained face and the echoing finality of her words when she had discovered what he had done. The betrayal in her eyes when she saw Chiyoh cleaning his wounds.

“I have work soon.” was what he managed after an extended silence. They both knew it was a lie, and even if it was not they both knew Hannibal would postpone all duties if she asked. He hated that. He wondered if she did it on purpose.

“I will not keep you long then. Come, I made tea.” She turned, not waiting any longer and it was a demand in and of itself. Hannibal twitched with indecision, looking at her retreating figure as he turned to the door a final time. He let go of his jacket, hanging it on the hook once more. 

They found themselves in the sunroom, as Hannibal suspected they might. It was the one place within the home that seemed to be entirely Lady Murasaki’s. Robertus had his clinical approach to decor that came with old money and simplicity but Murasaki was different. She enjoyed bright colors and the scent of flowers and antiques from her home. There was little she asked for, and little Robertus would not do to please her, but what she did have was extravagant. The room was bathed in early morning light, the tea table a deep mahogany that shined with fresh polish and the smell of lemon. The cushions were embroidered with cherry blossom flowers in delicate pink and gold accents, and thin curtains brought in bright light and warmth despite them being closed. Plants hung from the ceiling and large pots sat in each corner. It was a corner of paradise, it seemed. And Murasaki was inviting him inside.

He wondered if that made him the snake of Eden.

“Sit, please.” She motioned. Hannibal sat on one of the cushions and found himself thrust into the thralls of nostalgia that stung his nose with jasmine tea and whispered intimacies. He shook the memories away.

“Can I ask why you have decided to break your year of silence against me?” Hannibal asked, voice attempting to not sound bitter. He felt the stuttering tremble of something boyish in his heart when she smiled at him softly, head tilted. The desire to strip away his armor came suddenly and entirely without his permission. He wondered if she knew that too.

“Always directly to the point.” She whispered and instead of speaking handed him a porcelain cup filled with tea. 

They sat in that cruel silence for a long time, or perhaps no time at all, he was not sure. There was something to be said about time as he watched the teacup in his hands shake with all the lack of his usual self-control. He was confused, his body ached and shards of glass ripped at his throat. Something about her ability to reduce him was entirely unnerving, it made him feel exposed and raw in all the tender places. Heart shaking with the nerves of a boy's touch. The rejection of her gaze, now so cool and closed off. The rooms of her mind were shallow-looking glasses to him now, she had entirely shut him out. And yet she sat here, with a warm smile and a pot of tea. 

How does one navigate that?

“How are you liking the town? Chiyoh tells me you’ve gotten yourself a job at the local butchery.” Her words were smooth and cold like a marble statue, riddled with an emotion Hannibal could not figure out. He took a drink of tea, treading carefully within her garden, careful to avoid the thorns laid before him.

“I’ve come to enjoy myself and the company here. My job treats me well, and I have acquaintances–perhaps a friend or two.” Hannibal offered no names, no actual details of his life. He was not sure why his mind cut his tongue short against her, defensive in his words but malleable in action. 

“Friends? Odd, for you, to keep company beyond initial entertainment.” Her words held a weight of wonder, curiosity, and reduction. He almost winced.

“The same could be said for you.” He shot back. He felt a thorn scratch his stomach, the garden bristling at his words. There was another pause, the silence now filling with mourning doves and the melancholy life of summer. Somewhere an engine roared to life.

Hannibal thought of Will.

“There is no need for us to throw barbs at one another, not when I simply need to ask you one thing.” Murasaki put down her tea cup and sat straighter, eyes thinning. Hannibal waited, unsure of where she was going with whatever declaration she was about to say. It unnerved him, not being able to tell. 

“Afterwards, I suspect our interim truce will be over? To be picked up again when you desire?” Hannibal asked, bitter in his words. Old wounds opening up to the softness of her gaze.

