Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was melancholic as Hannibal stepped out from the car, gravel crunching beneath his feet as his eyes set upon his new home, wary and scrutinizing, eyes narrowed distastefully. Mishca climbed from the backseat to stand beside her brother, smelling of lilacs and the sugary candy she had eaten on the short drive from the airport. She let out a disheartened huff as their eyes both flitted about the building. It was far less grand than their castle back in Lithuania. A two-story home with white clapboard siding, a wrap-around porch, black shutters on each window and a large tree that a tire swing hung from in the front yard. It was a typical home and Hannibal was still unsure as to why his mother had made the choices she had, but he decided he would give her the benefit of the doubt for now, though he still missed their old home.

It lacked the royal decadence the castle had. The house looked worn, threadbare but firm all the same. Like a used piece of china at the antique store you'd mull over for a few moments before ultimately putting it back on the shelf, though in the end there was still contemplation, and for his mother, it seemed that she had decided to purchase it.

Cicadas buzzed in the early afternoon sun, Hannibal thought it was odd that something made by nature could make such a mechanical ring. It was a sound he'd used to think came from the sun as a child, tussling in the grass with Mischa as he stared up at the glistening sky. Clouds swayed about above him and small bursts of wind danced their way about his hair, blowing it every which way as he heaved his luggage from the trunk of their new car, gravel crunching beneath his boots as he walked to the front steps, trudging a suitcase in each arm. The wind helped soothe his sun slick skin ever so slightly, though it blew against him like a weak puff of air, not enough to truly cool his quickly pinkening cheeks and limbs. They would remain hot to the touch, even after removing himself from the sun. Mama would likely lather him with her jar of aloe later, the one which she’d combined with a smattering of essential oils and oatmeal.

Vines of ivy climbed up the walls of the home with courageous dignity, spindling up the posts which supported the roof above, dancing amongst the railings and fitting in every crack and crevice as if they were needed upon the structure, as if it were the glue that held everything together. The wooden porch creaked under his step, splintered wood sprouting from the lumber, catching on the soles of his shoes ever so slightly as he ventured to the front door. Mischa's steps followed closely behind, her heaving breaths leaving her mouth in puffs as she struggled with her luggage, groaning quietly with displeasure.

The hot sun beaming above left sweat to drip down either of their foreheads and stream down the backs of their necks, weakly securing the fabric of their shirts to their skin, following with their every movement like a glove around their body as they lifted and shoved their baggage into their home, stacking everything in the living room for the time being as mama had asked them to do. The wood floors were rickety under their feet, even as they made careful steps throughout the house, taking in the confines of the new walls that would now shelter them.

Hannibal wasn't too fond of it. The home was delicate it seemed, not structurally, but visually in his mind. White walls and crownmolding, dark hardwood floors that splintered, white lace curtains and beige upholstered furniture that had been patched up with various scraps of fabric. It was cozy, not stark as the castel was with its rigid stone walls and velvet chaises, golden framed murals and dangling chandeliers. It was a home; not a castel. He still failed to feel supportive of his mothers decision, yet he kept his mouth shut regardless. This was mama's choice to make, not his. There was no need for his input and he knew that, no matter how deplored he was.

Though worry loomed in the back of his mind that perhaps this was of his own doing. He knew it was feasible. Maybe his mothers idea of a punishment for the person that he was, if she’d found out somehow. However, Hannibal knew that was unlikely. He was good at what he did. He left no trace. He was skilled and artful enough with his work that it'd never be assumed to be that of a child's. He told himself that this simply wasn't the case. No one could possibly know. But it was hard to convince his mind of such a thing, because if it were true in the end, it meant that something cruel and bleak was to come. His freedom gone, his life. But no, that simply wasn't possible.

In a daze, Hannibal collected his items from the living room and transported them to his new bedroom. The space smelled of wood and dust and freshly cleaned linen and it was entirely empty barring a wooden bedframe with a thin mattress atop it in the middle of the room and a matching dresser rested about the wall opposite of the bed. Across the surface of the dresser were a bounty of engravings carved within the wood, some rigid images of flowers and the rest a spatter of what Hannibal assumed were song lyrics or perhaps quotes and a sprinkling of stars here and there. He ran his finger amongst the carvings, feeling the indentations under his skin as he swept over them. Perhaps he'd add some of his own one day, or maybe he'd cover it all up, though in all likelihood, he'd presumably get a whole new dresser in the end to replace this one. Something which reflected more of his own refined taste.

He heaved his bag onto the end of the bed then, a ratty leather duffle from his childhood, the right strap nearly hanging on by a thread from everything it's been put through. A plume of dust lifted from the mattress as the bag met its surface, the particles floating about in the rays of sun which filtered in through the window on the far side of the room. Hannibal pulled at the zipper of the bag, the teeth getting caught here and there, the fraying threads of the old material getting stuck in the chain as he pulled, though eventually, it opened, the zipper purring as it glided unevenly.

Hannibal let out a sigh as he picked through the bags contents, taking hold of a small wooden box, all that was held inside rattling against its confines as it was lifted and promptly settled down on the mattress beside the duffle. His fingers grazed over the engraved monogram of his initials which lay inscribed within the lid of the box, his skin washing over the etching and the smooth oiled wood, his soft fingers dancing over the surface gracefully. He flipped open the latch then, with only the pad of his thumb, the golden clasp digging ever so slightly into his flesh before the lid fell backwards, revealing its contents which all laid organized intentionally amongst it’s red velvet lining.

Inside sat a few tins, one of hemlock, one of nightshade, one of paralytics and one of sedatives. Beside the few tins was his knife, covered by its leather sheath that held a burnt monogram of his initials in its skin. The handle was made of the polished bone of his first kill. He'd made it on his own with the help of his cousin. They'd bleached and scrubbed it together until it was a pristine white, sanding it down until it was of the right size. Despite his knowledge of the femur being the largest bone in the body, it had been quite larger than he'd expected, though it was the first time he had truly seen a human bone.

