Chapter Text
The sickness came on abruptly and brutally. Will awoke to an all too familiar situation – nausea, a pounding headache, and sweat-soaked sheets beneath his back. When he tried to move, every joint in his body ached down to the bone. He’d managed to get on his side, and he clutched the pillow, his body curled up against the terrible agony.
The pain itself exacerbated the nausea, and he sensed the unavoidable certainty of vomiting boiling inexorably in his stomach. With a mangled groan, he pushed himself out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom, unwilling to make a further mess of the sheets. He felt as though he could barely see beyond the intense throb of the headache behind his eyes, and he almost didn’t make it to the toilet before bile and the remnants of last night’s dinner came up. He clung to the seat as his stomach rebelled on him several vicious times in a row until he was panting, shaking, and desperate for the bout of illness to end.
Finally, when it seemed there was nothing left for his body to reject, he sank to his ass on the cold tile. Cradling his aching head in his hands, he tried to think of where he might’ve picked up a bug, but the headache was too severe to conjecture logically.
He heard footsteps and carefully opened his eyes to peer up at Hannibal. He’d likely awoken him with his violent regurgitation. Hannibal was fresh from bed, wearing his boxers, his hair mussed, and lids still heavy from sleep. It was still strange to see him like that – his awareness not so keen, his veil a little less impenetrable. Despite his half-roused state, however, his eyes still held the clear glint of curiosity and interest that he no longer cared to disguise in front of Will.
“Like what you see?” Will quipped, his voice rough and unsteady.
A flicker of amusement passed beneath Hannibal’s expression, and he left the doorway to crouch beside him. Will closed his eyes as Hannibal pressed the back of his hand to his forehead and then gently felt his throat for swelling with warm, firm fingers. Will leaned back against the cool side of the tub behind him, swallowing jaggedly. A wave of heat inundated him with the sensation of his esophagus thrusting between Hannibal’s fingers.
Hannibal moved to a less vulnerable part of his body, taking him by the wrist to press two fingers into his pulse, and Will relaxed again. Hannibal concentrated in silence for a moment before his hands left Will’s body entirely.
“Your heart rate is acceptable, but you certainly have a fever,” Hannibal said. “When did you first notice the symptoms?”
“About two seconds before I was tossing my stomach in the toilet.” Will opened his eyes to look at him again despite the way the light made the headache sharpen. Hannibal’s face was close to his own, placid yet keenly focused on every aspect of Will’s suffering body. He looked almost hungry. Will knew that look.
“And what else besides the nausea and fever?” Hannibal asked, his voice appropriately clinical.
“Head hurts,” Will murmured, “everything hurts.”
“Body aches.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Are you experiencing any congestion or coughing?”
“No.”
Hannibal allowed the examination to lapse for a moment. He stared at him then reached up to smooth Will’s sweat-stained curls away from his forehead in a touch that was less than professional. The gesture dangled a memory in the back of Will’s hazy mind – sitting at Hannibal’s dining table, leaning into the only source of stability that he could’ve hoped for, unaware that he was seeking comfort from the one who had caused the agony.
Hannibal was still inspecting him all over, and he felt goosebumps on his flesh. Like Hannibal, he was dressed only in his boxers. It was too hot and humid to wear much else to bed, but a shiver crept up on him now.
Hannibal caught his gaze. A mere blink of his lids marked his only reaction before he settled his hand at Will’s nape and leaned in. He inclined his nose to Will’s neck – not touching, only hovering close enough to smell. There were memories in everything when Hannibal touched him like this. Will listened to him inhale, unresisting.
When Hannibal withdrew, his eyes were closed as he mulled the scent. Judging from his expression, it could’ve been a fine wine. He savored it. His lids rose, and they looked at each other.
“You’re a sick bastard,” Will said, pulling a tiny smile from Hannibal’s lips.
“It is not I who is sick at the moment,” Hannibal bantered lightly. It wasn’t a denial or a deflection. There was no longer a need to lie about such things, and Will knew that. He knew that it was to make him smile.
Will scoffed and rubbed his fingers into his aching eyes. “So, what’s the diagnosis, doctor?”
“A viral disease likely from a mosquito bite,” Hannibal said, sitting back on his heels. “There are several types of viruses that are common in this region. Which one it is will become more apparent as the illness worsens.”
