Archive of Our Own

He was at the house again. 

He was always at that house.

The bayou was sticky with something other than just humidity this time. It slid like oil on his skin, hardening like tar and refusing to wash away. The coppery smell of death sat in the air, fresh and warm in the beating chest of some unseen entity. The swamps were alive, Will could feel it. The way the mud stuck to him and the marshy groves, algae, and moss became something of a beating heart. The brushing branches of the Weeping Willows reached out to wrap around his arms, each a small razor blade on his skin. Though he did not bleed, he was too much a part of the darkness here to bleed for it.

The marshy landscape parted against the dull orange glow of the home. Its place upon the water was balanced only by its decayed foundational pillars. Rotting like summer flesh in the water. It was a stink in Will’s nostrils, and he felt a chill crawl up his spine like some tangible thing. He went through the routine knowing, as he always had, that he would not be making it to the house. Though he noticed, it seemed closer somehow. The oak of its exterior was less dilapidated, as if a fresh paint job had been applied over the planks. The bright white cutting through the midnight air. He could hear muffled laughter, light and feminine, and a strange sense of longing filled his heart. This wasn’t how it usually went, there were never voices, never an anchor in reality. These were his nightmares. And with his nightmares always came…

The huff hit his neck before he heard the hooves. The clacking familiarity produced an impossible sound despite the wet surroundings. He was no longer alone. Nevertheless, he was never actually alone. He turned softly to his side, angling his eyes to see the smooth feathered edges of the onyx stag. Its gaze was aglow, two illuminated spheres in the dark, almost mystical in spirit compared to the death that surrounded them. It kept its eyes trained on the house, shuddering and stomping its front hoof like a warning. 

Unsure and feeling the first tendrils of fright hitting his membrane, Will finally spoke, “I won’t make it. I never make it.” 

And then there was another smell, another companion, still unwilling to be entirely seen, but this time it was felt. Will could feel it–him. He could feel him. The figure just behind him, warm hand clasping his nape softly with the scent of copper, sweet mahogany, and leather. Will inhaled deeply, feeling his body electrify.

The stag stomped again.

Will took a step forward, the steady pressure upon his back never left, even as he descended knee deep into the water.

“Dey eva tell you da story of the Boll Weevil Holla?” The voice came like an echo, cascading across the shadows with a melodic twang. The invisible hand on Will’s neck twitched in warning, not aggression, just wariness. 

‘Stay still’, it signaled, ‘listen’, it warned.

Will knew the voice, having heard it enough times in the peripherals of the night to identify it. He didn’t want to look, he knew what he would find. The image his mind would conjure and create in this space between dream and reality, where Will resided. 

“Bastards ate da crop right up. Dey dug and dug and dug and ate and ate and ate,” A wet laugh turned into a bumbling cough. Will winced, unable to move from his place in the water. Beside him, the figure moved closer, soggy lips smacking against nothing.

“Ya eva been da hungry, boy? Eva been starvin’?” 

Hands grabbed Will’s chin and turned him violently, his gaze breaking from the floating light of the home and into the sodden, empty eye sockets of Hector. Or, rather, what should have been Hector. His body was shreds, organs seeping into the water and floating down the current, dark and putrefied. His skin was swollen with death, waterlogged and slimy as he gripped onto Will with sharp nails. Will whimpered, fear kicking in as he tried to step back.

“Eva been hungry ‘nough to take without carin’ whos you takin’ from?” Hector brought him closer, empty sockets boring into his blue irises, “ Yous got somethin’ a da wolf ‘bout you, ya teeth too sharp, boy. I can smell it on ya. Dat rot. Dat hunger. Dat…violence.” Hector spoke, and water bubbled and flew from his gator-bitten lips. His vocal chords were gravelly and gurgling. Will wanted to be far away from it. He needed to be. 

And then he began to sing.

The song was familiar in the distant way old folk tunes often were. Jarring vocals over the broken banjo strings of the bayou. Folks wheezing through the thick air while sinking into their homes. And Will wanted to cover his ears.

“Hey! Hey, Boll Weevil, where’s your native home? Way down in the bottom, among the cotton and corn. Boll Weevil here, Boll Weevil everywhere—“ His ghostly voice spat wet babbling melodies along chattering teeth. His lips gone, a strange attempt as the song echoed from all directions. Will whimpered, trying to get himself free from the iron grip Hector had on him.

He shoved against Hector’s hold as best he could. The flesh of Hector's arm fell right off the bone and splashed with an awful sound into the water around them, and all the bastard did was laugh. It echoed, and the stag huffed, and the water rose against Will’s chest. Panic set into his bones, and he thrashed through the murky depths towards the still, ever-glowing safe haven of the home. He knew he wouldn’t make it. He never did, but he needed to be far from Hector. Anything to get distance.

“First time I seen a Boll Weevil, he was sittin’ on that square. Next time I seen a Boll Weevil, he had his family there.”

He felt screams tear from his throat, shards of glass cutting his stomach and vocal chords, as hands shot from the water and grabbed him. This was familiar, this happened last time. He knew any moment he would be in a field, far from the water, and cut into flesh until he was drenched. 

“Boll Weevil’s in your field, Boll Weevil’s in your field!” Hector's voice was loud and distant all at once, choking the life from Will’s mind and body as he fought forward. He laughed, and it came out ragged and taunting. Will fought the hands that gripped him. And he held his breath, waiting to be plunged under.

But no such interlude came. Instead, the hands grabbed him and held him in place, yanking him back and forth and screaming muffled words from the water in every popped air bubble that surfaced. Will screamed, shoving against the strong grip.

“Will!” 

Will twitched as his vision blurred in the dream, the surroundings turning to murky watercolors that melted together. And he swore he saw faces, so many fucking faces he could drown in it. Maybe he was, maybe he was dying.

“Willoughby Graham!” 

Will felt for a weapon, something to free himself, but he had no room for purchase. The swamps were gone, the house was gone, all that remained was this dark, horrifying crimson and the light of the moon. He shook violently, and all he could do was shoot forward with his strength. He tackled the invisible force, shoving it hard into the ground, lifting and thrashing and banging and punching. He felt the grit in his molars, the urge to bite and taste and rip apart the flesh of his fear.

Then pain.

A blossom of it across his face like bone on bone–no– like knuckle against bone. 

Will’s eyes shot open, and he blinked rapidly as he took in the obscurity of his surroundings. The first sense to return to him was the feeling of the wet grass beneath his back, soaking into his t-shirt and poking small marks into his skin. He heard the sounds of cicadas and crickets, loud and jarring against his ears, and he wished he could cover them, but his arms were being held down in place. Confusion set in, and he began to thrash against the force again, visions of Hector returning.

“Will, look at me, boy!” Beau Graham’s voice could never entirely be described as soothing. It wasn’t in its nature to be so. Perhaps at one time in his life, there was something charming in the lilt of his accent, but that was long gone. Whatever remained was harsh and uncontrolled, and mean. He bit out his words against grinding teeth and spat them with venom. But Will doesn’t think he’s ever heard his father sound like this. 

Beau was holding Will down, body blocking out most of the moonlight above them as he stared down at his son with the most genuine look of confusion and fear on his face that Will had ever seen. He smelled like whiskey, cheap cologne, and sweat. His hair astray as Will blinked back his hallucinations for reality. It was a slow come down, assisted by the pressure of his father and the faint flash of pink in his peripheral vision that he knew was Bambi.

“You see me? You with me?” Beau tapped the place where pain was beginning to turn into a dull throb on his cheek, and Will nodded through a wince.

“I see you.” He coughed out.

“Christ, Will.” Beau stood, and Will couldn’t find it in himself to do the same. His limbs were like jelly, and he felt the lingering rise of emotions in his throat, “How fuckin’ long you been wanderin’ ‘gain?” 

Will swallowed and tried to sit up, feeling the beginning of bruising on his back and cheek. He touched his face tenderly and looked back up at Beau.

“Did you hit me?” Will asked softly, frowning deeply. Beau rubbed his eyes and looked at the treeline, as if gesturing to the dark abyss of the swamps.

“Don’ look at me like that, you was thrashin’ ‘bout. I thought you was havin’ some sorta fit till I realized—fuck, Will, you wouldn’t stop screamin’. I had to shut you up, get you to stop tryna fuckin’ hit me.” Beau explained through gritted teeth and a shallow voice. Will was still spiraling, looking around in confusion as he stood. His feet hurt again. Whatever healing had been underway was undone, and he hissed at the feeling.

“Will, hey, let’s go inside. Yeah? Don’t you think that’s a good idea, Beau?” Bambi spoke up, her voice a soothing tremor, slightly unnerved but not fearful. ‘Worried’ was the word Will would use. 

“I don’ give a shit, boys more trouble than he’s worth. Lock the damn doors, I ain’t gon’ chase you next time.” Beau grumbled, and Will watched his father go. It hit him harder, for whatever reason, his father's words. Normally, he would ignore his cruelty, but something in him simply couldn’t. Maybe it was because this was the only memory he held of his father that was painted in kindness, and now even that was so easily tainted. Perhaps it was because his father was right. He could imagine it. Easily see the way Will’s habits and demands, and emotions were too much for a man like Beau. 

For a man like anyone.

Their home sat in the distance, a dull glowing thing that reminded Will of the place in his dreams, though entirely lacking in the warmth that it permeated. Their home was a hollow shell, something to be avoided. It infected them, shook at the foundations, and prevented anything good from growing. Nothing would change here; it was impossible. And as Will watched the hulking figure of his father skulk back to their home, outlined like a creature in the night, Will wondered if that is what he would become. Some bitter thing bound to bite anything good in his life until it bled and went limp. He didn’t want to, but genetic inclination is a funny thing. A soft hand cut through his thoughts, and he looked over to Bambi. Her big eyes were glossy, and she offered a wobbly smile.

“He don’t mean it.” She offered, even though they both knew Beau did. He never said anything he didn’t mean, at the very least, he could be counted on for that. “Junie woke us up, howlin’ like nothin’ else when you left. Took me five minutes to get her to stay still long enough to put her in the bathroom. She nearly bit your daddy’s hand off when he tried.” Bambi giggled at the memory, and Will couldn’t help but smirk.

“She don’t like him,” Will mumbled, and Bambi shrugged.

“Will, what’s goin’ on with you? Hm? First, the damned street and now—are you…I’m worried about you.”