Beside the knife lay a velvet sachet, inside sat the proximal bones of each thumb of his kills, all scrubbed and bleached until perfectly clean. Hannibal left the contents as they were, simply confirming that everything remained before pressing the lid shut, folding over the golden latch and sliding it into the top drawer of the dresser, pushing it into the far right corner until it met with the wooden walls of the drawer.

Mischa entered his room then, the short heels of her Mary Janes tapping along the floor as she skipped through the threshold, leaping onto his bed as Hannibal placed the now zipped shut duffle on the top of his dresser, limp with emptiness. She perched at the edge for a few moments, feet dangling fervently in the air before throwing herself backwards with a small huff, her arms lifted in the air, swaying as they were held high, the beams of light from the window flitting amongst her dancing fingers.

“Mama said we start school soon,” Mischa said, her voice still high-pitched with youth, sounding so childlike to him despite only being a few years younger than Hannibal himself. Her accent didn't help much either, still thick in spite of her many years of practice. “Two weeks,” She added with a click of her tongue, hands still swaying in the air above her, eyes staring at them intently, feet dangling carelessly off the edge of the bed, sweeping back and forth.

Hannibal hummed in acknowledgment, picking up a few articles of clothing to refold before placing them in the dresser, just simple sweaters and undershirts, nothing important enough to be hung in the closet. He likely wouldn't be fond of their new school, nor was he expecting his classmates to be too fond of him. Though, it was school. A simple necessity that he couldn't abandon due to mere displeasure. School was never quite enjoyable, though he assumed this new school would be even less so. Classes would likely consist of their teacher droning on about U.S. history that were only half truths and algebraic equations that he already knew of or knew far better substitutes for, and his classmates were sure to be awful, American children always were. Rude and uncultured and selfish and stupid and closeminded. Yet, they were likely to think they were better than him, he presumed. It really was unfortunate how many people this new school was going to compel him to take care of. This town was sure to get a whole lot smaller.

Not that school was much better back in Lithuania, but it seemed as if people there admired eloquence at the least. Americans spoke so mundane and dull. Hannibal found it quite boring. He preferred a more verse way of speaking rather than a straight to the point monotonous jumble of words. Perhaps that was because there was once a time in which he'd realized he had taken speaking for granted, finding himself unable to and grasping the full importance of it, the potential greatness when it's used to its full capacity. Though, he realized that most people really did not care all that much, speech wasn't exactly an art in their eyes as it was in his. Words were such a beautiful thing and yet no one seemed to use them to their true potential.

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Hannibal assured his sister, tucking away the last few articles of clothing with careful hands, smoothing over the material before closing the drawer and turning to face Mischa who groaned into her hands as they plastered over her small face. She was awfully pathetic yet he adored her all the same.

“But I won’t know anyone,” She whined, her complaints muffled by the palms of her hands that laid glued to her lips, her feet kicking at the bedframe now where they hung off the edge of the mattress, dull thuds spouting from the wood every few beats. “And mama said there is no uniforms,” She complained once more, voice now clear as her arms fell to lay on either side of her torso. “How awful is that? I will have to choose an outfit every morning.”

Letting out a breathy laugh, Hannibal stood before his sister, hands holding at his hips sternly, though he remained cordial as he looked down at Mischa, a smile playing at his lips as he peered at her pitiful face. “You will make friends, Mischa,” He said, his voice nearly a sigh as he spoke, turning around once more to heave another bag onto the end of his bed, right beside where Mischa lay, another plume of dust rising from the mattress as he did so.

He knew she would, she was outgoing, far more so than he was himself, and was likely to force someone to talk to her and promptly into a friendship. Mischa always had a cluster of friends back home, most of which were incredibly annoying in Hannibal's eyes, talked far too much and far too loud. Though, he couldn't say the same about himself, he rarely had friends at all, no one besides his cousin, however, he didn't exactly mind that fact and he’d become fairly content with it. No one would ever be at his level and that was okay with him. The only way he could have a friendship with someone was if he could consider them an equal and that was an incredibly rare person to find. Though, he was sure he could find someone as such one day. He simply wasn't sure of when.

“And you adore dressing up. Since when has that become an issue for you?” Hannibal asked his sister, remembering all the times she’d dressed in her finest silk and lace gowns adorning a huge grin on her face and shining pearls and jewels amongst her neck and wrists. Mischa would dress to simply gaze at herself in the mirror most times, strutting up and down the halls in her mothers heels, posing in each doorway to show off her ensemble to whomever was present and willing.

“Not so early in the day,” Mischa complained again, her arm rising in the air to simply fall back into a mattress with her hand in a fist. Hannibal wondered if she should even be laying on the thing, the amount of dust that had risen from it was dreadful and the bounty of stains strewn amongst its surface was quite worrisome, though Mischa didn't seem to mind.

“You are quite pathetic,” Hannibal accused weakly, a soft smile on his face and a few curt shakes of his head as he regarded the new attitude his sister had taken up. Mischa groaned in response, the sound muffled by her hands coming up to her face once more, plastered over her mouth as she whined, further more proving Hannibal's point.

“And you’re rude,” Mischa replied, her voice coming out in weak tendrils through the gaps in between her small fingers, lips still smushed by the palms that remained glued to her face. Hannibal let out a breathy laugh and though he could argue that she was the one acting rudely, uninvitedly splaying herself amongst his bed and idly complaining about nonsense, he did not. He kept his mouth shut as he emptied the contents from his bag, mostly his toiletries of hair and skin products as well as his favorite robe, leaving the room for just a moment to tuck the items away in his en suite.

“It will all be fine, Mischa,” Hannibal assured his sister through a sigh as he walked back into the bedroom, empty bag in hand which he placed atop his dresser along with the others. If anyone gives you trouble, I will kill them he wanted to add, though he decided to keep that to himself as an unspoken promise.