“Just my luck.”
“Your being a foreigner and a person who has been immunocompromised in the past likely contributed to your susceptibility to the virus.”
“So this is your fault?” Will asked with a raised brow.
Hannibal smiled again. “I would speculate that this is a consequence of your insistence on wandering out at night when you are not properly covered.”
Will grimaced and reached over to flush the toilet. Some habits died hard. Wandering for instance. Enjoying each other’s pain for another.
He began to push himself up, but immediately sank back down with a groan of pain as his screaming joints incapacitated him once more.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his eyes closed, his head going dizzy again. Although his stomach was empty, he still felt the tickle of nausea in his throat, and he would rather not dry heave with Hannibal hovering over him.
“Allow me to assist you,” Hannibal said, standing with an ease that Will resented. He glared up at him, but took his proffered hands. Hannibal hoisted him up, his strength accounting for a majority of the effort.
Once Will was on his feet, Hannibal’s arm circled his waist, and he held Will’s elbow closest to him. Hannibal’s warm skin, slightly tacky with the lingering sweat of sleep, pressed against Will’s back that had become chilled against the tub and tile as Hannibal walked him out of the bathroom and back towards his bedroom. The contrast was all Will could focus on to distract himself from the pain as he put one foot in front of the other. Exertion made the headache resurge with vehemence, forcing his eyes to screw shut, and he let Hannibal lead him blindly.
When they reached the bedroom, Will regarded the tangled, damp sheets through squinted eyes. “Bed’s a mess.”
“Would you like me to change the sheets?”
Will snorted, feeling a bit delirious. “What’s the point? Don’t you remember how much I sweat when I’m sick, Dr. Lecter?”
He felt Hannibal’s arm tighten around him, and he couldn’t tell if it was in pleasure or pain. He wondered if he would be more pained by Hannibal’s pleasure or more pleasured by Hannibal’s pain, or perhaps both in equal measure. But did he really have to wonder?
“Just… get me some towels,” Will said, weakly pulling away to sit at the edge of the bed.
“Very well. I will return shortly,” Hannibal conceded.
Will listened to Hannibal’s footsteps retreat, swaying at the edge of the bed. He felt exhausted as though he could sleep for days if the pain would allow it. A rare luxury.
When Hannibal returned, he came bearing more than just the towels. Will was barely upright, leaning heavily on the edge of the mattress. He looked at Hannibal through a grimace. Aside from towels, he had brought water and a few soft ice packs.
“I’m hesitant to give you any sort of medication until I’m certain of which virus you’ve contracted. Some viruses react poorly to even the most common pain relievers,” Hannibal said, setting the towels down.
Will managed a rough, cynical laugh. “Imagine, after all this time… you end up killing me with an NSAID.”
Hannibal’s mild smile remained in place. “I may not be able to medicate you, but we can combat the dehydration and the fever with more basic methods.”
“How terrible for you.”
“You’ve proven yourself to be very resilient,” Hannibal said, suavely side-stepping the accusations hidden under Will’s sarcasm as he handed him the cup of water. “I have faith that you can manage until I am confident in prescribing the correct medication.”
“Wouldn’t be the worst pain I’ve ever endured,” Will muttered as he took the glass and pressed it to his lips. Hannibal’s smile widened incrementally, and Will chafed with irritation. “What?”
Hannibal shook his head with a soft laugh. “I’d forgotten how rude illness makes you.”
“Yeah, well…” Will looked down at the cup. He felt sick again just looking at the water and imagining it going down his throat, but he sipped it anyway and gritted his teeth against the nausea. “Guess you better send me to bed then.”
Hannibal didn’t reply, and his silence felt heavier than before. Will raised his head to find Hannibal looking at him still but with that intense, blank darkness that Will recognized from hunting, the look of a creature prepared to pounce upon the neck of its prey. The expression remained for only a second once their eyes locked again. Hannibal turned away, his motions precise as he unfolded the towels, but it wasn’t composed enough for Will’s perception. They knew each other too well and too deeply for that. Will watched him lay the towels out neatly, one over top of the pillow and two more on the mattress, a strange, queasy thrill clutching his stomach. It wasn’t from the illness. He wondered if Hannibal checked his pulse again if he would still find it acceptable.