“M’Fine. Honest. I did this when I was a kid, with my mind the way it is, something I just wander around while ‘m sleepin’.”

They stood in silence for a moment, Will’s eyes wandering over across the street and up the winding driveway towards the warm lanterns that lined the Beaumont Estate. He envisioned walking over there and knocking softly on the door. Hannibal would answer, not a hair out of place despite having been asleep. He would look at Will and just understand, without a word exchanged between them, and embrace him entirely. Hannibal’s strong arms encompassing Will and bringing him inside, wrapping him in blankets. He would plant soft, placating kisses on all the places that made Will crazy. A soft string of reassurances on his tongue, tickling Will’s mind and chasing the shadows away, Hannibal’s monster far scarier than anything Will could produce. Will had only ever seen a glimpse of it, in the flashes of Hannibal’s eyes, but he knew it was there. He knew it would protect Will. He couldn’t quite explain why, but he knew.

“Have you told him?” Bambi whispered, barely a brush of air in the wind, and it took a moment for Will to realize entirely what she meant. He turned to her, sensing that familiar caress of panic rise in his spine and make home in the bone area of his skull. 

“Who?” Will asked, trying to feign innocence, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. 

“Hannibal, that’s his name, right? I seen him ‘round town with little Abigail. He seems…careful,” Bambi explained, crossing her arms in her fluffy pink robe, a contemplative look on her face.

“He’s a good man, if that’s what you mean.” Will felt the sudden urge to defend Hannibal against whatever strange impression Bambi had managed to derive from her small glimpses of the boy. She smirked, looking at Will with a knowing smile.

“Never said he wasn't, sugar. But, is he nice? And don’t bullshit me, others around here might be blind but I ain’t. Just cause I don’t say nothin’, don’t mean I don’t see nothin’.” Bambi had the most lovely look of mischief on her face, full cheeks flushed with the heat of the night in all the charm of a secret keeper. Will didn’t feel the danger in her knowing, he just felt the comfort, the idea that she knew–had known–and wouldn’t be telling anytime soon. Will had to look away, keep his eyes towards the Estate once more, as a small smile stretched on his face.

“Yeah, he’s nice,” Will replied softly, and Bambi nodded.

“Good. Then maybe tell him, cause if you ain’t gon’ listen to me and I know you ain’t told Beverly, maybe tell him. He could help.”

“Maybe.”

“Now c’mon, let’s get inside. I’ont want that to bruise.” And Will heard everything Bambi wasn’t saying in that statement.

_______________________________

It started, oddly enough, with a haircut. But that would come later.

Looking back, Hannibal supposed it was their bodies doing what their minds were not. Fostering change and a grasp for control following what would surely be a tremulous day. A sort of echo that created ripples in their psyche until finally it touched the edge of some shapeless thing. Hannibal had known something would give in the metaphorical chambers of his mind soon enough. His meals had been inconsistent, his nightmares more violent, and the ghostly figure of Mischa was a more frequent companion than he liked to admit. Most days, he could do fine. There was a power in being able to endure his life with minimal external evidence. He had his scars, of course, but those were something he was to live with forever. A reminder, grim and chastising, every time he saw his wrists. He wondered how long it would be before Will demanded to know that story as well.

Regarding Will, Hannibal found a certain brand of bliss in the unpredictability of the other boy's mind as distraction. There were days Hannibal could see the thing that was plaguing Will wrap itself like a coil to bruise around his throat. On other days, he found the urge to ask where the actual bruises came from. Will never seemed inclined to fully answer, and Hannibal could sooner guess why. Things were eerily different with Will, it wasn’t like anything Hannibal had prepared himself for in the past. Will demanded his attention entirely, whether he asked or not. The beauty and fallen grace of this boy from the swamps touched the Earth like rot and viscera and poisonous flowers. He loved with claws and teeth, and Hannibal let him. He would always let him. To be his, even in violence, was something Hannibal craved. Whoever had placed the leash on Will was experienced enough to muzzle the boy as well. But there was something unwinding in him, a fear and lack of reservation. A glassy haze over his eyes that made him look like a starving wolf, snarling for a meal. There was a wilderness about him, unruly curls and sharp teeth. His eyes glazing over in moments as if he was somewhere and someone else entirely. It fascinated Hannibal. He wanted to know what it meant, what it would produce. Like a flourishing garden of venomous plants. 

His days were now spent mostly with Will. Since their night of confessions, they had grown considerably closer with one another, and Hannibal felt the small ways Will was slowly weaving his way into the tapestry of his life. He had noticed new things, ever in awe of the unpredictability of the other boy. There were always moments, small things that would capture Hannibal’s eye. Whether they were at the Antiquity, Edie’s, or stargazing in the bed of Will’s pickup— it all was inevitably beautiful. Hannibal’s favorite moments were when he could claw a reaction from Will that he hadn’t seen before, or had been dying to see again. He’d grown addicted to Will’s laugh, his smile, his anger, and frustration. The way he was kind and gentle, but ruthless and brutal at the same time. Seeing everything and saying nothing. 

Hannibal had begun to ache for him in new ways, ways that tested the barriers of his psyche. Forced him to ask just how much he was willing to let Will know about himself, see of himself. It was much like staring at the sun most days, and the pain of being seen was becoming a bruise he loved to press. They hadn’t had another night like the one at the field. There was an unspoken agreement of pause. They shared intimacies to a point, getting lost in one another's skin– to a point. They never went further than chest to chest, wrapped around like two coiled snakes in search of warmth. They grew familiar with each other, Hannibal mapping what made Will tick. The spots that made the boy pliant beneath his hands, whispering Creole into Hannibal’s ears. Will was his muse, and he’d grown postulate at his altar, bleeding for him like a priest holding out a bloody heart to God. 

Church was Will’s body, and gospel was his mind. There was no finer religion than the desire that cut into Hannibal’s flesh when Will whispered his name. It was holy, pure, and beautiful. 

But even this could not withstand the pressure of Hannibal’s locked doors. His mind was rattling, the palace quaking with warning as echoing footsteps grew closer. The humming of a lost lullaby filling his dreams. He woke up screaming. Chiyoh never complained, but he knew she heard him. It was of no help that Abigail was restless since Cassie Boyle. The undoubtedly morbid knowledge they both held that Cassie would not be found alive was casting a heavy shadow in their conversations. The search parties were futile as they continued for another week. Hope was a powerful thing, dangerous to have. It made people stupid. Abigail never said it directly, but they both knew there was evidence of Cassie in another traceless item like the rain boots.

 Hobbs had begun to trust Hannibal with more frequency regarding Abigail’s care, and the two had many afternoons spent at the Manor lounging about reading, drawing, and doing puzzles over veiled conversations. She was clever, leaving roadmaps in her words for Hannibal to pocket for later. She couldn’t make sense of most of it, but she knew it was important. And that, for now, would have to be enough.

Hannibal sat on his patio, a somewhat perfect view of Will’s driveway within his vision as he sketched. He wasn’t exactly waiting for Will. In fact, he was not entirely sure what he was waiting for. He had taken to sketching in the early morning hours and found solace in the seclusion of the cicada song and frog baritones. It was only when he let his eyes flicker up again did he see the speck of resplendent change in the distance. Will was outside with Junie, shirtless, and leaning on the porch. Likely smoking, though from this distance, Hannibal couldn’t tell. Will was glowing even from afar, and Hannibal admired him endlessly. He almost abandoned his sketches to walk over, but then Will turned abruptly and went inside. Hannibal ignored the sinking in his heart and looked back at his pages. It was but a moment later that the phone began to ring. Hannibal smirked.

He leaned over and picked up the outside phone from its deck, answering it before anyone else could. 

“Lecter Residence, this is Hannibal speaking,” Hannibal answered, face brightening with anticipation. He tapped his pencil against his thigh, watching as the front door of the Graham house opened once more. Will stepped out, phone cord feeding through the door, and sat on the porch.

“Mornin’ sweetheart,” Will’s voice was extra twangy in the mornings, pairing with a gravelly exhaustion that was a sweet cocktail to Hannibal’s ears. And suddenly Hannibal could imagine a thousand mornings spent this way, hearing Will’s voice close to his ear with all the tired fondness of routine and adoration. He detested the vision, though found no fear within allowing himself the thought. Hope was dangerous, Will was unpredictable, there was so much of Hannibal the other boy had yet to see, and it was an uncharacteristic risk to invest so much.

Hannibal swallowed thickly and rubbed his eyelids softly, focusing on the now instead.  He could dissect it later, make sense of it when he had time. But, at this moment, he would focus on Will’s voice and wade into the softness of his rhythmic vocals. He sounded tired, something on the edges of his voice that was just out of sight. It made Hannibal’s brows furrow slightly.

“Good morning.” Hannibal could hear the sound of life from the end of Will’s line. The birds were louder, bugs buzzing in the fray. There was always more life around Will, like the world just couldn’t help it. “Everything alright?” 

“Yeah, everythin’ is fine, just wanted to hear your voice.” Will’s tone bordered on a playful, masking whatever it was that Hannibal had heard.

“Satiating a hunger?” Hannibal questioned, leaning back in his chair. There was a bout of silence before Hannibal heard Will speak once more.

“Always gon’ be when it comes to you.” It was honest, though slightly awkward, and Hannibal could imagine the flush of embarrassment on his cheeks. He wanted to reach through the phone and kiss him, hold him, play him like the piano, and learn every melody he could produce.

“Did you sleep well?” Hannibal inquired, knowing the answer but wanting to see if Will would provide him a truthful answer. It didn’t escape Hannibal’s attention that over the past couple of weeks, Will’s energy had plummeted, and dark circles were starting to become worryingly prominent under his eyes.

“Had a nightmare, if I’m honest,” Will sighed, “I haven't had them like this since I was a kid.” Will sounded troubled, and Hannibal knew whatever Will saw in his sleep was beginning to haunt him in the daylight. Something that he, himself, could relate to.

“I am no stranger to nightmares, Will. If you ever find yourself overly troubled, I am merely a few steps away. I won’t deny you.” Hannibal offered, knowing he meant the words entirely. His hand twirled around the phone cord as he lazily watched the gleaming shimmer of the dew-covered willow branches. 