Mischa heaved herself off the bed with a groan, her feet thumping amongst the wooden floor as they met it, small hands smoothing out her mussed hair and rumpled skirt. “Mama said we need to help clean,” she said, voice soft as her chin tilted low. “This place is a mess,” Mischa stated, swiping her finger over the top of Hannibal's dresser, compiling a clump of dust in its wake, embellishing her point as she looked down at her dusty finger with a scrunched frown.

The house was cleaned in a manner that could only be considered a frenzy. Buckets of warm, soapy water littered each room, threadbare rags saturated in their contents that were slowly turning a dingy brown. The three cleaned with vigor, arms running sore as they swept and dragged amongst the dusty and stained surfaces of the house. Their mother played music from a CD player that had been left behind by the previous owners, some lively R&B melody drifting from the speakers at a nearly deafening volume as their bodies dripped with sweaty exertion.

After a handful of hours and a great deal of complaining from Mischa, the home was finally cleaned to the Lecter family’s standards. The house now smelled of bleach and burned herbs, though the odor was far more preferable than the previous moldy musk that was held within the walls, thick and oppressive as it spindled its way up his nostrils.

Hannibal settled in his bed after dinner, the mattress made up with his sheets and quilt from his last home in Lithuania and a few plush pillows his mother had bought him earlier that day, once they had arrived in Louisiana. The bed was cozy and warm but the walls around him didn't seem to hold him quite the same as the castle had.

He buried himself under the thick quilt his mother had sewn for him as a child, its material still holding the scent of his childhood: the powdery florals of lilacs and the sweet decadence of a crisp apple. Hannibal dug his nose into the fabric, taking it in until the walls around him blurred, molding into those of his childhood room with pale yellow wallpaper and the lace canopy which hung from his bed, softly dancing in the cool draft that flowed in through the open window. He drifted off not long after, reminiscing over the kills he'd planned within the same confines of those four walls and the way Mischa would sometimes pad down the hall until she made it to his room, tucking herself into bed beside him. Hannibal woke up to Mischa curled into his back the next morning.

The schoolhouse smelled of paper and sweat all muddled by hot, moving bodies as they crammed their ways down the halls and reluctantly into their classrooms. Hannibal parted ways with Mischa once she'd found her room, waving a small goodbye as he walked down the hall, searching for his own through the jumbled crowd of students.

Americans were far less proper Hannibal had discovered. They swore and laughed aloud, unaware of their surroundings as they rammed into one another with their oversized bookbags and stepped amongst others feet. They were loud and rude and dressed far too casually, their clothes loosely hanging off their limbs, baggy and limp and stained with holes scattered about their material.​​ They didn't care about how they presented themselves, nor how they were perceived. They didn't seem to care about much of anything. They probably wouldn't care if a few of their fellow classmates ended up dead.

Hannibal found his room at the end of a dingy hallway, the overhead lights flickering amongst the cracked tiled floors and the walls of lockers that were left strewn open and overflowing. He took a seat towards the middle of the room, off to one side, not presumptuous nor avoidant, simply there.

The class was rowdy, full of students catching up with one another after a long summer, complaining about being back and how tired they were. Hannibal sat silently, pulling a leather-bound planner and a pen from his bag, placing them down on the rickety desk aside one another. The room filled quickly as the clock neared closer to the beginning of class, some stragglers slowly trickling in as the teacher prepared to start though the door was firmly locked before she began, assuming everyone was present.

With clacking heels, the teacher made it back to the front of the room, standing behind her desk with her hands clasped before her. She introduced herself, went over the syllabus and expectations of her pre-calculus class before performing attendance.

The class was incredibly dull and Mrs. Landry’s voice was painfully monotonous though the introduction to the course content and outline seemed like it would be easy enough, a mundane but effortless pass.

Much of the classroom remained quiet as the teacher spoke, bar the scattering of bouncing knees and the click of pens or tap of fingernails atop desks. Hannibal took notes, writing down important due dates as Mrs. Landry listed them and upcoming projects he would need to do. It was awfully boring, and he found himself holding back yawns as he did so, resorting to doodling in the margins of his planner in an attempt to keep his eyes open as she droned on about attendance expectations and her grading rubric.

Roll call went similarly as she announced each name with the same flat tone, scribbling down at her clipboard after each affirmation from her students. Hannibal remained doodling as attendance continued, only pausing to look up from his paper and mutter a simple here when his name was called before resuming.

With twenty minutes left of class, Mrs. Landry handed out a worksheet and told everyone to work with the person sat next to them. Hannibal swiveled to the right, facing the boy who sat beside him as the other did the same, his eyes meeting Hannibal’s for a meager second. The boy had a yellowing bruise beneath one of his eyes, on the crest of his cheekbone, and a small split on his bottom lip. He diverted his gaze just seconds after meeting Hannibal's, eyes cast down at the sheet laid on the desk before him, fingers fidgeting with the pencil held in his hand, tapping the stiff eraser amongst the desk top.

Hannibal introduced himself quietly, his eyes lingering on the boy's face for far longer than he'd intended them to, catching on the violent blue of his eyes and the smattering of freckles amongst his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

The boy nodded, muttering an introduction of his own – Will – under his breath as his eyes remained on his paper, pencil now twirling between his fingers.

Hannibal gave Will a weak smile before diverting his gaze, pulling his attention to the worksheet before him as the boy had pretended to do rather than holding eye contact with Hannibal. The page was easy enough, equations and word problems he’d gone over before for the most part. Math came quite easy to him, as did most things; closed-ended things with clear answers, rights and wrongs.

Will remained mostly silent as they worked, giving Hannibal nothing more than a hum of agreement when he went over the formulas they should use and the answer he'd gotten out of them. The boy knew what he was doing though he didn't show it, the answers he wrote down always matched Hannibal's own, yet he didn't utter more than a few words the entire time.

The boy's knee bounced anxiously under his desk, his heel meeting the ground over and over with a dull clink. Hannibal also noted how Will chewed at his bottom lip, the flesh being pulled between his teeth every few seconds as he worked. Something in him wanted to ask why, though he knew that’d be wrong and likely make the boy feel worse, that's what had happened in the past when he'd asked such things. So instead, Hannibal kept quiet, muttering his answers to Will as he found them and gazing at the boy as he nodded or hummed in agreement. He wouldn't ask, but he was sure to find out.