“Perhaps you should remove the rest of your clothing,” Hannibal said as he smoothed out a wrinkle from the towel, his voice perfectly even and unsuspecting.
Will looked at him critically. “Why?”
“You were quite right about your perspiration. Any garments would likely join the state of the bedsheets very soon.” Hannibal turned his gaze on him again, unabashed, though he’d hidden the gleam of desire in eyes. Will wished he hadn’t. He didn’t like dilutions of the truth any more than he had four or five years ago, especially when Hannibal made himself sound so damn convincing that anyone else but Will would think him above suspicion. With Will, Hannibal wasn’t above anything.
“I know what you’re doing,” Will said at last, unwilling to let Hannibal slink beneath the guise of medicine. He should have felt vulnerable considering what Hannibal had done to him the last time he’d been sick, but he wasn’t naive to Hannibal’s ways any longer. He’d walked into the face of them and come out alive. Beating death — beating Hannibal — came with a certain arrogance.
“What am I doing?” Hannibal cocked his head, and Will almost wanted to laugh for a brief moment because he looked like an inquisitive dog, and Will thought he could train him like one to respond with Pavlovian salivation to the slightest hint of illness.
“You’re not half as clever as you think you are. Do you really believe you’re going to fool me now?” He scrutinized him through a squint of pain in a silent impasse for a moment.
Hannibal held his gaze long enough for Will to think that he simply would not answer, but then he said so quietly that his lips barely moved, “No. Not at all.”
Will looked at him only a moment longer, sizing him up for honesty before he laid back. “Then don’t look at me like that.”
“How would you like me to look at you?” Hannibal asked, and Will could feel his eyes heavy on him. He cracked his throbbing eyes open and looked up at his looming figure. Hannibal’s sockets looked like black, deep pits. Will swallowed, and his throat felt raw and repulsive from vomiting. A layer of sweat clung to his flesh, and he must not have smelled pleasant either, yet he knew that Hannibal would still put his tongue and teeth to his neck. He might even enjoy the reeking taste of illness. Will might enjoy shoving it down his throat.
“How do you want to look at me?” he challenged, his lungs tight with a pinch of exhilaration.
Hannibal didn’t answer, but Will could see the animalistic glint beginning to reflect in the darkness of his pupils again. He put the glass of water on the side table and sat down at the edge of the bed, coming closer with his hunger and his sharp teeth that Will had once recoiled from. Watching him now, he felt… smug. Hannibal thought himself so mysterious, so well put together, above scrutiny, above God — yet it took so little to undo him. To reveal him.
Will’s heart thundered, and he wanted to laugh again – laugh until he cried – as Hannibal touched his bare thigh. His fingers just barely skimmed over the flesh before his palm settled fully, heated skin against heated skin. Spreading his hand upward, Hannibal employed his other set of fingers to catch the waistband of his boxers. He paused there, looking Will impassively in the eye, waiting for him to protest. Instead, Will lifted his hips up as much as his aching joints could manage to let Hannibal disrobe him. Hannibal’s blink slowed to almost a flutter of lashes, and he lowered his gaze to watch his gradual stripping of Will’s lower half.
Seeing each other’s bodies wasn’t new — it had practically been a necessity when they’d been recovering from their injuries — but this was different. Will could feel the desire behind it, the way he knew that Hannibal would touch him intimately given the smallest excuse. His boxers slipped below his hips, and his pulse quickened because he felt no inclination to cover himself even as he knew what lay behind Hannibal’s eyes. Some part of him felt proud, as though he’d won a private battle.
Hannibal slid his boxers all the way off, and Will did not assist him any longer, just laid still and watched Hannibal from beneath half-closed lids. Hannibal folded the underwear, an unnecessary step given that they’d end up in the hamper, but he wasn’t looking at what his hands were doing any longer. He was gazing at Will’s soft penis and pale thighs. For a moment, a moment longer than he could comfortably bear, Will let him look.
“Very professional, Dr. Lecter,” Will murmured, at last. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
Hannibal’s gaze flicked towards him. His pupils were inky, pulsing pools. He seemed as though he would not admit to it for a moment, but then he only said matter-of-factly, “Yes,” before he turned and picked up the ice packs, shattering the tension with less finesse than he normally wielded in conversation. Will was reeling a bit from the sudden, brutal honesty, and Hannibal continued before he could respond. “The neck, underarms, and groin area all contain large blood vessels. Placing the ice packs on these regions will help to cool you down.”