“I debated it last night, imagining I’d sleep a lot better. But, it seemed childish.” Will’s voice was always on the brink of another emotion. Like he was just sampling the dozens on his tongue before leaping to the next and deciphering it. Hannibal imagined that was how it was much of the time for Will. So much of the world was loud in so many different ways, Hannibal himself had learned to control what parts of it bothered him with particular intensity. It hadn’t been easy for him, and he highly doubts he would have gotten much of anywhere without Chiyoh. He can imagine, to some degree, that it wouldn’t have been easy for Will growing up how he did, no one reaching out and letting him work through those emotions without reprimand.

“Would it have helped?” Hannibal sought gently. His expression softened at the hastened intake of breath from the other line. The taste of hesitation before leaping towards self-loathing, confused as to where to take himself next. Hannibal wished he were closer, could run his fingers along the currents of thought, and claim the prize of understanding. But, instead, he inclined towards patience. Something, Hannibal felt, no one gave Will enough of.

“Probably,“ a whisper, cusped into the wind and carried over to Hannibal. Cradled gently upon his next thought, breathless and sweet, “Yes.”

“Then not childish at all,“ A confession for them both, stillness in the air of it as it sat between them. It should not have been as meaningful as it was, but there was something beautiful in it. Will Graham would crack him open, bloody and begging, and Hannibal would hold him after.

“When can I see you? I mean, I can see you right now,” Will chuckled, raising his hand from the porch to which Hannibal mimicked his motion, “But I did have somethin’ more intimate in mind.” And even as a speck in the distance, he shone as the brightest star. Hannibal wondered if the cosmos had realigned to create a world for them, if Will would forever be his sun. He secretly and foolishly hoped.  

“I miss you,” Hannibal nearly whispered, the honesty of it crawling like shards of glass from his throat. It was a strange thing to be so eager to give himself over to Will. A reckless abandon, a desperate need to be seen. “From this distance, mio sole , I can hardly make out your beauty.” Hannibal looked down at his sketch pad and found familiar curves and lines shaping themselves without his full consent. Curls, blue eyes, an off-kilter smile. Hannibal closed the book and sighed. He was feeling vulnerable in his skin, too open and aware of every part of his body that ached and ghosted with injury and pain. It wouldn’t be long before the eventual crash.

“I work today, but I can see you tonight. I can pick you up and we can go somewhere quiet.” Will finally spoke, and Hannibal wanted to agree. The reply was so eagerly sitting upon his tongue that it took every amount of his self-restraint to say otherwise. But, he couldn’t risk it, if what he felt was happening actually transpired—there was no reality in which Hannibal wished for Will to see him that way.

“I’m sorry, but tonight I am promised to Chiyoh.” Hannibal felt himself twinge at the lie.

“Oh, well, that’s alright, what ‘bout tomorrow? M’ off.” 

“I will have to let you know, perhaps allow me to call you in the morning?” Hannibal replied softly, feeling the dejected expression from Will even from this distance.

“Right, yeah, o’ course darlin’,” Will whispered, attempting to hide his confusion with his usual lilting charm. Hannibal wanted to claw his own heart out for the transgression, but he knew he would come to be thankful.

“Goodbye, Will.” 

“Bye, sweetheart.”

Hannibal felt his stomach twist as he put the phone back on its home. He watched as Will played with Junie outside for a few more minutes before going back into his home. The disappearance of him felt naively permanent, like a child in a game, unknowing that the one they loved would come back. But, they didn’t always come back, did they? There was no real object permanence within Hannibal’s world; even childish games reaped grim rewards, and he would do well to remember that. But oh, Will. Will and all his mystery and beauty and hunger and anger. Will, who looked at Hannibal with a pickaxe in his bloody hands, and clawed at Hannibal’s walls like a young demigod. Each touch manifested an unfamiliar feeling of being wanted and seen in an entirely new and different way. The craving to take up space in Will's mind and carve a space in each junction and electrical current of his thoughts. He would burrow deep, make a place for himself until Will no longer could decipher the difference. But he needed distance right now, a safety net that would allow him the decision to fall within himself if needed. The only person who could be allowed to see him this way was Chiyoh.

Hannibal went back inside and began his morning rituals, ignoring the small day-date clock by his bedside with a vengeance. He didn’t need to see it to know. He didn’t need the actual visual confirmation. It would be a miracle if he made it through the day as it was, though, perhaps it was this rise in heated anger and hazy mind fog that left him standing for a rather long time in his bedroom. His stillness was a warning in its lack of noise. So, when Chiyoh knocked on their bathroom door, scissors in hand and a magazine in the other, he wasn’t concerned . He knew he was affected, sure, he knew he would come to be more affected. But, not so much so that he was entirely useless. Perhaps an ignorant endeavor, as he had yet to notice the twitch in his own hands, the way he gripped the blade beneath his pillow at night, the silence that ached in the bones of the inhabitants of the house. There was an uneasiness, like something was bound to combust. They were likely all terrified it would be him.

“Are you busy?” Chiyoh asked, a slight crease to her thoughtful brow. Her eyes narrowed on him. She was assessing him, flickering gaze upon his body like a nursemaid. Where does it hurt? Where can I fix it? Where can I not?

“Only just.” He replied absently and walked to his closet, putting on a button-down. The loose fabric agitated his senses, but he was too frustrated and tired to fix it.

“And how is Will?“ Chiyoh was a devious thing when she wanted to be. Her teasing was always light but knowing. He looked at her, eyes barely casting to hers.

“Alive and well.” He kept his tone flat, and she smiled, all teeth. A hum escaped her canines.

“Help me cut my hair? The heat is making it unbearable.” She held up the magazine and showed a nameless celebrity with some short, choppy haircut that Hannibal would be seemingly trying to replicate.

It was a lie, they both knew it. Chiyoh loved her hair, had been growing it for years. She preferred it long to add versatility to her style. However simple it was, she remained extravagant in her braids, curlers, and pin-up styles. It was a sense of pride for her, a way to change and exude maturity. Hannibal took the magazine and eyed the style, it was short–shorter than anything Chiyoh had worn in years. There would be no leftover strands to braid or pin back with anything more than a barrette or two. He looked up to his cousin.

“Are you certain?” He raised a brow, and Chiyoh’s hand gripped the scissors. Her hands were shaking, and her eyes looked down. A sharp nod jerked her wet head of pin-straight strands. She looked vulnerable too, in a far-off way, and the thought made Hannibal uneasy.

“Very well.” He shrugged and followed her to the bathroom. 

There was a process to these days, whether it was Chiyoh or Hannibal doing the styling, they had a routine. Even in Italy, they did each other's hair, not trusting anyone with a blade that close to their necks. The ritual of it was a simple thing that left them both relaxed and trusting, leaning into each touch and exchanging conversation and light laughter. There were memories held in the chair, whichever they chose, and Hannibal was grateful for these times. It was almost on the brink of normalcy for them, something so mundane in the whirlwind of their lives that most of the time Hannibal didn’t even realize it had become a staple. Chiyoh requested they take their work outdoors, wanting to prevent the work of vacuuming up the strands and styling if she could. Hannibal suspected she just needed fresh air, something about the wide open spaces of their land brought new life to Chiyoh’s self-inflicted status. She felt a little more like the girl he remembered years ago, wide-eyed and laughing, battling him with the dull ends of swords in the garden. Signing jokes to him in public, knowing no one would ever understand them, even if they were to use words. 

It was comfort. Perhaps the closest either of them had gotten.

Chiyoh sat in one of the wicker chairs, laying a towel over the woven material and sitting on it with her perfect posture. She was a Lecter too, a fact that Hannibal sometimes forgot. She was born out of wedlock, the child of a heated night of fantasy, now a tangible dream of forever making up for it. The perfect daughter, the perfect cousin, the perfect—everything. It was a burden they shared, to earn and be born to, to uphold and reclaim. They would always be this, these children begging at the feet of a generational god, telling them to sit straighter, speak louder, be wiser, reach higher. Fingertips grazing the lining of a bookshelf, they were expected to be experts on. But, here, when it was just them, that melted like small ice cubes in the Louisiana heat.

Hannibal sprayed Chiyoh’s hair with the small amber colored spray bottle they’d borrowed from the kitchen and let the tendrils of water soak the drying ends of her hair softly. The sun was rising on their land, casting bright colors over the unmoved gardens as dandelions sparked a sea of yellow and white. The morning birds were chirping to life, and Chiyoh let out a soft hum. Carefully, Hannibal braided Chiyoh’s hair into two sections. Slicking it evenly as his fingers wove in and out of her onyx strands until he snapped two rubber bands on each. 

“Ready?” Hannibal whispered, visions flickering to a time much before this, under a much different sun: Chiyoh walking him through the instructions, chastising and worried he would cut off too much. He smiled.

“It is just hair, it will grow back, cugino.” Chiyoh giggled and her eyes closed as Hannibal took the shears and cut smoothly along her thick tresses of hair. It seemed to almost happen in a slowing of time, the fall of each braid to the grassy wilds below their feet. With the wind, the remaining hair splayed out playfully, evenly shining in the sun. Hannibal watched the display as if it were a field of grain, attentively beginning to add layers, cutting here and there until he could entirely see the nape of her neck. The strands almost youthfully sticking out and curling uncharacteristically from the lack of weight. He brushed through it softly with Chiyoh’s favorite ivory brush, a present he had gotten her for her sixteenth birthday.

“Turn,” Hannibal instructed, and Chiyoh did so, standing and letting the loose pieces fly out and into the wind before settling once more facing Hannibal. He shaped around her face, looking every so once in a while at the picture in the magazine to get the right bangs, the right purposeful choppiness, before he finally dusted off her face with a clean towel and stood back.

He wasn’t exactly sure why it happened, or began to happen there, as he honestly should have realized earlier the source of his apprehension to aid Chiyoh in this. Her ever glassy black eyes met his, and the shine through the stained glass decor on the oak trees cast a red glaze over half her face. She was sitting, which perhaps made her look smaller. Whatever it was made Hannibal realize, with the vignette tunnel of grief and a strange sort of panic, that the last time Hannibal had seen her this way was years ago. Three years after his settling into his uncle's estate, when his hands became familiar with a sword, and his rage was a fine blade on the edge of it. When words still failed him, but his other senses did not. And that day, their longest night, when it all finally came crashing down around them. And Hannibal could see it, the way blood stuck to Chiyoh’s hair and made her face riddled with the dark blotches of sin and vengeance and fear. The way her eyes found him and hardened like stone as she held him upright and together. The way their grief poured into the same cup and burst with an overflow that would bind them forever, a secret or a kin. He had never meant to drag her into it. They had never meant to do that to each other. But, there was an inevitability to it, he thinks, like all things.