Chapter Text

Hannibal sat beneath a tree within the school’s courtyard during lunch, his back resting into the trunk as he opened up his lunch bag, his legs sinking into the grass. Mischa sat on the other side of the schoolyard at a small, wooden picnic table, mingling happily with her newly made friends, likely forgetting that Hannibal even existed. She smiled wide as she sat and chatted, white teeth displayed against her cheeks that were red with delight. He should envy her, he knew that, but he didn't.

A breeze tickled at his hair, blowing the few longer strands to fall before his eyes which he promptly swept away with the back of his hand. He grabbed for his lunch bag then, fingers wrapping around the zipper when footsteps began to approach him, dried grass brushing against leather shoes. They belonged to that of a girl whom he'd shared an English class with less than two hours prior.

“Winifred?” Hannibal asked, recalling her name from roll call as he peered up at the girl who now stood before him, his eyes squinting in the sun. “Is that correct?” he asked with a meager, toothless smile.

The girl shrugged, tilting her head in a half nod, her curly, red hair bouncing with every small movement as it slouched over her shoulders. “Freddie,” she corrected with a weak smile, holding out her hand for Hannibal to shake. “Like Freddie Mercury,” the girl added with a small chuckle as Hannibal accepted her hand, giving it one firm shake before letting it fall back to her side. Another thing about Americans he’d noticed: they always had nicknames. It was odd but quite endearing at the same time.

“Ah,” Hannibal replied, eyes still gazing up at the girl who remained standing before him. He had no idea who the mentioned person had been, though he assumed they were likely some sort of celebrity. “You may sit, if you’d like,” he offered, not exactly finding Freddie’s current stance to be preferable yet assuming her company may come to be beneficial; he was yet to make any friends at school thus far.

Freddie sat after a curt nod, pulling her bag from her back to set it out in front of her crossed legs, unzipping it as she settled into the grass beside Hannibal, who began setting out his lunch. He pulled out an aluminum tin from his bag, the outside still warm from its contents, chicken biryani that he'd made the night before, though heated up on the stove prior to leaving the house for school. The scent was rich and spiced as he opened the tin and he allowed himself a few moments to bask in the smell before grabbing his fork.

“You’re new,” Freddie pointed out as she began her own lunch, a simple selection of sliced apples and a sandwich made of white bread and what smelled of ham and mustard. Hannibal nodded at her statement as he ate and Freddie returned his nod, thoughtfully shoving a hand over her mouth as she chewed on an apple, swallowing before she spoke again.

“This place sucks,” she shared, brows raised in displeasure. “Everyone here is either weird or…” she paused, mulling over her fellow classmates as she bit her bottom lip. “Just weird, really,” Freddie concluded with a tilt of her head and brief shrug before popping another apple slice in her mouth. “Or rude,” she added.

“As are most Americans, it seems,” Hannibal replied, a brief smile pulling at his lips. Freddie huffed a laugh at his observation, another shrug pulling at her shoulders as her eyebrows rose in subtle agreement.

Hannibal caught a glimpse of movement behind Freddie as she bit into her soulless sandwich, his eyes lingering on Will as the boy took a seat on the bench that stood not too far from the tree where Freddie and himself were perched, pulling out his lunch bag and settling it onto his lap. The boy's hair fell loose above his shoulders, dark curls framing his face and tucked behind his ears which were ever so slightly pink from what Hannibal presumed was a sunburn.

A loose shirt hung over Will's broad shoulders, some graphic t-shirt with a design that Hannibal couldn't quite decipher. It was far too big for the boy yet it made him look endearingly disheveled. Hannibal found the boy quite enchanting though he knew there was far more to him beyond his adorably gruff surface. There had been something about Will that he couldn't quite read. He would need to figure it out before it started gnawing at him like some sort of parasite.

Freddie followed Hannibal's eyes, her gaze too falling on Will as the boy ruffled through the contents of his bag. Her eyes diverted back to Hannibal then, her face scrunched slightly in thought. “You know him?” Freddie asked, a glimpse of disapproval flashing over her face, though there was more beyond it that wasn't entirely decipherable.

“Will?” Hannibal asked, his eyes falling back on Freddie reluctantly. The girl nodded, her red hair bouncing in a poof as she did so, her face still appearing unreadable in his eyes. Hannibal shook his head slightly, “Not exactly," he replied. “I have a class with him, that’s all.”

The girl nodded once more, taking another bite from her sandwich before she spoke. “He’s weird,” Freddie stated simply, her words accompanied by a shrug and a pair of lips which were ever so slightly downturned, her eyes remaining on the sandwich held in her hands as she spoke.

Hannibal's lips pursed, not entirely shocked by the girl's statement yet still displeased by her blunt rudeness all the same. “Is that so?” he asked as he picked at his food with his fork, simply shuffling it around in the lunch tin rather than eating it.

“Everybody thinks so,” Freddie defended, as if that made her stance any more reasonable. "Something's wrong with him,” she added, which Hannibal agreed with silently, though the girl’s words likely held a negative connotation; in Hannibal’s eyes, this something was what made Will so intriguing to him.

“Why’s that?” Hannibal asked instead, deciding that Freddie would be his inside source for the time being, that is until he could get word from the boy himself.

Freddie simply shrugged, eyes cast on Hannibal then, her bottom lip pursed in thought, clearly not sure herself to the reasonings behind her own beliefs. “Something’s just… off about him,” she replied, picking at the last few apple slices left in her lunch tin before plucking one and popping it into her mouth.

“His mother is kind of the town nut-case,” Freddie shared then, a hint of pity in her words despite her evident aversion towards the boy. “There’s something wrong with her too… in her head,” she explained. “She’s crazy, has been so for years now… At the moment, she's convinced that the town’s pastor is the devil.” There was a roll to Freddie’s eyes as she spoke, her tone ignorant and careless. “He probably inherited something from her,” she assumed aloud before popping another apple slice into her mouth, her teeth closing with a crisp crunch as her shoulders rose with a brief shrug. “Crazy like his mother,” she supposed bluntly.