Murasaki reached out and took his hand, fingers caressing the bones of each knuckle softly. The scars there from acts of violence they both did not dare speak on. The cut on his thumb from reckless use of a sword, knuckles curved slightly from a broken fist. All wounds that Chiyoh had taken upon herself to fix, unwilling to listen to Murasaki’s cruel words of rejection and demands. Her love ran shallow, this was something Hannibal had to remind himself of, even as he smelled the familiar sweetness of her perfume. Memory was cruel, and his fingers twitched with boyish desire.

“Did you kill that boy?” 

Hannibal froze. Her words were a mere whisper, yet they rang through his mind like the broken string of a violin, a melody cut short and jarring to the senses. She held him in place by the gentle grip of her hand upon his, and he could not move from it. Hannibal looked at her, the cool dark marbles of her eyes and the chill that now sat upon them. And it was so sudden, the shock of it, he nearly stumbled backward. The realization that she never intended to speak to him as a human, to treat him with a fairness his life was worthy of. She had only intended to ask him this, to know if he was going to ruin her visions of the future once more. If he was the monster she had so willingly reduced him to be. And he saw it then, the way she lived. How lonely she was, how out of control she felt in her glass house of fancy antiques. 

And he suddenly found the door in his mind tainted with something dark, oil slick and strange. His gut twisted and her touch felt wrong. It all felt wrong. 

“What?” He asked, voice a drone of shock, emotionless and strange to his own ears.

“A boy has died, brutally murdered by a faceless monster, no evidence of the killer left behind. I can only wonder, ” She continued, flipping his hand and tracing his lifelines as if they meant something to her beyond the need for her security. 

Hannibal ripped it away, standing.The pain in his chest threatened to swallow him entirely. He felt he was drowning. He could hear his sister's voice in his mind, tugging on his leg and begging him to breathe. When he finally mustered up the energy to take a deep breath it was with the staggering tumble of feet leaving the room.

“You cannot blame my curiosity, Hannibal. We both know what terrors lie where your heart should be. You were born to it, a wrongness. It is not implausible to think you capable of such violence.” Murasaki spoke sternly, voice like cutting knives into the already tender flesh. He heard these words before, long ago, but painted with the rosiness of his infatuation he had not realized her ilk. How deeply she held him in an ideology he never was going to be. 

“My capabilities of violence do not make me a mindless monstrosity. Though, it seems, your words  make you one.” 

He did not wait to see if she would follow, nor did he wait to hear what she said. The garden was closed to him once more and he had done it to himself. Everything that it was, everything it represented was a burning pyre in his mind. Locked away in a smoking room to be reduced to ash. Because he was never the snake was he? He was a boy. He was in pain, and she had seen none of that. Not really. Not like she pretended to. His exile was a punishment he had not earned. The forced silence was a cruel game.

If I was never the snake in the garden, then what am I?

Hannibal could feel the tar returning to his tongue, to his throat. The sense that his tongue was heavy and his vocal cords were being reduced. A cool panic reached for him, striking delicate fingers up his spine as he left the home. He felt the sun burst in his eyes and with a manic sort of hilarity he felt like a stumbling faun in the dark. Behind the cold walls of his mind, there was a pounding against a door, a screaming that he tried to ignore. It had taken him nearly three years to get his voice back, he refused to lose it again.

Thankfully, as he got into his motorcycle and revved the engine to life, his body knew what his mind did not. When the wheels hit the main road his instincts tilted him in a very specific direction.

He swallowed more glass and grunted out a painful shout on the dirt road.

_____________________________________________________

Will ran a cool rag on his neck as the morning rush finally dwindled to a few lingering customers in the back booths. The Monday crowd was always something to be dreaded. The coffee machine barely kept up with the orders and there were at least five broken plates by 11am. Today had been particularly harsh, the A/C was down and so Edie opened the windows which really didn’t help at all. Between the sweating customers, hot food, and the smell of grease in the air Will nearly felt sick. He and Bev had handled it as they usually did, though, and he was a few hundred bucks richer for it. 

“Seems I came at the right time.” 