“Hannibal?” Chiyoh asked, fingers gracing the ends of her new hair, short as she wished, as it had once been.

Hannibal opened his mouth and closed it again, putting down the scissors and clasping his hands so tightly the knuckles turned white. He hummed, lifting his head in an attempt to get the sound to travel further than the roadblock in his throat. But the noise never came. Instead came the echoing chambers of his mind, ghosts beckoning and taunting like sticky termites eating at the foundations of his stability:

“ Pasakyk jos vardą!Papasakok, ką padarei!”

“Aš tave išgelbėjau, berniuk. Tu išgyvenai, ar ne? Prašom.

He choked out a noise that was not quite a sob but not quite a cough either. The difference in the sound was noticed, scratching his senses irritably. So much so that when he handed Chiyoh the handheld mirror, she was averting her eyes, giving him time to recover accordingly. It wasn’t until her eyes caught her reflection that the small gasp of realization fell from her prim lips. Her fingers grazed the edges of the strands, the ghosts of longer pieces falling at their feet like guilty evidence. Chiyoh’s eyes looked back at him, glazed with tears and unspoken anguish, before she set the mirror down. She looked at Hannibal, seemingly at a loss as well.

“ This was never my intention.” Chiyoh signed, hands warping around familiar language they could both speak at the moment. Hannibal followed her movements and nodded.

“ I know.” he signed back.

He felt sweat collect at his nape as a twitch made his fingers flex and fist over and over. Voices filled his head as each rusting lock began to fall from his eyes. One by one, the doors creaked open, liquified grief in the form of drowning tar finding him in the safest corner of his mind. It stopped at the edge, not quite able to break through with anything more than a cacophony of screams and voices, Hannibal could block out rather well if he needed.

“I will wash up. Why don’t you collect a bouquet?” Chiyoh offered and stood, placing a warm palm on his cheek, “Do not disappear yet, not when no one is there to catch you. Please,” she begged and kissed him softly on the forehead before running inside. Hannibal watched her go, realizing he was once again alone in the front of their grand estate. The empty cavern no more a display of wealth and power than of love and family. No family could flourish here; they were all drowning in their sorrows, in their past. Every hall, no matter where they would go, would be covered in blood and ruin. Every dinner table is cut to the heart, and the meals were a jab to the sweet cavity of their canines. Pain was transplendent, an earned birthright that haunted the ruins of every castle and show of wealth that stained Hannibal’s hands.

Hannibal looked up at the sun, the way it splayed across the land of their home. The wildflowers an ocean of violets, yellows, and pinks. He reached a hand out and felt the wind between his fingers, finding their trembling a vile display of his internal wars. He wanted to string himself high for it, hate himself more than he already did, but to do so would mean giving in entirely. And he had something to do, something he was given to do. A task. 

Right, make a bouquet.

Hannibal stepped forward into the field, feeling the glowing vitality of life lick his deadening fingertips and kissing the decay. He smelled rot permeating from his own body, the ghost of a boy he would forever drag behind him like a shackle. The idea, the justice that it should be him, that each sunrise was stolen. Each beautiful thing witnessed was a fallacy to his own eyes. Things not meant for creatures like him. 

“Ateik, Hannibal!” The girlish laughter of a ghost gripped his hand, and he was dragged forward into the field by the invincible force of his despair. 

He saw her venture forward in the morning light, an angel amongst the deep greens and rich colors. Her white blonde hair wild and long, blue eyes like porcelain, so bright and forgiving. She was wearing her favorite dress, the pink one with the embroidered sheep upon the trip, which had a rip in the seam from one of the goats chewing on it when she was feeding them. The heat didn’t touch her, the wind didn’t cast a hair from its place as she stared at him. He waited for her demands, knowing they would come before she laughed girlishly and pointed to a small tuft of violets.

“Man patinka šie.

“Kaip nori.”

Hannibal stepped forward and grabbed a fistful of the flowers, carefully plucking each one and laying them softly in his free hand. He spun in a circle, picking random choices from around him: a Dandelion here or a Swamp Milkweed there. By the time he was done, he had a sizable gathering of sunbursting colors within his dirt-covered palms. He stared at them softly, caressing each petal as a sting of tears began to well behind his eyes. The pain contorting his chest into an ache that he wished he could carve out of himself. It was too much, his body crumbling under it entirely.

“Hannibal?” Chiyoh’s voice came out soft and placating, a safe distance from him so as not to startle him entirely. He turned to her and blinked rapidly, the world around him gleaming between shapes and sounds that belonged here and were entirely foreign to his surroundings. He tried to focus on her figure, a soft silhouette in the distance. She was frowning, worry infecting her features, but for what reason Hannibal could not decipher. He looked at her, head tilted as the visions of the world around her began to mold themselves to a place he hadn’t seen in a decade. Dark shadows eating at life and making rot and decay king. He choked back a rising fear within his throat as she stepped closer, hands up, “ Hannibal, what are you doing?”

“Ką turi omenyje?” Hannibal asked as he held up the glowing bouquet. Chiyoh looked at him with apprehension as she took his arm. It was only then that Hannibal realized how much taller she was than he, looking down at him with shattered conviction as she tugged softly.

“I asked you to get a bouquet. Why are you all the way here?”

Hannibal looked at his hand and saw the image shatter.

He was holding a mix of soggy sticks and waterlogged weeds, dripped water and mud onto his hands and down his forearms. He was standing in the water, at the edge of the creek that lined their property, willows swaying and eating up the light. It was all shadows, like a beast clawing at the chill in his wet clothing. He swallowed thickly and shook his head violently, dropping the gatherings in his hand and choking out a sob. He blinked back a panic as the room cracked, the invisible wall protecting him in the foyer of his mind began to shatter. There were no flowers, no sunlight, and no Mischa. She was gone, buried in his teeth and bone marrow forever, aiding in his bloodstream, keeping his heart pumping. She was the creature curled in his chest forever, manually beating his heart and keeping him alive, and he hadn’t even had the strength to do the same for her.

“ Chiyoh, I’m losing myself.” He signed, trying to gather air in his constricting lungs.

“Then lose yourself, I will find you. I promise.” And she meant it, because it was Chiyoh, and she always meant it. Even as she struggled to haul him from the swamp water and to solid land, the expedition was a blur in memory. As she changed him into dry clothing, he felt the inky tar of memory drip onto every portion of his filthy, blood-stained body. 

“She would have been sixteen. The same age I was when—” Hannibal choked out through a punch of air within his lungs, and finally the dam broke and he shattered into a thousand porcelain pieces.

“Silenzio, ora, niente di tutto ciò.” 

And like permission, his world went dark.

_____________________________________________________________

Will wasn’t worried. 

Well, that was a fucking lie. 

But he was telling himself he wasn’t worried because that was a hell of a lot easier than acknowledging the shitstorm that his life was spiraling into lately. Things had been going good for him there for a while. He and Molly were back on speaking terms, and Beverly was the same rock-solid anchor in Will’s life that she had always been. He was working on his bullshit and actually enjoyed being with Hannibal, allowing himself the slack to taste what life might be if he let go completely. He was brave, touching the clear waters of a path that he was learning might be made for him after all. Self-deprecation was at an all-time low, but still pretty high. He found the parts of himself he hated were no longer allowed to be hidden away, if only for the simple fact that Hannibal found them exceedingly pleasurable. The kid was a hedonist, and he really liked dishing it out as much as he wanted it, which meant Will was not only his favorite subject matter but his favorite artistic medium. Not that Will was complaining. What he had with Hannibal he never thought he would have with anyone, much less someone who enjoyed him as much as Hannibal did. But it was scary too.

Scary because Will wasn’t put together right all the way. There were bits of him missing that would stain everything he touched with crimson claws. He didn’t want to harm Hannibal like that, not in a way that would truly break the boy entirely. There was a sort of strange desire to bite into him, to taste him in an entirely unholy way. To know how the salt tasted on every portion of his skin and dig his oil-covered hands into his flesh and squeeze until bruises held long enough to claim Hannibal as his own. And he knew Hannibal wanted this too. He saw it every time they got hot n’ heavy. When the steam rose between them and the windows got foggy with desire, and Hannibal’s hands trembled with hunger to draw Will closer against him. Skin against skin and pleasure, a streaming line of smoke between a shared cigarette. It was those moments that Will knew who he was and what he wanted without a shadow of a doubt within his mind. He knew himself entirely when he saw it reflected in Hannibal’s eyes. Because there he was not his father's son, his mother's abandoned disgrace, nor his town's odd outlier. He was Hannibal’s. Cradled in the sweetness of a vision stained in sunlight and adoration like only Grecian portraits of gods. And the blasphemy of the thought made him want to ravage Hannibal entirely. To rip him to shreds and place claiming kissing on his bones, carve his name into the ribcage with an antler bone pocket knife. Not pretty, not graceful, just real and painful and pleasurable. A promise.

But then there was this morning. The distance in Hannibal’s voice that made Will feel like biting for an entirely different reason. He was afraid, trying to think of what he could have done to mess things up, to make Hannibal upset. He’d known something was wrong for a while, and the rational part of his mind knew it had nothing to do with him. These past weeks had placed a strange stoicism upon Hannibal’s face when they weren’t alone, like he was brandishing extra armor. It wasn’t against Will in particular, but it was against everyone. And he looked, sometimes, like he was seeking out something in the distance that wasn’t entirely there.

“Graham, Jesus, what the holy hell you thinkin’ bout?” Beverly cut into his thoughts as she wiped down a table beside him, popping her hip out with a knowing brow, “Or is it unholy thoughts?” She giggled, and Will scowled at her.

“Anyone ever tell ya that you're worse than the church ladies?” Will picked up the bin of dishes, and Bevvy giggled.

“Lecter take ya out in his fancy Lincoln yet?” She inquired, shaking her shoulders as if it added any sort of emphasis to her words. Will suppressed his smile as he dropped the dishes off in the back. When he emerged back into the main room, he paused and looked around the empty interior of Edie’s only to find they were mostly alone. Feeling safe enough to react accordingly without too much embarrassment, Will covered his face with a muffled groan and fell to the ground. His back flopped to the slightly damp floor, fully aware the floor was still wet from Bevvy mopping it only a few minutes ago. But he really didn’t care right now because he really, really needed to talk about this. Beverly peeked her head over the bar and raised a brow.