Hannibal’s gaze diverted towards Will once more, pitying the boy and the groundless presumptions made about him. He would need to take care of Freddie someday, but not while she was so extremely helpful.

A girl sat next to Will then, settling down on the bench beside him with a smile. She wore a baggy flannel and tights that were more ripped than not, it was entirely frumpy and quite distasteful yet it did not leave Hannibal thinking any less of the girl. If anything, the way she smiled at the boy beside her and playfully shoved at Will’s shoulder as he laughed made Hannibal appreciate her all the more.

“Who is she?” Hannibal asked curiously, his eyes peering back at Freddie now. He presumed his curiosity was fortified by the fact that he was new to the school, he didn't know much of anyone there, so his questions wouldn't leave Freddie thinking anything more than simple introductions to his new classmates.

“Beverly,” Freddie replied simply. “She’s his only friend, really… Since his last one died. He's been incredibly odd ever since,” she told Hannibal, far too calmly, like a classmate's death was nothing but some simple gossip to be passed around. “They’re weirdly the smartest in the school,” she explained. “Isn’t that funny? Trashy kids like them being the smartest,” she said with a brief laugh, not that of humor, actually, Freddie seemed oddly peeved as she spoke.

Hannibal supposed he would need to dig into Freddie on the topic of Will’s friend’s death some more eventually, but now wasn't the time. He needed to wait, allow it to come to the surface in a way that seemed natural, though he would most certainly be baiting it the entire time, Freddie didn't need to know that, however. He couldn't raise any suspicion. He couldn't be obvious.

All the same, Hannibal would need to construct a friendship with Will. This would have to appear to be natural as well. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Hannibal made his first kill in Louisiana three weeks into school. He had impressed himself with his patience, though he was beginning to grow restless and his fingers itched for a kill, to lurk in the depths of a cadaver, surrounded by thick, wet warmth. He needed it.

The boy had earned his culmination during lunch break one day, muttering insults under his breath about Hannibal’s presumed sexuality, assumptions made upon the way he dressed and spoke. It was undeniably rude, so inescapably so that Hannibal had to do something about it. He had to.

He followed Ryder Goudreau home one day after school, not straying far as the boy roamed back streets and neighborhoods until he eventually made it home. Hannibal did so most days, staying behind to watch over and take note of his typical routine; who else had been home at the time, when the others came into the picture, when they all left again, including Ryder himself. He'd need to plan this all out. He could make no mistakes. This had to be perfect.

Hannibal found that the boy’s mother was home when he'd arrive back from school, though the woman left most days just before four o’clock, except for Fridays. Though, Ryder’s father came home from work at around four thirty every evening, so that left him with only a thirty minute time frame to do his work – if he did it at the boy’s home that was, which Hannibal was deciding was more and more unfeasible as each day passed, especially if his work was going to be as extravagant as he desired it to be. He wouldn't let something as meager as inconvenience stop him.

So, Hannibal decided he'd need to catch the boy on his walk before he got the chance to make it home. He followed from afar as Ryder took his usual route as to remain unsuspecting, though he planned to pounce when the boy made it to one spot just a few blocks from his home. There was a brief alleyway that led behind a café and a barber shop on the way; that was where he would attack.

The barber shop, Hannibal noticed, had a basement entry in the alleyway, a basement that remained unused the entire time he scoped out the area. The deadbolt was far too easy to pick, especially after years of experience, and so Hannibal spent nearly a week preparing the space for his project.

He observed the typical foot traffic of the area, which thankfully, was almost entirely nonexistent. Ryder seemed to be the only person who traveled through the alleyway on a regular basis, that was besides those who worked at the cafe, though they all entered and exited through the back door at the same time, therefore making them easily avoidable as long as he steered clear of those time frames.

The basement was fairly vacant and clean on its own, barring the weak layer of dust across every surface and the cobwebs in every corner. There was a table in the middle of the room too which would be helpful, he only needed to acquire a few plastic tarps to cover the floor and surrounding walls before the basement was ready for his project which was far too easy, it was as if the universe was simply begging Hannibal to take this boy out of its hands.

After two weeks of following Ryder and loitering around the alleyway during odd times to get an idea of his allotted hours, Hannibal finally struck. Of course, it was far less time than he'd typically take to prepare for such a project, though having been months upon months since he had last taken upon such endeavors, he’d needed to act fast or else he might have just lost his mind.

Ryder's pace was slow as he walked home, distracted by the headphones funneling music into his ears. He strided with confidence, both hands in either pocket of his jeans, head bobbing with the beat playing in his ears, entirely unaware. It was perfect.

Hannibal approached the boy, his steps quiet and sure despite Ryder's lack of attention. It was routine at this point even in spite of it being quite unnecessary with the current situation in hand. Needlessly careful, Hannibal matched the boy's steps with his own, his fingers twitching where they fell at his sides with excitement, insurmountably ready to wrap around his victim, to feel the boy’s pulse fade away under his grasp.

His hands wrapped around Ryder then, one at his jaw and the other at his throat, both shoving until the boy’s neck let out a solid crack and he fell backwards into Hannibal's chest, breathless and dead but still warm in his grasp. He went to open the basement entrance, slumping Ryder’s body down against the brick wall of the café before he did so. The metal door leading to the stairway opened with ease, he'd picked the lock earlier that morning and left it as so to keep this project as simple as possible.

With the entrance open, Hannibal picked the boy up from the ground, holding his body against his side with one arm wrapped around his torso as he trudged the two of them down the stairway, flicking on the light switch at the last step once he made it there. He laid Ryder’s body atop the table which he'd lined with plastic as to give himself an easy clean up and pulled his cart of tools to stand beside the boy's cadaver, the wheels crinkling amongst the tarp that covered the floor.