Will nearly threw his head onto the counter at the sound of the familiar southern twang sauced and coiled like a snake. He should have known it wouldn’t take long for her to show up, where there was any sort of scent of death it was likely Fredrica Lounds followed. Identifiable by her fiery curls and signature cherry red boots. There was nothing inherently pleasant about Freddie, though Will was inclined to be as pleasant as he could be towards her. A practice in patience, Bev had called it. 

“Freddie, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Will turned and met her eyes with a cool despondence that was calculated in its lack of personability. Otherwise, they might kill each other.

“Cut the shit, Graham, we ain’t gotta play nice. M’just droppin’ off this week's Gazette.” She huffed and Will got a waft of her cherry-flavored bubblegum as she dug into her satchel and slammed down a stack of roughly twenty newspapers.

“They actually let ya write in it this time, or are ya just running the errands?” Will smirked and Freddie grinded her teeth. A sickeningly sweet smile snapped on her glossy lips as her eyes thinned.

“Page 4, I covered Clyde’s murder. Interviewed Captain Katz about the frankly embarrassing lack of answers he’s provided to the public. How are we supposed to feel safe?” Freddie drowned, mocking, as she laid a manicured hand on her chest. 

“It’s a lot easier to make enemies than friends, Freddie.” Will gritted out, feeling blood rush through his ears.

“I know, I got a little black book full of ‘em. Now don’t look so glum, handsome, you’ll get wrinkles. Besides, who knows, maybe I’ll interview you next. Rumor has it you and Clyde had a little row the night of the party.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?" Will felt something in him snarl at the accusation. Her shamelessness was always shocking, but the lack of empathy towards the situation drove Will insane.

“I don’t know, you tell me.” Freddie winked and tilted her head of curls curiously as she watched him.

“You should leave.” Will gritted out. Freddie sighed and nodded as if it pained her greatly.

“I really should, I’ve got lots of deliveries. But, do give Beverly my love. I hope to see you both soon! Do call if you think of any details.” Freddie set down her business card and tapped it with a red fingernail as punctuation. Will watched as she swayed from the diner like a banshee on hell water and disappeared out the door. 

Wills eyes trained down on the stack of the Gazette and felt the gnawing sense of curiosity fill him. It was stupid, he knew, Freddie was rarely good for any truth amongst her fluff and slander about whatever abhorrent thing caught her interest. But, this time, she was almost valid in her pursuits. There was a dead boy in a town that hadn’t seen murder in decades. People were scared and confused, two emotions that made them desperate for stability. 

Will flipped open the thin paper to page 4 and read the gaudy headline: Summer of Nightmares: Savage Murder Leaves Local Boy Dead! Exclusive Interview by Freddie Lounds

Will scowled. Freddie’s affinity for creating noise was annoying at best and damaging at worst. She twisted words, caused panic—all just to increase sales. Clyde was dead and the most Freddie cared about was the word count. The article highlighted a grizzly scene, describing Clyde’s body as “ripped to incomprehensible shreds” by “a creature or man with an insatiable love for violence”. It was cheap, it was cruel. Will crumbled up the copy and threw it in the trash. He couldn’t get rid of the others but it made him feel a little better.

“You eaten yet, boy?” Terry shouted from the back. The poor guy had managed to keep up all day but Will worried for his health. He barely saw the sun yet, and the stains on his apron from today alone spoke of his hard work.

“M’okay Terry, go take a break.” Will replied, going back behind the bar top and dipping his rag in ice water once more. 

“Not what I asked, son. I asked is you hungry?” Terry’s wrinkled face came poking from the swinging kitchen door with a dusty white raised brow. His dark skin was covered in a layer of sweat that he wiped down with a rag, nothing but patience on his amused face. Will smirked, shaking his head.

“No, Terry I ain’t had time to eat yet but don’t worry ‘bout me. I’ll get somethin’ with Bevvy when my shift ends.” Will shrugged, nodding the old man off.

“Like hell, you will! You be skippin’ all sorta meals, Willoughby Graham, don’t think I ain’t noticed. Now si’down and let me feed ya.” Terry rambled as he headed back to the kitchen and Will rolled his eyes fondly. It wasn’t that Terry was wrong, it was just that Will didn’t particularly enjoy the charity of it. The Grahams weren’t all that well off and growing up his daddy made it clear that meals were something earned through hard work, never guaranteed. Not the way other things had been. But, Will had people in his life who had begun to untwist that particular ideology–though it was about as painful as pulling your teeth out.