“That bad?” She smirked, crossing her arms. Her tattoos were on display today; it was too hot for their usual uniform. She was a little more inked than Will, antlers under her collarbones and a few smaller pieces here and there, making up the blank spaces on her arms. Nothing extravagant, and as his own was, her matching tattoo to Will’s was hidden. She had gotten something a little more suggestive that day, opting for “Lucky You” on her hip in bright red ink. He had been grateful, at the very least, to not be the only one to get a spur-of-the-moment tattoo in a fit of his sexuality crisis. Although Bev was hardly having a crisis about it but she was never one to let Will do things alone either way.

“He don’t got a Lincoln, Bevvy, he’s got a goddamn motorcycle and it ain't no crotchrocket like the fuckin’ boys down at the Holler. I mean this is a real nice one, all the goods, shining and purring and he–fuck Bevvy…he built it himself.” Will covered his face, which was fried as a tomato, and drowned out the charmed laughter of Bevvy, who disappeared for only a moment to lie next to him on the ground. Nudging him with her hip, letting him have a moment.

“You’re kinda fucked, aren’t cha?” Beverly looked over at him, and he sighed.

“Entirely. And he’s, Bevvy, he’s nice . Like, actually fuckin’ nice ya know? And he looks at me like just existin’ is somethin’ I should be proud of, like I’m givin’ him a gift. And he sees me, like really sees me, and he still wants me. He don’t even get angry at me when I mess up, don’t even raise his voice. His gentleness…I ain’t used to it. You know how terrifyin’ that is?” Will whispered, and Bev moved a stray curl from his forehead.

“Oh, absolutely, sugar. But that's good, that’s scary good.”

“What if I mess it all up?” 

Beverly hummed and looked at the ceiling.

“I doubt it, Willie, that boy comes in here damn near every day just to bother ya, like the sun shines outta yer ass. When you ain’t here, little Abigail Hobbs don’t stop teasin’ him when he pouts about it. And you’re right, he is nice. He’s gentle, and that’s good, Willoughby. You deserve someone who sees you, gore and all, and kisses you instead of punishin’ you for it.” 

Will blinked back tears and nodded softly, taking Bevvy’s hand and sighing.

“Is he?” She whispered, tone suddenly devious, and Will quirked a smile.

“Is he what?” Will played stupid, wiping his eyes and pretending he was suddenly quite busy. He went to sit up, and Bevvy dragged him down to the ground, frowning at him and trying to suppress her smile.

“A good kisser?” She pressed and nudged a finger to his chest, “Don’t hold out on me now, Graham.”

Will let her stew in the possibilities for a moment, refusing to answer as the increasing brow of frustration grew. She huffed and just as she was about to get up, Will blurted out, giving and excited like a child on Christmas:

“I showed him my tattoo.”

And Bevvy hollered and whistled like a drunk who just got lucky enough to see a lady on the street.

“What?!” She beamed, “You showed him the–” She motioned to his chest, and he nodded, “And?”

“He liked it…a lot,” Will mumbled. Nose twitching with embarrassment at the confession and knowing fully that he was still wearing the lightened bruises of Hannibal’s ministrations from a few nights ago. It had been a steady show of possession that Will allowed happily, a secret laid upon his skin, selfishly for both parties. To claim and be claimed all at once.

“Did y’all…” Bevvy suggested, and Will shook his head.

“Not yet.”

“It’s only been a month since y’all really got together, right? No reason to rush,” Bevvy reassured, forever a voice of reason.

“It’s so different, Bevvy, than what it was like with Mattie. It’s like it took me meeting Hannibal to realize that all of that wasn’t…normal.” Will shrugged.

“Mattie Brown is a sonuvabitch. I was always tellin’ you that you deserved better. Just glad you’re seein’ it now. Just promise me one thing, okay?” Beverly spoke seriously, and Will looked at her fully.

“What?”

“I get to be the best man at the wedding.” 

And that, in and of itself, somehow made everything seem a little less earthshattering. Beverly, as always, fixing things with a few words and the smooth balm of well-timed affection.

“And what ‘bout you?” 

“What ‘bout me?”

“You’re tellin’ me the Beverly Katz ain’t got a single prospect catchin’ ‘er eye this summer?”

“I didn’t say that! Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.”

“You seriously ain’t gon’ tell me?”

“I said maybe I do, maybe I don’t! When did you become such a gossip? You got enough mess goin’ on with you and your rich boy.” Beverly was fully scowling now, arms crossed and a flush of pink dusting across her cheeks. Will was beaming. 

“Oh my GOD, you’re blushin’!” He pointed gleefully, and Beverly rubbed her face as if it personally offended her. 

“Am not!” She bit back, pulling away and standing up.

“Are to! Holy shit, who is it? If I guess, will you tell me?”

“Willoughby—!”

“Kids! I ain’t payin’ ya to sit ‘round! Miss Lilah and Toni have been waitin’ on coffee for five minutes.” Edie chastised as her head of graying curls whipped around the corner. She gave them each a warning eye, and they both mumbled apologies before going back to work. But Will wasn’t going to let this go entirely, if Bev was seeing someone, he ought to know. It was only fair.  

The rest of the morning went by until the afternoon rolled around, when it seemed the entire damn town wanted something to eat. Edie had to even come in for backup, and Cheyenne and Brandi were bussing tables while Bevvy and Will were sending orders as fast as Terry could fill them. It was a rush of chaos that lasted a good few hours of spilled ketchup, screaming babies, and forced conversation that left Will entirely exhausted by the time 3pm rolled around. He was on his way for a smoke break when the bell above the door rang and the jarring sound made Will wanna grind his teeth so hard they cracked. But, he knew Bevvy was more tired than him and he sent her on her break first. So, he plastered on a smile and spun on his slick heels.

“What kinda asshole comes in at the end of rush?” Cheyenne mumbled as she stomped over towards the kiosk. Her stomping had dissipated to a slight tap of her sneakers by the time she pleasantly greeted whoever said asshole was, and Will found a smirk. He hurriedly ducked his head out back, feeling the warm sun hit his sweaty skin for a moment, the fresh air thick with humidity but better than the grease-slick oxygen he had been inhaling all day. His exhausted fingers attempted to try and get a drag or two from a cigarette that was somehow still together in his pocket. His lighter sparked and flickered to life just long enough to fizzle down into nothing, no flame emitting from the black encased object. He huffed softly, his curls flying up softly, and he suddenly twinged with the need to talk to Hannibal, to recount his day in a woeful soliloquy that Hannibal would balm with soft kisses and torn over philosophies. Most likely spoken in a language Will didn’t understand all the way, just long enough for Will to retaliate with his Creole adornments upon Hannibal’s flesh. They would tattoo each other this way, softly and entirely permanent, bruised blood vessels fading long enough to beg for a repeat offense. He shivered at the phantom touch of Hannibal, wishing more than anything to just continue walking out the back door, to his car. He’d been meaning to take Junie out to socialize, get her used to people a bit better. Maybe Hannibal would want to go out with hi—

“Will?” Cheyenne’s voice was an apprehensive tendril of sound that tickled Will’s ears and tugged him back to the present. He turned, stepped back inside whilst airing out his shirt, and raised a brow. Chey was wringing her hands together, looking not quite fully at him as she spoke. There was a thoughtfulness to her gaze, but a kindness in not bestowing it entirely on Will. He’d known Chey and Brandi long enough that both girls tended to be a bit quieter emotionally around him, and had figured out what made him tick and how to prevent it. On days such as these, when things were too loud for too long, he was eternally obliged to their habits.

“What is it, darlin’?” Will asked, pocketing his cigarette and frowning. He looked behind her for any evidence of rowdy or unsavory customers. Sometimes they’d come in just to hackle the girls, and it damn near drove Will off what little self-control he did have. But he could tell this was nothing like that. Chey was huffing, hand on her hips now as she looked back behind her a moment.

“It ain’t nothin’ bad. Just weird. That FBI guy? Came in askin’ for ya. I told ‘em you was on break, but he was pretty goddamn adamant that you serve him. I asked if you was in trouble or somethin’, he said no, but I don’t suppose he would tell me anyway even if you was.” 

“Whatchu think I did, Chey? Look at you all worried ‘bout me. Come on now,” Will winked, trying to lighten her worried mood, “you know I’m as clean as a whistle, darlin’.” He wrapped his arm over her shoulders, “I’m sure it’s nothin’. Think you can finish up them dishes for me? Then we can head out as soon as Crawford gets his check.”

“I hate doin’ the damn dishes, Graham,” Chey grumbled, but it was half-hearted and entirely sworn with a smile. Will smirked at her and rolled his eyes before heading to the lone booth in the back of the diner.

It wasn’t until Chey was out of view that Will let himself grimace. He didn’t have a problem with Crawford in general terms, but he really didn’t feel like dealing with him today. It had been a little over a week since they found Hector's body, and the search for Cassie was getting little to nowhere. Hope was slipping, which meant Crawford was growing agitated. On more than one occasion, he had come barrelling in demanding to speak to Lord knows who about some dead-end lead. Will guessed that whoever it was that had to do with Cassie, Clyde, and Hector was long gone. No one that smart stays in a town like this long, much less after crimes like that. Here, everyone remembers a face–Will oughta know. It was getting to the point where the most anyone could hope for was at least a body for little Cassie. Something tangible to bury of her so that whatever justice could be dealt in an act such as this, in the very least, could be found. But, until then, Crawford would remain on a rampage. Not that Will blamed him, but it was exhausting.

When he rounded the corner, Crawford was sitting in a booth alone with a cup of coffee already in his hand. The steam was swimming and dissipating onto the plaintive expression he wore on his face. He had this tired look, the beginnings of crows' feet making themselves known on the crinkle of his dark eyes. Will watched him, taking in the hunch of his shoulders and the wedding ring he wore, the glassy look he bore at empty seats as if imagining someone there. Will knew he had been married, was married, more of a widower in a technical sense. That grief can destroy a man, Will knew that as well. He had seen it in his father, though perhaps that situation was worse. Maybe it was better to bury a body than an idea. Better to tie up the loose end with a shovel of dirt than raise the remaining flesh image of the woman you hated. 