With the overhead light illuminating his field, Hannibal grabbed his scissors from the cart and began to rid the body of clothing, setting each cut up article aside in a bag for later burning, he wouldn't be leaving a fiber of evidence behind. Once the body was bare, Hannibal visualized his desired tableau.

Ever since he'd laid eyes upon the sculpture, he knew he needed to replicate it with his favored medium. The Gaddi Torso had struck inspiration immediately, the sculpted body broken and ridden of its most important anatomy. No head, no arms, no legs; simply a torso. The sculpture had served as inspiration for many other prominent artists before, though none would ever reach the level of magnificence that Hannibal's would.

With a bone saw and a plastic suit to protect his clothing from the blood, Hannibal began ridding Ryder’s body of its limbs. Starting just below the pubic bone he severed the legs from the body, thick blood coated the plastic tarp beneath the boy’s body and splattered amongst Hannibal's hands as it sprayed from the friction of the bonesaw against the beginnings of Ryder’s femur.

The smell of blood filled the room, thick and delicious as it spindled its way up Hannibal’s nostrils, falling upon the back of his throat, the taste lingering against his tongue with its metallic spice and subtle, delectable sweetness. He had missed this.

Hannibal’s fingers tingled with excitement as he worked, moving onto the task of removing Ryder’s broken neck from his shoulders. The bonesaw cut easily through the boy, blood spilling from his throat, thick and coating the plastic beneath him, sopping off the sides of the table and falling into a puddle on the tarp-covered floor.

In his head, he pictured the tableau once more as he looked down at the body before him. It'd soon stand stiff and stark rather than so weak and drab as it laid now upon the table. He'd cauterize the boy's wounds to keep them from bleeding after inserting wire within the cadaver, posing it as such before he injected Ryder’s flesh and muscles with silicone in order to stiffen the body as if it were truly a sculpture.

He would keep Ryder's head and limbs for later use, he hadn't eaten brain in quite a while, so that would be a treat, though there was one more thing he wanted from the boy. Picking up his scalpel, Hannibal then cut into his chest until he met the sternum which he then spread with protractors until the boy's beautiful, delicious heart was revealed, red and plump. It fit in his hands quite perfectly as he removed it from the gaping chest. Still warm and sopping in his grasp, his mouth watering as he placed it on ice in a cooler he'd brought in earlier.

The body was displayed later that night after the silicone had settled within it. He'd found a museum in the French Quarter with lousy overnight security, virtually none besides the middle-aged man who sat at the ticket booth all night, though a simple anesthetic concoction ridded him from his stance as a barrier to Hannibal’s project.

Upon a wooden pedestal, as most statues were, Hannibal stood Ryder's body within the Greek artistry division of the museum. The only defining factor amongst it’s companions was its color, though Hannibal wanted it to stand out in some way, he wanted it to be seen, that was the whole point.

As for his luring of Will, the boy's silence was resulting to be far more hindrance than he had suspected. Hannibal understood it to a certain extent, he himself had gone through a phase in which he had not spoken after the lasting effects of his father's death failed to subside. Perhaps the death of his friend had the same effect on Will. He'd need to get more out of Freddie, maybe Beverly, if he could form something between them as well. Though he was beginning to find that if he wanted something from Will himself, he would need to earn permission of his voice, it wasn't something he gave to just anyone. Now it was simply finding out how to do so that was his problem.

Chapter Text

Ryder Goudreau’s body was found the next morning by the museum's opening crew, the news played on the TV as his mother prepared breakfast. Hannibal listened dutifully yet conspicuously from his doorway as he tied his tie and tucked a pocket square into his jacket, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips as he did so.

The news anchor droned on about the scene; no head, no arms, no legs, the heart missing. The gruff man stated that the killer was quite skilled, nothing they had ever seen before in Louisiana with their artistic approach and surgical precision. Hannibal basked in the praise.

He walked into school with a grin and a cheerful pep to his step as he made it to pre-calculus, sitting down at his desk beside Will as he typically did, though the boy had muttered no more than a handful of breathy words to him within the three weeks he'd attended class with him.

Will looked at him warily as Hannibal sat down, eyeing him with an uncertainty that wasn't a look that typically took place on the boy's face. Hannibal took in Will’s scent as he loitered in his presence. The boy smelled of cigarettes, dog, pine, and faintly of mildew and sweat, yet it was simply intoxicating. There too was a tinge of fear that could be smelt on Will, making itself known by a presence of a spice and bitterness that clung to the confines of Hannibal’s nose, though it was alluring all the same.

There was an inquisition behind it all, too. Some intense, confused engrossment that could be scented on him, and evident too in the way he looked at Hannibal. Eyes peering but questioning all the same; wanting but in a way he wasn't sure of yet, nor the reasoning behind this odd desire. Was it the knowledge he wanted? Or the man himself?

Hannibal felt chillingly transparent as Will’s eyes swept across him, like he could see right through the front Hannibal was putting on. Though the chill that was knit upon his spine wasn't exactly that of fear, Will’s eyes were unnervingly knowing yet not hateful. The look on his face was nearly exhilarating and so utterly tempting. Hannibal needed to know what was behind it. What exactly did he see?

Lunch went as it typically did, shared with Freddie under a tree in the schoolyard. Freddie did a majority of the talking most days, though Hannibal usually did very little listening unless the topic was that of Will Graham. Freddie rambled on about her mother’s new boyfriend today. The girl's aversion towards the man was quite amusing, though Hannibal couldn't find himself caring in the slightest. He'd need to start getting his information from the source, and soon, Freddie was becoming a useless bore.

And so, Hannibal found himself following Will home after school that day, through the thickly settled streets and bare fields that led to the boy’s house. Will walked carelessly, hands wrapped around the straps of his book bag that sat at his chest, feet rising and falling asynchronously, stumbling through the tall grass and beat-up sidewalks of the city, throwing up small pebbles, brush, and clouds of dirt in the wake of his leather boots.