The bell above the door rang and Will nearly threw his rag. It was too damn hot of a day for this. They’d just settled into that sweet spot, Terry was making food, who on Earth needed him now? Will put the rag in the cup and dried his face as best he could with a towel under the counter before turning to make his way around the front. As he rounded the corner of the bar his heart stuttered.

Oh. That’s who.

“Your boy is here, ain’t talkin’ to no one but you. Somethin’ you wanna tell me, Willoughby?” Bev was leaning against the counter, her apron discarded as she fanned herself with a menu. She smirked knowingly with a raised brow, a giggle in her voice that made Will’s face all shades of red.

“Fuck off, Katz.” Will whispered, trying to make his ketchup-stained uniform appear some sort of put together.

“If you wanted privacy, baby, all you gotta do is ask.” Bev did laugh then, slapping Will’s ass as she ran off before he could retaliate. Will let out a yelp that made everything much, much worse and he wanted to crawl somewhere dark and abandoned to die. He thinks that would be easier. As he peaked around the corner again, Hannibal was standing at the kiosk with a sort of lost expression to him.

Something was wrong.

Will frowned and suddenly nothing mattered as he straightened up and walked over with a determination in his step. As he got closer he was taken aback again at the utter beauty of this boy, all sharp edges and foreign lines. He had shirked his leathers and now wore a tight black t-shirt that was doing all sorts of awful things to Will’s concentration. Will noticed a small chain for the first time, around Hannibal’s neck, with a clasped silver charm. Like one of those old prayer box necklaces you got from church, though Will had a feeling it held something far more valuable than prayer. He saw the lines of muscle in Hannibal’s chest as he exhaled and Will’s hands twitched with the need to touch. The heat of the day had done something new to Hannibal’s hair, the tail ends of it curling slightly as he ran his fingers through it once more. A stray piece stubbornly resumed its place upon his forehead and Will smiled.

“Hey.” Will’s voice was soft, and he knew it was a lame opening but something told him Hannibal wasn’t entirely there just yet. Something had happened. Will tried to meet Hannibal’s eyes and the boy averted them to the ground. He doesn’t have a lick of armor on right now, “I’m about to go on break, hungry?” Will asked, changing his approach. 

Hannibal looked at him then. Will felt himself drown in it. Something was definitely wrong, though whatever it was remained carefully locked away. But, the emotion from it? Not so much. Will felt the roiling feeling of filth overtake him, a betrayal and devastation. He soaked in a wrongness that ate at him, making him want to tear at his own skin to get it off. It wasn’t an entirely foreign feeling, the filth. Will deals with that from himself, it was one of the only emotions he had come to know so intimately. It didn’t belong to Hannibal, though, filth belonged to Will. 

What happened to you?

After what seemed to be a long time, Hannibal nodded. He blinked a few times and looked around fully. Awareness came to him, Will could see it as a huff of amusement left his lips. He looked back to Will and nodded again. More certain the second time. Will motioned for Hannibal to follow him and the two found a secluded booth near the back where no one would bother them. The sun was coming in through the window and it shined on Hannibal fondly like a tilted halo. His face was still fixed on a point just beyond Will, but this he could understand as well. Sometimes the intimacy of eye contact was too much. 

Will leaned on his elbows and tilted his head with a soft smile.

“I sometimes would go months without talkin’ when I was a kid. Drove my daddy damn near up a wall, could never understand how hard it could be to make my words come out. Felt like my tongue was a bunny in a bear trap.” Will offered and chewed on his lip, trying to think of a way to help. Something came to mind but he wasn’t sure how Hannibal would respond right yet. 

“You ain’t gotta speak if you don’t wanna. Whatever is eatin’ ya, it’ll pass. Your words will come back, hear?” Will leaned down to meet Hannibal’s eyes and this time the boy offered them. More put together than last time, a little sturdier. 