“Tough day?” Will knew it came out plastic, but perhaps they both didn’t mind at that moment because Crawford simply looked up at him. His deep eyes far away, like a glass cracked at the corner. Will wasn’t sure where Crawford was looking, what part of his vision remained in the past, and which was seeing him currently. What do you see? He wanted to ask, Every time you look at me. Who are you looking for?

“Will, hello,” Crawford smiled tightly, “Yeah, tough week.” 

“Hank–I mean Captain Katz– said y'all been workin’ nonstop.” Will offered, Crawford only hummed. 

Crawford’s gaze fragmented, going from exhausted to a thin tether of concentration that made Will entirely and completely uneasy. Crawford scanned his face as if, once again, he was searching for something . Will wanted to curl in on himself again, the jarring puncture of his gaze chipping away at what little defenses Will had made for himself. He knew how Crawford worked, how their last conversation had gone, and wanted nothing more than to avoid another interrogation. He wasn’t sure what Crawford was after and why he thought Will had it, but it made him restless.

“What can I get ya?” Will asked uncomfortably, clearing his throat. The tether snapped, and Crawford looked away once more. His eyes scanned the menu thoughtlessly, chipped mug in hand with another excruciatingly loud sip. Will felt his fingers start to tap restlessly against his leg, feeling the familiar sharp pangs of anxiety trickle down his spine. Will knew indecision wasn’t Crawford’s reason for being quiet. He had other, more pressing, things on his mind.

“Just a short stack will do. I don’t have much time.” He spoke curtly, voice jutting out unevenly as he cleared it to take another drink of coffee. Will was glad for the dismissal.

“Alright, just give me a few seconds and I’ll–”

“Was Amelia Bordeaux your mother?” 

It was so sudden and startling a question that Will was beginning to think that was just Jack Crawford’s style. But, it didn’t balm the words. Will froze, eyes casting straight to Crawford’s with a confused expression. He felt sweat collect at the nape of his neck as a shattered vision of memories played behind his eyes like a sizzle reel. Every broken glass, pointed shout, stabbing wound of word. Every time someone looked at him and knew who he was, knew whose blood flowed in his veins before he even had the chance to say hello. Like he sweated failure, like he sweated pity and abandonment. His father's eyes bearing themselves like daggers when liquor touched his tongue and dealing out equal measure of lashings on his skin. A soft face for a soft boy, too emotional and too loud. His father, the poor man, no wonder he drank. 

Will felt his throat constrict. He stretched it out, trying to conjure air where there was none. He wanted to scream, he wanted Beverly, he wanted Hannibal. 

He wanted his daddy. The one he used to be, the man who patched his knees and whispered old hymns into his skin. The man who made homemade wind chimes out of animal bones from the swaps. Always a lucky rabbit's foot on his keychain, naming a lure before letting it go. Always saying it was named after Will, after Amelia, after his own Mama. An expert fisherman, that’s who Beau was; he even had Will there for a while. Made him believe he was something to believe in, to look up to. And goddamn if Will still didn’t wish to see him that way. He wanted the man who bore a resemblance to an angel, to a god.

He wanted.

And wanted.

And the sky was empty anyways.

“I—I’m sorry, sir, what did you say?” 

“I’m not trying to scare you, Lord knows I could be a little more tactful in my words,” Crawford rubbed his face and took a deep breath. He licked his chapped lips and tried again, “When I saw your name at the station, and I—I knew your mother. I knew you too, though I doubt you remember me.” 

The grinding sounds of bones and flesh and confusion came to a halt in Will’s mind as he stalled. His head tilted, a fraction of a moment to assess Crawford’s meaning. No one knew Amelia, not really, and especially no one knew Will when Amelia was still around. From what Will could gather, she was mostly a recluse after Will was born. A paranoid woman with bordering hysteria that possessed her and kept her wild, manic. 

“I think you got some wires crossed, sir. Ain’t nobody seen my mama since I was born.” Will felt like his tongue was too large for his mouth, and he wanted to just hide in the smooth sinew of Hannibal’s chest more than anything.

“I know it’s odd, and I’m sure you’re confused as hell. And I'm sorry about that, truly I am, but I just wanted to say it’s good to see you turned out alright, healed up fine. My late wife, My Bella, she would have been…she would have been overjoyed to see you healthy. Amelia was a good woman, whatever happened that day–I’m just damn sorry is all.”

Will frowned. Every word Crawford was saying was more confusing than the last. He shook his head, hands beginning to tremble. 

Somewhere, a spoon clattered to the floor, and Will jolted. 

“Look, sir, my mama left when I was barely one. She–she left us all. I wouldn’t say that’s a good woman, and whatever you’re talking about…I’m sorry about your wife, but–” But the words stung with grief and lies even if he had no reference for the counter.

“Your scar.” Crawford put his cup down in a cacophony of clattering ceramic and urgency. Unconsciously, Will laid a hand on his stomach, feeling the soft lines of uneven jagged scarring along the planes of his body. Scars that he had still been apprehensive to explain to Hannibal, but had watched as the boy ran his fingers along them curiously. The same way, Will wanted to ask about the jagged lines on Hannibal’s wrists, an unspoken truce, the omission of truth that kept things easy for the moment. And now here was this man, so sure of his voice and meaning that he eyed the hidden evidence with a knowing expression. 

“I got them from climbin’ the ol’ barb wire by the swamps before my daddy could take it down. Meant for gators,” Will sniffed and rubbed his cheeks aggressively, “ The wire was meant for gators and I just got caught in it because–because,” Will’s voice trembled, “Cause I was a stupid kid.” 

Will wanted to bang his head on something, shake free the jumbled thoughts in his mind as he curled his fists in the fabric of his apron. Things felt suddenly very, very wrong. He knew the suffocation of his own throat was an illusion, he knew this because Beverly had told him so. Because Heleana Katz had held his face enough times and whispered maternal nothings into his ringing ears. He knew it wasn’t real, but it felt fucking real.

“Will–” Crawford went to reach out, and Will flinched away.

“Hey, Will, you’re off the clock, sugar. I’ll take over here, yeah?” Brandi came up behind Will with a voice as steady as a drum and kept her eyes trained on Jack Crawford as if he would melt beneath her ire. It was a charitable act, and Will was too caught in the swarm of his mind to be wounded about it. He grabbed Brandi’s hand and nodded to her before leaving, turning swiftly on his heel and racing towards the back.

“Ask Beau! Ask Beau about Amelia, about the letter!” Crawford shouted after him, and it felt like a rotten thing for the man to do, to leave him with the ink blotches of demand on his back. Propelling himself forward quicker. He blinked rapidly, clawing at his arm with blunt nails as he threw his apron in the backroom and without another sound beelined to his truck.

There were times in Will’s life when he knew something was about to happen. Something big. He could count those moments on one hand, but each one was a cataclysmic happenstance that somehow changed the trajectory of his life. The last time he had felt this way was the morning of the party, when he so willingly was ready to give up on the entire ordeal before Beverly dragged him out. He had felt it then, the anticipation of change in his body that buzzed vibrantly and made him hyperaware of all things around him. He was aware that night, despite the alcohol in his system. He was aware of all his actions, blackened at the edges softly by the buzz of comforted moonshine, but he was aware. The heat Hannibal omitted, the soft leather of a worn jacket, and the smooth accent that swam and enchanted Will’s ears. And he knew, even then, how catastrophic Hannibal would be to his life.

Change was always catastrophic to Will, there was no positivity to it. His craving for change was a byproduct of his fear of it. There was a better life for him, he knew, but he could only achieve it through the blinding streams of change that made him want to scream in agony from the stimulation of it. 

But that was what it meant to be him.

And now, here was another moment.

Crawford had opened a box, somewhere in Will’s mind that had been very strategically placed in a locked room and bound tightly with chains. He had handed Will a copy of the keys and beckoned him to do with it as he pleased. A dangerous prospect for a boy with no self-control. He knew he had two options, but nevertheless, the buzzing under his skin told him that time to decide was running out. He could forget everything Crawford said, tie it up a little looser and a little less secure. He could sink it in the metaphorical swamp of his mind and let it rot and decay under the waters of the glowing house in his visions. Eaten up by putrified bodies and dead dreams. He could leave it there forever and probably find comfort in that. Distract himself long enough with Beverly and Hannibal, and Junie. Find meaning in life and let the black hole of a question lean into its insignificance as years pass. Bury it with his father, whenever the day came, and never look at it again. This, of course, was the easier option.

To rot was always an easier option.

The second course would likely stain him in ways he would never be ready for, never be entirely healed from. He would ask the questions that fattened his tongue, made his vocal chords wet with tar and need, and beg for answers. This would make the very foundations of his life change entirely, the hallways rearrange into something wider or smaller or messier or cleaner. He had no way of knowing. His father would likely give him that look. The one that said he hated him without the words leaving his mouth, the small pause in his breathing that promised violence in more than one way. He would blame Amelia, blame Will, and blame their similarities as if it were Will’s fault he was born soft, open, and tender. Shaking legs on uneven ground as his father punctured him with his antlers, blood streaming from each hole, and never attended to. This would be like that, his father would give him answers if he asked correctly. If he begged, if he pushed. But what Will really had to ask himself was the dire question of: was he ready for the fallout? Was he ready for the answer to make him lose the version of his father he now held?

Did he even hold him at all?

By the time Will pulled into the driveway, he had come to three truths. The first was that he was Willoughby Beau Graham, born to Amelia Bordeaux and Beau Graham on a sunny Saturday afternoon in the bloody bathtub of his childhood home. The second was that despite all this, he did not belong to anyone, and no one belonged to him, and therefore his truth of life was all he could retain.

The last truth was that somewhere in the catacombs of his family home, his father withheld his life, and Will was holding a torch, ignited from a rusty lighter, ready to set it ablaze. 

Will found his father sitting on the couch, unmoved from where he had left him that morning. He eyed him warily, taking a moment to steady his nerves before quickly stepping out back. The small kennel he had for Junie was holding her well enough, but likely wouldn’t for much longer. She was growing exceptionally fast, which was to be expected considering she was more wolf than anything. She had healed up entirely, nothing left behind but a small scar upon her neck and a slight twinge when she turned her head too fast. She grew more stable in her uneven construction and was running around in no time. It was the proudest Will had ever been of something in his life, nursing her to health. It felt like she was an extension of him, like her joy in life was contagious somehow. 