There was honking of horns as he followed Will into a considerably more urban area of the town. Hannibal presumed that perhaps that was what had distracted him. After one glance behind himself, he no longer found Will before him as he diverted his gaze back in the direction that the boy had previously stood.

Hannibal’s step was stifled for a moment, his eyes peering back and forth anxiously as they lost their target and failed to locate it once again. He twisted his neck in one swift motion to scan his surroundings for the boy, yet his eyes did not get the chance to land on a singular subject before his back was slammed into the brick wall behind him and the air was promptly strangled from his lungs in one swift gasp.

As he looked up, his eyes met those of Will Graham’s, blue and furrowed with anger and accusation. The boy was confident, his fingers curled around Hannibal's shoulders securely, though there was still that bitterness of fear that could be scented on him as his eyes bored into Hannibal's, fierce, determined blue against unmoored maroon.

“Are you fuckin’ followin’ me?” Will gritted out as his nails dug into Hannibal's shoulders through his shirt. It was the most he had ever heard the boy speak. His voice was terse, escaping past a jaw clenched with anger, his brows still furrowed, though adorably so. The boy thought he appeared as a threat in Hannibal's eyes, though Will seemed more like a snarling puppy to him rather than anything seriously harmful.

Hannibal shrugged simply, avoiding the urge to smile as he returned Will's stern eye contact. He figured that wouldn't be a great idea. “I found you intriguing,” Hannibal said instead, his words leaving Will immediately diverting his gaze to somewhere behind Hannibal, seemingly incredibly angry at a brick wall.

Will let out a gruff laugh, shaking his head ever so slightly with disapproval. “You’re fuckin’ weird, man,” he replied, though there was no real punch to his words despite the ridiculing tone he wielded.

Shrugging once more – which seemed to be a trait he’d acquired since moving to America – Hannibal eyed Will before speaking. “I simply don't confine myself to the hindering complexities of social constructs,” he replied. “I am who I am. I think that's how it should be for everyone.”

Will blinked ever so slowly as he took in Hannibal's response, a breathy laugh leaving his lips. “Right,” was all he said, releasing his grip and taking a step backwards, slowly looking Hannibal up and down as he did so. “Well, stop,” the boy ordered, though his tone failed to escape his mouth in earnest. “Followin’ me,” he clarified softly with a brief eye roll that would have gone unnoticed had Hannibal's eyes not been glued on Will's face with intent.

“My apologies,” Hannibal lied plainly, a weak smile pulling at his lips, knowing he wasn't sorry in the slightest and would certainly continue following the boy. However, Will didn't need to know that.

The boy eyed him warily, hands clenching and relaxing at his sides, giving Hannibal a brief nod before beginning to walk away. He watched Will disappear into the city, his figure soon turning to a bleary shadow as he approached a faraway field. He'd need to be more discreet next time. He wasn't going to stop following the boy, that he was sure of.

Hannibal met his mother in the kitchen after arriving home following his failed expedition. She stood behind the counter, giving him a quick glance before returning her attention to the dough she had been rolling out atop the counter, her arms dusted in flour nearly up to her elbows, a white streak adorning her chin.

“I just talked to Mischa,” she briefed, fingers wrapped tightly around the handles of the rolling pin, her arms pushing and pulling sternly. “I am setting a curfew,” his mother said, glancing up at him for a brief moment before diverting her eyes once more, making sure he was listening. Hannibal stood before his mother, arms crossed at his waist, peering at her with confusion and intent.

“There is a killer on the loose,” she clarified, leaving Hannibal's eyebrows to relax from where they had been heartily furrowed. “It's not safe out there; for either of you… You are to come directly back home after school and stay by your sister on your walk to and from.”

Hannibal sighed in frustration, though there was no way to relieve his mother of her worry. He was the killer on the loose; he was in no harm nor was she or Mischa, though he couldn't possibly tell her that, nor could he possibly follow his mother's new curfew. It was another gentle reminder that he could never be open about who he truly was. To never be entirely seen.

“No exceptions, Hannibal,” his mother added sternly, eyes peering up at her son as her hands continued to work. This would simply be a new burden he’d need to work around. It was angering, though he'd make it work. He'd have to. He always did.

Disregarding his mother's previous set rules, Hannibal followed Will after school a few days later. The route was far more urban than the one Will had taken just a couple of days ago. It was mostly backroads until it slowly became a forest entirely, walking along a man-made trail through trees and brush, and rocks. The woods smelt fresh, warm, and earthy in the hot sun, and birds sang contentedly above them, dancing between the arms of trees and just below the clouds.

Hannibal took careful steps as to remain unnoticed behind the boy, mindful of the twigs and leaves beneath his foot; one wrong step and his plan would be ruined.

Will’s pace slowed as the sound of rushing water became audible. He pulled his bag from his shoulders and tossed it down to fall atop a mossy rock. He watched intently as Will shed his flannel, placing it on top of his bookbag before toeing out of his boots, leaving them where they stood on the mossy forest floor.

Hannibal gazed, stock-still behind a tree, as the boy ridded his upper half of a shirt, eyeing as his biceps subtly bulged with the action, his core flexing beneath pale skin as his arms lifted above his head and threw the shirt to land beside his bag. The boy looked like that of art, scrawnily so, his pale skin looking as if it were polished and carved marble, pale and glistening with sweat in the hot sun above.

A waterfall rushed close by, rumbling in Hannibal's ears in a crisp gush. Will, now ridded of his jeans, stood at the ledge of a large rock just above the water, the backs of his thighs and calves taught as he faced away from Hannibal, looking down at the pool below, the muscles of his legs flexing as he brought himself up on tip-toes to peer down eagerly, presumably getting a better look as to decide where he’d jump.

Remaining inconspicuous for the time being, Hannibal slowly inched closer to the landing, using the distracting splash of Will landing within the water to his advantage, and moved slightly recklessly towards the boy, more so out in the open, as he wouldn't be visible from the depths of the water as Will swam below.