It was basic first aid knowledge, something Will already knew, and the useless facts barely registered. He was staring at Hannibal’s face, feeling a distant stir of excitement in his belly, presently unreachable due to the illness, yet there all the same. That Hannibal had so readily affirmed Will’s accusation stole a bit of Will’s victory — he would’ve liked to see him squirm — but knowing it was true dulled any sensation of disappointment. Knowing Hannibal wanted anything was an advantage. Or, at least, it put Hannibal at a lower degree of disadvantage.
Shifting towards the upper part of Will’s body, Hannibal slipped his hand beneath Will’s head to wedge the ice pack beneath his neck. At this proximity, Will could see that Hannibal’s prominent cheekbones bore the slightest tinge of pink, almost imperceptible if one did not know him better. But Will did know him. Their eyes met again as Hannibal gently laid his head down again, and the stinging cold of the ice came into contact with Will’s neck. The hunger that Will had glimpsed in the bathroom had doubled, emboldened by Will’s half-hidden invitations to look, and Will inhaled softly but sharply against the ice, against the heat of Hannibal’s gaze.
“I’d like to do some further examinations.” Hannibal touched Will’s face again, stroking very gently in contrast to the voracious appetite gaping in his eyes. “Take your temperature. We’ll monitor the progression very closely.”
“Gonna take notes on my condition , doctor?” Will jabbed, his voice trembling slightly.
“Some sketches as well,” Hannibal said without blinking or returning the teasing tone.
Will swallowed roughly. Hannibal had drawn him before — Will had caught him more than once when Hannibal thought he was unaware, turning him into Marcus Aurelius or Polykleitos’s Spear Bearer , The Dying Gaul , and Patroclus; sometimes Saint Sebastian or Saint Christopher and Christ Himself – and it was too easy to imagine the lines of pencil etching his agony into a picture of erotic suffering. It was too easy to watch Hannibal linger over that image in his mind’s eye, tortured in his own way as though Will was both a conduit and the object of alluring pain.
Will closed his eyes to readily accept the exhaustion as a cover for the way he was trembling with a twisted arousal and grimaced through the application of the ice packs to his armpits and groin. Then Hannibal’s hands were slipping away, and Will felt Hannibal’s body heat retreat as he stood to pull the sheet over him. Despite the ice packs, the offering of modesty dragged over his hot, aching flesh like a torment, but he didn’t protest. He drifted not long after, and he wasn’t entirely sure how much time had passed when he felt Hannibal’s hands on him again.
He came slowly to consciousness with a groan. The pain in his body was worse if that was possible. Every tiny flinch of muscles incited a white-hot agony through him, and the headache throbbed so severely that he felt as though his retinas would tear from their moorings.
Hannibal had removed the ice packs and was examining his glands again, pressing his fingers into his neck. Will panted a strained sound of pain as Hannibal gently maneuvered his arms upwards and began the process again at his underarms. The motion made his shoulder joints ache sharply, and he struggled to silence himself. He gripped the bedsheets weakly, his breath halting as Hannibal moved downwards and folded back the sheet from Will’s hips again.
It was here as Will became more conscious that he realized that Hannibal was not giving him skin to skin contact. The rubbery texture of nitrile pulled at his flesh, warm from Hannibal’s flesh beneath, yet sterile all the same.
He tried to open his eyes as Hannibal massaged the lymph nodes around his groin. Tears that had been roused by the pain clung to his lashes, and he could only see the blurry image of Hannibal bent over him. Without protest, he watched the distorted sight of Hannibal moving his legs apart to continue the exploration. He wished that he could see Hannibal’s expression more clearly as Hannibal’s fingers prodded close to his testicles on either side. Vaguely, he imagined what it would feel like if Hannibal touched his genitals with his gloved hands, what his body might do, how Hannibal’s face might look then, how Will might murmur, Not so professional, Dr. Lecter.
Apparently satisfied, however, Hannibal arranged his legs straight and closed again. Will caught his gaze through a haze of fever and smiled, half-giddy. Hannibal returned the smile softly.
“No major swelling yet,” he murmured.
“Not yet,” Will repeated in a mumble.