She was gnawing on an old bone Will found by the swamps last week, and at the sight of her owner, she was a bundle of barks and yelps that made him giggle.

“Hey, sweetheart, miss me?” Will unlocked the kennel and let her roam free, jumping on him wildly, “Gonna be a tough day, imma need you to behave, alright?” Junie tilted her head at this, as if sensing something was wrong. She licked his face, sharp baby teeth grazing his cheeks, “I gotta keep you in my room, if you hear yellin’ don’t go tryna be a hero, ‘kay?” Will chuckled and held her to his chest. This was her favorite spot, he had discovered rather quickly. She would curl up and lay her heavy head on his shoulder as if she were still tiny. Paws digging into his sunburnt shoulders and leaving evidence of her existence in the ever-raised lines from unclipped claws. She only ever let Bambi clip them, likely because the woman gave her so many treats afterwards.

Will walked to his room, past his father, who didn’t even so much as flinch at his presence. He carefully eyed the whiskey bottle in his hand, measuring that it was still mostly full, which meant if they got into it, it might not be too terrible. When he closed the door behind him, he let Junie down softly, and she settled on his comforter routinely. Will stripped down from his clothes and changed into more comfortable attire that didn’t make him feel like he was suffocating entirely. He looked down and realized he was wearing one of Hannibal’s shirts, which the boy had left in his truck. The ring t-shirt from the day at the swamps, faded with Hannibal’s scent, but still held hints of teakwood in the threads. He clenched it and held it to his face, inhaling deeply and taking a shuddering breath. It shook his lungs, and for a moment, he felt he was entirely made of paper. 

He wanted to call Hannibal. He wanted to call him so desperately that his eyes nearly drove a hole into the old telephone on the wall. But he knew he couldn’t, that he wouldn’t. So he shut his door behind him despite Junie’s protesting whines and stepped into the living room.

“Daddy?” It came out smaller than he would have liked. His voice catching on the edges uneasily. He felt like a child again, begging his daddy not to take him hunting because he couldn’t stand what the doe looked like dead. Back when he used to wail and scream instead of clenching his fists and biting his nails. He felt six years old again, tugging on his daddy’s pant leg and begging to go home, promising that he would be good. It didn’t work then, just as it wouldn’t work now.

Beau didn’t acknowledge him, though Will wasn’t sure if that was because he didn’t hear him or didn’t want to hear him. 

Either way, Will cleared his throat again.

“Dad?” Stronger, firmer, his voice carried around the room like it belonged there.

“What? What? Jesus Christ, you’re standin’ over there like someone shit in your cereal.” Beau whipped his head towards Will with that clear scowl on his brow. Cool despondence on his face like Will was nothing more than a roommate he had to put up with long enough to make rent, counting down the days to be rid of him. And who knows, maybe he was. Will never entirely know what his father was thinking, too much self-loathing coating his eyes.

Sometimes on the harder nights, Will tried to imagine what Beau was like before he went sore about everything. Where his softer edges were, his good humor and charm. He had smile lines, beneath the frown ones, that shone in his dark eyes and peeked out on the kinder nights. He still held his softer voice, mostly when he knew he had done something wrong, and the bordering fear of loneliness overwrote his pride. Will could see it, he thinks, faintly like the ghost of an aura in his vision. It was more painful than he liked to admit. To know his father could be better, he just didn’t want to.

“I talked to Jack Crawford today, you know that special agent that’s been helpin’ out Hank with Cassie and the, uh, murders and such?” Will bit his cheek and cast his eyes to the ground, feeling his hands shake before he looked back up. Beau was staring at him, the definition of confusion on his face, edges of impatience painting the shadows.

“Did those useless assholes figure anything out yet? Sittin’ on their fuckin’ asses all day doin’ jack shit,” Beau laughed, wet and drunk before taking another drink of his whiskey. Will knew it was better to ignore these comments from his father. Most of the time, the man spoke with one foot in his mouth and the other in the grave. He didn’t need to add any fuel to the fire.

“They’re workin’ hard but, uh, that’s not what he asked me about.” 

It was then that Will saw it. The subtle way his father's fingers tap, tap, tapped on the whiskey bottle nervously, leg bouncing in the broken leather seat. Will could practically taste it in the air. His daddy knew something, was holding something back, hoping to God almighty that Will didn’t say it first.

“Is that so?” Beau grumbled, voice tight.

“It was funny,” Will began, no humor in his voice whatsoever, “he said that he knew Mama, knew me when I was younger. Started goin’ on and on about things I ain’t ever heard ‘bout.” Will spoke carefully, knowing that he was heading towards a brick wall at full speed with rusted brakes. But he had to know. He had to. Beau stiffened. Hand clenched the bottle one final time before putting it down. It was the subtle brush of wind, a warning before the crash. He wiped his hands on his jeans and stood up, rolling his shoulders. Not looking for a fight, but for stability. 

“Like what?” Beau asked, eyes boring directly into Will. His tone was so sharp and so loud that Will physically felt the air change, “Look at me, boy, when I’m speakin’ to ya. Ya wanna come in here, chest out, askin’ things you ain’t even know ‘bout but you can’t look me in the goddamned eyes.” Beau took a step forward, and that was enough for Will to snap his eyes up in obedience. He ground his teeth and imagined what it would be like to instead let his cruelty match his father's. If he let himself become, just for even a savored moment, and what that might produce. What kind of animal would bite Beau Graham’s throat?

Hannibal would lick your wounds. 

What a novel thought.

“He knew ‘bout my scar, which didn’t make no damn sense 'cause as far as anyone is concerned, Jack Crawford ain’t stepped foot in Willowmarch a day in his life,” Will was huffing out anxious breaths, painful and tight. “He said to ask you about some letter, like you’d know what he meant. Like you been…I dunno, Daddy, hidin’ somethin’. And the way he said it, the way he looked at me…like he can’t believe I’m alive.” Will took a deep breath, “ I’m just askin’ for answers here.” Will swallowed thickly as his father looked at him, one cruel mirror to another. Expressions both begging, circling dogs in a junkyard. What was mercy to an animal covered in scars? Where would it end? 

“Ya got your scar climbin’ that damned barbed wire fence. I told ya that, there ain’t nothin’ else. As far as Crawford goes, I wouldn’t know him from Adam, so I couldn’t answer jack shit for ya.” Beau spat out, forced and bristled. Cornered.

Will let his face settle into a cold expression, “Then I ain’t askin’ anymore.”

Beau stared at him a moment, hands trembling at his sides. It was the changing of the tides, they both knew it. The awareness that something was about to distort itself forever. Beau licked his lips, and his eyes thinned. Like he was tasting the air for blood, trying to find the best way to hurt Will, to control this sudden streak of rebellion and demand. Will knew whatever he came up with would hurt, of course, it would. You can’t hurt someone without loving them first.

“You wanna know what Jack fucking Crawford knows about Amelia fucking Bordeaux?” Beau’s voice was shaking, something Will had never heard before, an Earth-shattering clarification of humanity. His eyes glazed over with memory as he turned around and began to pace, energy like a fireball in his chest. All Will could do was watch. He couldn’t help, he didn’t want to help. Beau never helped him.

 It was like watching one of those deer whose brains eat themselves to death. There wasn’t a cure for it, all they can do is bash their head against a tree over, and over, and over and over.

It was pathetic.

“I would,” Will spoke curtly, and Beau spun and shot Will a look. He sucked air between his teeth, a blowdart of poison poised itself for aim. Beau knew where to hit Will, no amount of bracing would save him. But he could hurt Beau back, the ache in his molars told him so. 

“Your mother was… your mother was a goddamn disease,” Beau gestured, “She went fuckin’ crazy, and when she left it was the fuckin’ best day of my goddamn life because I thought to myself, finally!” Beau shouted, hands flying every which way with the grace of a madman ripping open old wounds and saying it didn’t hurt, “Fucking finally. I didn’t have to deal with her…her episodes. She was like you, always bitchin’ and crying about the dumbest shit. She was hysterical after she had you.” Beau paused and laughed, bitter and not at all sweet, “You took her from me, every good bit of her you soaked into your fuckin’ bloodstream like a parasite, and all that was like was this ghost, this fuckin’... ghoul. We prayed and prayed, I fuckin’ begged God to fix her. To fix you.” Beau’s words were acidic in the air, sucking the very oxygen from them. 

Will couldn’t feel his legs, he couldn’t feel his arms. He couldn’t feel anything.

“And like a miracle, she just,” Beau motioned outwards from himself, freeing himself from a wound, “left. And you wanna know the best part, son?” The last word was said cruelly, like a mocking, spiteful thing. And as Beau stepped closer to Will, finger extended out, words a bullet in the chamber. 

They waited, synchronized breathing. Blood of my blood, Will thought, seeping into the stained carpet. Will wondered if Beau would regret it after whatever he did to Will tonight. Or if he would even remember it.

Will’s voice was wobbling when he spoke. 

“What’s that, daddy?” He spat, head tilted up with whatever pride he could keep in that moment.

“ She took you with her .”

And there it was. Because, as it turns out, the world didn’t go out with a bang, it went out with those five little words. 

“What?”

“She. Took. You. With. Her,” Each word was punctuated with the jabbing finger of Beau’s drunken rage and sober thoughts. Will knew it would bruise. His chest ached with it. He wouldn’t be able to hide that from Hannibal, he wasn’t even sure he would want to. 

Licking your wounds.

“I…I don’t understand. You said she left when I was one.” Will’s brain was scrambling for purchase. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, feeling the pressure of blunt nails on his palms enough to draw blood.

“With you. She left when you were one, with you,” Beau reiterated, “Five fucking years I was free of you both. Five years until Jack fucking Crawford dumped you on my doorstep with nothin’ but a life worth of problems and a fuckin’ letter. No trace of Amelia, no explanation. She was just fuckin’ gone.” 