Will tapped the table a few times and stood. Hannibal looked momentarily alarmed before Will simply explained he was going to get their food. Hannibal looked pensive at that but Will waved it off and scurried away. When he returned with two plates of The Works, Hannibal had a spark of a smile twitching at the edges of his lips. It felt like a victory. 

Something within Will began to wind up, like a brand new toy he was figuring out the mechanics of. A new tremble made home in his hand and he was startled to find it was from excitement. It was an odd feeling for him, anticipation in the form of something entirely positive. The lack of anxiety was in and of itself anxiety-inducing, but there was no one around and perhaps Will was feeling brave today. Maybe it didn’t matter what anyone else wanted for him, no really. Because, sure, maybe he did feel the filth on his most of the time. But, Hell wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t alone. If all his friends were there too. 

Will did something then, something he had wanted to do since he met Hannibal. 

He reached out.

His hand tenderly hovered, deciding where to land before ultimately finding a motion to please both ideas. He took his calloused palms, born from too much manual labor at too young an age, dirty with a day's work honest enough to earn his meal, and touched the stubborn silken strand of Hannibal’s hair. The purity of it beneath his fingers felt like sin to corrupt. He gulped softly as he felt his heart race in his chest and tucked it behind Hannibal’s ear. He allowed his hand to travel down the hard marble of his cheekbones only for a moment. His skin was smooth, soft, and clean-shaven. It sent goosebumps up Will’s arm as he continued his journey down further until finally, he paused right above Hannibal’s hand. Through the entirety of this Hannibal hadn’t broken eye contact with Will, his eyes glistening with a strange wonder. As if Will was something worth looking at, worth knowing and it made him dizzy with the feeling of it.

When Hannibal didn’t move, he placed his hand gently down. The motion caused Hannibal to flinch slightly and Will thought he had ruined it entirely. He went to pull back before Hannibal shook his head and turned over his hand, taking Will’s into it. Will looked at their hands, out in the open like this, no witness to see something so delicate and kind. It felt like a revolution. Will ran his palms over Hannibal’s smooth hands, only slightly calloused from work on his motorcycle. These were artists' hands, somehow Will just knew. 

He wondered what Hannibal would make of him.

“Ne gyvatė, o kažkas naujo.” Hannibal whispered, a language Will didn’t understand. Whatever it was, it broke Hannibal’s voice with an uncharacteristic softness. Will wasn’t even sure he knew he’d spoken aloud. 

“So, I was thinkin’ ‘bout what you said.” Will began softly, tilting his head with a new shyness. Hannibal looked at him with a curious tilt that made Will smile, “ ‘Bout wantin’ a tour of the town. Never got my answer on how ya wanted to do it.” Will felt a flush rise to his cheeks as Hannibal’s face lit up. He raised his brow as if to say ‘And?’ which only made Will more fond.

“I’ll take you out in my truck, I think–if you still wanted to– I mean if you was just jokin’ we don’t gotta do nothin’--”

“Your accent gets thicker when you ramble.” Hannibal’s voice was rough on the edges but still him, still smooth with that accent that tickled Will’s ears.

“Sorry.” Will frowned and Hannibal shook his head and chuckled, a light sound that felt like a gift.

“No–I find myself fond of it. I would be honored to be taken out in your truck, Dear Will.” 

Will was a goner, he guessed this of course in the morning light of his home when Hannibal came for his jacket. He was nearly certain of it when he had seen the way the light kissed Hannibal in the diner. But, now he was damn well sure of it hearing his name on Hannibal’s tongue with more reverence than a pastor in a church.

“So, tomorrow.” Will felt a new blossoming glee plant itself in his chest.

“It’s a date.” Hannibal nodded in awe before retreating his hand gently. There was a moment where neither boy broke eye contact before Hannibal ultimately fluttered his eyes downwards. He poked his fork at the waffle on his plate curiously before nodding for Will to do the same, “Eat your breakfast before it gets cold.”

Yeah , Will thought, I’m fucked .