Deciding that he no longer wanted to stay unseen, Hannibal approached the ledge. He stood beside the rock where Will's bookbag and clothing lay before he sat down at the edge, legs dangling as he watched Will slowly drag his hands down his face, slicking his hair back as water dripped from his forearms and beaded off his chest, still oblivious to Hannibal, who watched from above.

Will opened his eyes at once, making firm eye contact with Hannibal's legs as they hung before him to which left those eyes promptly rolling. “Jesus Christ,” Will muttered, peeved by the other man's presence, though a smile pulled at his lips all the same as water dripped from his jaw and beaded at his eyelashes, peering up at the man who grinned.

“Thought I told you to stop followin’ me,” Will said, biting at his bottom lip, his brows furrowed with frustration, though amusement was also evident in his voice and in the slight smile on his face that he couldn't keep from forming.

Hannibal shrugged, eyes still gazing down at the boy. “I suppose I took it more as a suggestion than that of an order,” he replied smoothly. Will shook his head in response, a brief laugh slipping from his lips, swiping a dripped strand of dark hair from his forehead. “I suppose I also couldn't help myself.”

“You need to gain some self-control,” Will advised as he remained standing waist-deep in the small pool, Hannibal's eyes following the droplets of water as they fell down the pale skin of Will’s chest.

“I have plenty of self-control, I can assure you,” Hannibal countered, a smile still teasing at his lips, though nearly his every action in the last hour had opposed his statement.

Will rolled his eyes once more at Hannibal's words, his thick curls beginning to dry in the hot sun and puffing up once more to frame his face. “What is it exactly that you find so intriguin’ about me?” Will asked, flicking his head to one side as to rid his face of the bothersome curls that began to fall before his eyes. “Because I can assure you that I’m quite boring.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Hannibal replied, his legs swaying ever so slightly off the edge, his palms digging into the rock beneath him. “You see me,” he added after Will had gone a few moments, remaining entirely silent, wordlessly urging Hannibal to continue with raised brows.

“And what does that mean, exactly?” Will asked, his brows now furrowed with confusion as he began to retreat from the water, slowly inching closer to the shore until he was out of the pool entirely. Hannibal gazed at Will as he did so, eyes not leaving his body, watching as thick water droplets streamed down his chest and thighs, how it had left the boy's boxers to cling to his skin oh so tightly. His staring was nothing more than that of simple appreciation.

Hannibal shrugged once more, finding that the motion to come naturally to him as he spoke with Will, his shoulders moving entirely on their own, mirroring the boy's casualty. “You tell me,” he replied simply, face unreadable as he eyed Will while the boy sat beside him, a few feet away, that was.

“I can… read people's emotions. Share their experiences without really goin’ through them… Better than most people can.” Will’s voice was slightly muffled as he spoke, looking down at his feet as they dangled off of the ledge just above the water, avoiding eye contact as if he were ashamed.

“True empathy,” Hannibal replied, a soft smile on his face despite the boy's gaze being diverted away from him, the gesture going unseen.

Will simply hummed in agreement, the movement of his legs speeding up as he remained silently peering at them, his feet just barely avoided contact with the water.

“And what it is that you see when you look at me?” Hannibal probed, his voice soft but still commanding.

Letting out a breathy laugh, Will looked over at him finally, his eyes squinted in the sun as he peered at Hannibal, his cheeks squished just beneath his eyes, and an unavoidable smile tugging at his lips. The boy was quite compelling. “Too much,” he replied simply, diverting his gaze once more to focus on the water below him instead.

“I suppose that’s why you avoid eye contact whenever possible,” Hannibal presumed aloud, eyes wide with intent as he watched Will.

“I don't always particularly like what I see,” Will agreed with a weak nod, teeth biting at his bottom lip, hands fidgeting in his lap as he remained gazing into the glistening water.

Hannibal regarded Will with pursed lips. “Why’s that?” he inquired, brows furrowed with overwhelming interest as he spoke, his entire body wholeheartedly vibrating with enthusiasm. His appetite was soon to be sated.

“Your thoughts aren't always… tasty,” Will replied, the words pouring out of his mouth slowly, his teeth now biting at the insides of his cheek.

“I presume your own aren't either,” Hannibal countered, his lips pursed once more as he peered at Will.

Will's head tilted ever so slightly in mock consideration; he already knew the answer to the matter at hand. “No,” Will agreed finally, huffing a laugh as he spoke, though it was not one entirely of humor; perhaps it too was an act in an attempt to diffuse tension; he did not favor speaking on this topic. However, Hannibal was unrelenting.

“Then what's so different about mine?” Hannibal grilled, eager to get what he wanted, even if that meant making Will uncomfortable.

Will sighed, “They remind me of my own,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper, shameful despite the need to be anything but.

“You should embrace who you truly are, Will,” Hannibal suggested earnestly, eyes warm as they regarded the boy who remained avoiding eye contact at all costs. “As I do myself.”

“No-” Will practically laughed out the word, “I should not,” he said, looking towards Hannibal finally with a roll of his eyes and an unbelieving smile on his face.

“But why?” Hannibal asked earnestly. The boy beside him was beginning to smell differently as their conversation progressed, similarly to how he had the other day at school when he’d stared at Hannibal with wary eyes. There was a spicy musk to him, that of fear, but there was also regret to it; he was reliving something from the past, something connected to these very thoughts he was so fearful of. This spice began to take over the other odors that came with Will, as did the bitterness of sweat that came with his current worry.

Will shrugged lazily, biting at the insides of his cheek once more as he contemplated. “Acting on these thoughts would make me a monster… It has made me one,” he admitted softly, voice wavering as he spoke, looking down at his feet in avoidance.

Hannibal shrugged as he regarded Will. “God kills all the time and yet he is seen as the greatest entity in existence,” he stated simply. “Why would it make you a monster if you did the same? Are we not born in God’s image? His morality?”

Will peered at Hannibal, his face scrunched with unbelieving disagreement. “It's wrong,” he countered plainly.

“Then why does it feel so good?”