Hannibal moved closer, hovering, the smile still on his mouth. He looked Will over and then gently brushed his knuckles at the corner of Will’s eye to dash away the tear that had gathered there. Will blinked languidly, chasing another drop towards Hannibal’s fingers which he caught with as much care as the first. Stroking his forehead one last time, Hannibal reached towards the side table and produced a small flashlight.
“I’d like to look at your throat as well.” He grasped Will’s chin and clicked the flashlight on. “Open, please.”
Will complied, regretful of the taste of bile lingering on his tongue as Hannibal leaned in closer. He had to squeeze his eyes shut against the brightness of the flashlight, and opening his mouth made the hinge of his jaw ache. He struggled not to pull away or make a sound.
“Wider,” Hannibal murmured, “with your tongue out.”
Beyond his control, a low whimper escaped from Will’s throat as he stretched his mouth open further and extended his tongue. His chin trembled in Hannibal’s grasp with the effort.
“Good,” Hannibal said softly, and Will’s lids cracked open. He breathed haltingly, the muscles of his jaw and tongue shivering. Hannibal glanced towards him briefly, and they stared at each other for an inscrutable moment before Hannibal observed his throat again for longer than Will thought necessary. When Hannibal finally let go of his chin, he lapsed in relief.
“No swelling or redness in your throat either,” Hannibal told him as he turned the flashlight off.
Will nodded, closing his eyes again and swallowing. His mouth was dry from being held open, and his heart was palpitating in his chest, but his limbs were heavy. He felt Hannibal rise from the edge of the bed but little else.
His consciousness wavered, and after a momentary lapse, he felt Hannibal moving him again. His gloved hands were firm and purposeful but gentle still as he folded Will’s left arm and leg over and rolled him onto his side. Will groaned quietly only because it caused his body a great deal of pain, and he heard Hannibal hush him, felt him petting his hip and backside. When he quieted, Hannibal continued to position him, bending his right leg and situating both of his knees up towards Will’s chest.
Will was breathing heavily from the pain when Hannibal was done, and he felt weaker than before. The fever made it difficult to think, but when Hannibal stroked his temple, he hazily turned his head into his hand. His lashes fluttered, and he found Hannibal over his shoulder.
“Try to relax. I’m simply going to take your temperature,” Hannibal murmured, his expression intent, appreciative. Anticipatory.
Will nodded, his eyes sliding shut again.
Hannibal’s body heat came closer, his chest pressing against Will’s shoulder. He was no longer shirtless, and smooth fabric caressed Will’s skin rather than the scratch of hair and the warmth of bare flesh. Hannibal hovered for a moment, and then Will felt the heat of his breath, the scent of his perfume, and finally, the softness of his lips against his forehead. It wasn’t so much a kiss as a tasting, half open-mouthed and slightly wet. When Hannibal rose, Will’s sweat and pain would gleam on his lips, waiting only for the curl of his curious tongue to ferry the flavor to his palate – the only palate that could appreciate such things. Will shivered. Against the logic of the fever, the patch of skin felt cold when Hannibal’s mouth withdrew.
Will’s body was vacant of contact for only a moment. Hannibal sat at the edge of the bed and stroked his hip again, then moved lower, taking his buttock in his hand. The touch was clinical, spreading him open. Will’s lids fluttered, his breath hitching.
“Rectal temperature is considered to be the most accurate,” Hannibal told him. “Other means tend to vary by .5 degrees, more or less.”
A high, weak, rasping laugh rattled Will’s ribs, then quickly ceased when the pain it incited stole his oxygen. “Accuracy?” he managed to wheeze. “That's the line you’re going with?”
He could almost feel Hannibal’s smile. “You’re going to feel the thermometer inside you for approximately a minute.”
The cold, slick tip of the thermometer prodded at his asshole, and Will thought that if he’d been healthy, he wouldn’t have allowed it simply on the principle of pride, but there was something so terribly pleasurable about being ill under Hannibal’s watch again, of being fully aware this time and yet choosing to submit to his particular brand of care anyways because he knew what lay beneath it. Because he knew he could control it.
The thermometer slipped in painlessly. Hannibal was incongruously gentle. He’d always been, Will recalled. That was part of the reason why it had been so easy to go back to him time and again when the confusion of living became too great. The pain that Hannibal inflicted on him between the bouts of kindness gave him the clarity of fire-blown glass, Hannibal’s soft, molding hands the reward for enduring it to become something greater.
Hannibal smoothed his palm in a slow circle over his buttock as they waited, and it was more soothing than Will had anticipated. He almost drifted again beneath the hypnotic touch. His lashes only fluttered when the thermometer gave a shrill beep.
Hannibal spread him again to remove it, and Will felt himself quiver around the tiny, departing implement. With great care, Hannibal patted away the lingering lubricant with a cloth, and the drag of the cotton over the clenching orifice only exacerbated the feeling brought on by the removal of the thermometer. Will weakly grasped the pillow next to his head, barely succeeding in holding back a groan.
“You are lovely,” Hannibal murmured very quietly. The cloth slipped away though his hand remained.
Will huffed, unable to procure another full-bodied laugh or barb about professionalism. He felt too dizzy again, and he wasn’t certain if it was only the illness’s doing. The notion of his loveliness seemed preposterous coming from Hannibal, the connoisseur of all things beautiful, when he was drenched in sweat and the lingering scent of vomit, yet Hannibal’s voice was nothing if not entirely sincere. Will felt hot and unsteady at the compliment, the thought of Hannibal tasting him there as well. The thought of shoving him down there, suffocating him until he was all that Hannibal could taste, all that he could smell, the sickness simmering in his blood for Hannibal’s hungry mouth.
“What’s my temp, doc?” Will rasped instead.
“102.7.” Despite the alarming number, Hannibal’s voice held the hesitation of distraction. He was still looking at him. Will felt his thumb stroke inwards, and a flush washed over him. This time, he knew it was unassociated with the fever. His empty stomach rolled. He could only feel the glove, that thin, fragile barrier that allowed them to remain patient and doctor in the moment, but his body reacted to the sensation all the same with an internal squeeze.
“You-” Will began through gritted teeth. “You gonna check my prostate too?” The rest of the joke came out high and strained. It was the best he could do.
“Perhaps another time,” Hannibal said blithely, but his hand slipped away, allowing Will to relax against the sheets. He heard him peeling off the gloves with a snap. “Do you think you are able to eat? I have a batch of miso soup on hand. It’s very light but nutritious.”
Will nodded against the sheets. The nausea in his stomach did not agree, but he knew he needed to eat — or at least try. He needed Hannibal to perform a task that did not involve any part of his body below the hips until he could breathe again.
“Good. Let’s get you on your back again,” Hannibal said, patting his hip. He rose from the bed and assisted Will in turning. Will was panting, gritting his teeth in pain, and he felt breathless all over again by the time Hannibal had him on his back with two pillows tucked under him. He glimpsed Hannibal’s face through a squint of pain as he sank against the sheets. Hannibal’s gaze was purposefully preoccupied with situating the pillows and the sheets just so.
“That’s a pretty good bedside manner, Dr. Lecter,” Will murmured.
“I’ve never received a complaint,” Hannibal replied without flinching as he smoothed the sheets over Will’s stomach. “Though I am a bit out of practice.”
“It’s like riding a bike.”
Hannibal smiled mildly. “And being my patient? Is that like riding a bike, Will?”
Their eyes finally met again, and Will felt the tickle of danger on his flesh once more that made his breath quicken. He should have been ashamed of himself, but shame — that burden that he had carried for so long — felt far away, a rotting carcass at the bottom of an ocean.
“Something like that,” he said.
Hannibal’s expression was carefully controlled. To the untrained eye, he might’ve had no expression at all, but Will had learned to read those blank looks. Often, Hannibal’s face was the most serene when he had something to hide.
“I’ll be back shortly,” Hannibal said, straightening. Without another word, he turned and left the room to prepare the soup.
Will laid his head back and closed his eyes, trying to breathe in and out at a regular pace. He could feel the towel already clinging to his back again, and his head was spinning. Some delirious urge to put his hand under the sheets and touch himself like a waking fever dream cut through his mind, a sudden, burning comet streaking along its path of destruction, bright and intense for an instant before receding into the distance.
He opened his eyes and looked up at the ceiling. Just an inch or so away from the trim of an adjacent wall, there was a small seam where a tiny crack had begun to form. He stared at it until he could close his eyes and see the enduring black fissure on the back of his lids, the afterimage of the beginning of collapse.