Beau turned away, face scrunched in anger, as he stormed into his bedroom. Will wasn’t sure how much time passed before he reappeared, a crumbled envelope in his hand. It was yellowing at the edges, torn and opened and stained with time. Will’s hands twitched as he stared at it. Will felt the tears falling now, hot and steaming as they burned his cheeks. His world was spiraling downwards in a way he hadn’t been prepared for at all. He wished he wasn’t crying, he wished he could be angry instead, but all he felt was an empty chasm of confusion. Pieces of his mind trying so hard to be put back together. Explanations of blank spaces given the privilege of color for the first time. He just wanted to understand. He just wanted something he knew how to deal with. Will had been ready for his father's cruelty, always ready for the barbs of violence like second nature. But this was different. This was a calculated deconstruction of identity and lies that spanned over a decade, and Beau had just torn it down with a few words. Because his mother had run away, he knew this, but he didn’t know she had run away with him. He didn’t know she cared enough to do so. All these years, he thought she hated him. And Will spilled out all over the foundations of his home, gore and viscera painting some beautiful harmony of clarity.

“She did leave you a letter.” Will tilted his head and wiped his swollen eyes, “She left you me.” Will gestured to his mangled, speckled body. The muscle from manual labor and the scars from stories he would finally put together. The tattoo and the raggedy clothes. His blue eyes and curly hair, soft features and emotional eyes, “She left you the last parts of her she could, and you hate me for it.” He knew it was the wrong thing to say, but he wanted his father to understand, even a little, that Will saw . It was cruel, in its own way, to point this out. So, perhaps that’s what he wanted. Blood was easier than this, if he could get his father to coil a fist and splay him against the wooden walls of their home with the anger and spittle of whiskey breathed damnation, then he could understand. 

Beau grabbed Will’s chin and squeezed hard to hold him in place as he shoved the letter into his chest. An offering, not at all kind, but an offering nonetheless. Beau sneered, clenching Will’s face like he could crush it. He likely would, given the chance. All Will could do was laugh, a gleeful bloodlust filling his mind as he waited for his father's next move. 

“What’re ya gonna do, Beau?” Will mocked, and Beau smirked. Will’s ire was gone, sizzled to that of a confused child as Beau shoved his head into the wall further before saying with such hatred and cruel honesty that Will couldn’t help but to physically recoil:

“At least my goodbye wasn’t made with a boxcutter, son. They say she missed your lung by two inches. The blade went in.” Will felt Beau’s punch hit his gut right where his scar was, knocking the wind from his lungs before traveling cruelly and roughly with each word,” Across, up, and out. She might not have left me with a proper goodbye, but at least my skin is clean of her filth.”

And Will laughed despite the pain of it because, for once in his life, he had the one up on his father. For once, no amount of physical pain would outweigh the truth of his words. Because Will, despite all, would win. Junie was barking in the back, roused by noise and shouting. Her nails scratching the wooden door and creating a symphony of anguish and worry that accompanied the gutted wheeze of Will’s next jab.

“You ain’t ever gon’ be clean of her, daddy.” he coughed, “We share a face.”

Beau’s grip slackened long enough for Will to break free from his grip entirely and put distance between the two of them. Will’s chest was heaving, gasping for air in the clasp of his anxiety as it slithered around his throat entirely. Beau was unable to move, hands still frozen, gripping nothing as the deadened stare of a crumbling man fixated on the wall. It was as if the life in the room had been dragged out by its hair and thrown back into the wild. There was nothing left. No gods or men or beasts. Just a father and his son and the ghost of a woman who haunted the skin of them both.

Will watched the envelope fall to the ground.

And Will knew with certainty that Beau would continue to ram his cranium into the nearest tree until the brain bleed was bad enough to paralyze him to death. It was a predestined funeral that Will saw in every pore of Beau Graham’s whiskey-soaked skin. Beau eventually jolted to life, seemingly fighting some sort of morphing quicksand, dragged himself to his room, and slammed the door. Silently, Will said goodbye with a shortened eulogy and a tearless expression. He wondered if anyone would bother showing up to the real thing. He wondered if he would.

Will bent down and picked up the letter softly, feeling the worn edges with reverence. The last bit of his mother he had wrapped in four delicate, aged walls. The seal was broken, a thousand times over from a thousand drunken nights. And on the back, written in spiraling ink was the simple, life changing identity of his own body: To My Sweet Willoughby. His throat squeezed and he let out a choked sob of relief. Amelia Graham, the ghost of his body, the shadow of his face, had left him a letter.

Bang, bang, bang.

Will jumped and turned to the door and winced. He clenched his fists and took a deep breath. Before answering the door, Will took Junie out of her room and assured her that he was okay. She, predictably, eyed Beau’s door with a growl and surveyed the small home for threats before crawling into Will’s arms to sleep once more.

“Thatta girl, see? M’okay.” He whispered as another trio of urgent knocks hit the door. Will stumbled towards it with a sigh and opened it blindly.

“Look, now's not a good—Chiyoh?” Will’s brain suddenly stopped. A thousand paths, each worse than the last, sprang forward in visions. Something was wrong. He could see it all over her sodden face. It was raining, water dripped down her elegant features, and she was wearing a pajama set that was now covered in mud. A flush was on her cheeks, tears reddening her eyes as she pursed her lips. She looked so lost for a moment, eyeing him like a foreign object before shaking the illusion and putting her armor back on. All Will could think of was Hannibal’s face, waterlogged in the bayou, eaten beyond recognition. His warmth taken, and replaced with the blueish gray of death, lips forever closed and black. If Hannibal was gone–

“Do you believe in ghosts, Willoughby?”

And suddenly nothing mattered because all Will wanted to know was:

“Where is he?”

______________________________________________________

The world was surely ending, for that was the only explanation possible for what was happening. There was no other way to describe the way his chest constricted around the thorny edges of his grief and kept the world entirely unreachable to him. There was something rabid in his lungs, banging at his ribcage, biting at his heart.

It was too dark, the candlelight had long since died in the dark, and the long caverns of his childhood home were swallowing him whole.

“Mama?” 

Hannibal cried out, feeling it lodge in his throat like stones and the feeling of baby teeth and bones. He felt nauseous.

“Mischa?” 

His voice did not travel far, thick like syrup and being absorbed almost immediately by the world around him. He clawed at his pajamas, hugging the cold from his bones and begging softly from chapped lips for understanding. Broken violin strings began to rise in the watery echoes, like screaming banshees warning him to run. His bones ached, and he held onto the torn lamb in his hands. A familiar position, he could always find her stuffed lamb, but he could never find her. He would forever be forced with the idea of her, but never the reality. Cruel as it was, he grabbed the blood-soaked stuffing, which quickly turned into seeping bloody organs in his palms. Innards scattered in the snow, blistering and smelling of rotting flesh and disease. 

Lullabies stuttered from his chattering teeth, frostbite on his wrists as he hugged tightly the withering form of the lamb. She screamed, he begged, but no god listened. Gods demanded sacrifice at the altar of mortality, and for Hannibal, hunger was such an awful thing. Tasteless love with tasteless soup and violent weakness. His teeth were sharp, but not sharp enough, cusping the soft bones of a child he could not save. Reborn in the grief as a writhing, bloody thing with promises of the devil on his tongue.

And then he was sinking.

And the sun was shining.

Mischa always loved flowers, in her life, however brief, she had failed to grasp that once they were plucked from their source, they would wither and die within a day or two. Hannibal, of course, attempted to prevent the process with various vases and soils he inquired about with the gardeners. Nothing ever worked, of course, but then they had decided to start drying the flowers the way herbs were often done. Roses, Daffodils, and Tulips. Bouquets of muted tones forever preserved in jars lined her windowsill and caught the light and shadows. 

He often pondered the possibility of what happened to those flowers. Had the sisters discarded them like everything else in his family home? Were they kept in some closet amongst books and other seemingly useless objects? It was a question he would never know the answer to for the simple fact that he refused to return home. There was nothing for him there. There would never be anything for him there. But, still, he wondered.

The market was alive with faceless consumers that weaved like schools of mindless fish through the booths. He was only here for Chiyoh, she had requested a bouquet of flowers and fresh vegetables for a meal she was preparing tomorrow evening. She was in school the mornings that Hannibal was not, and so he had relented rather quickly to assist her. There was little he wouldn’t do for his cousin, in retrospect, but he rarely let her know that. 

Hunger and violence go hand in hand, married in the bloodbath of lust in a ballroom of bodies. And perhaps that day, it was the symphony of grief and desperation that tied everyone together in the dance of death that Hannibal would bestow. But, then Hannibal’s nose was carefully within the yellow tulips of a kindly older woman, and next his eyes met the dark familiarity of the devil. But the devil was not a beautiful angel with empty promises and seduction. He was an aging Lithuanian man with dark blonde hair and deep chocolate eyes. The raised pink scar scratching mark of desperation by a four-year-old child sported on his cheek. 

And he was smiling.

Time, so much time between action and consequence, that left Hannibal breathless and starving. He had known hunger many times in his life and many different forms. But never like this, never a reckless hunger that caused him to lose time entirely. 

“Pasakyk jos vardą!Papasakok, ką padarei!” Hannibal’s fists pounded into soft flesh, thigh straddling the body of a weaker man. He was looking at Hannibal, blood scattered on a pulping face with a resigned humor. 

“Aš tave išgelbėjau, berniuk. Tu išgyvenai, ar ne? Prašom.”

Hannibal screamed, guttural, primal, anguished.

Because, yes, Hannibal did live. He always lived. Hannibal lifted his knife, engraved with the initials of his bloodline, his father's name a binding promise of strength. 

“Pasakyk jos vardą.” Hannibal demanded a final time, teeth grinding and leaning low. His breath was a hot, pointed dagger dancing just above the man's throat. His mouth watered with the possibility of tearing into flesh, and he wondered if that would be more satisfying than the knife. 

Reckless hunger and fearless abandon. Naive anger led to hands wrapping around his arms, where scars would be if he didn’t move. If he didn’t get out of the way before this man–

“This was a bad idea—he cannot see you, he is not himself.”

Hannibal recognized that voice, faintly in the tendrils of his conscious mind, and he shook his head. She wasn’t here, she couldn’t save him.

“Stay back, it’s fine, we’re fine. He won’t hurt me, ain’t that right, chere? Listen, sweetheart, whatever you see, it’s not real. It’s not real, we’re fine. Look at me.”

Something warmed his bones softer than the sun as he blinked rapidly through his anger. The visions of his surroundings blurred once more into a false mixture of reality and fantasy that he could not decipher.

“Tu ją iš manęs atėmei. Kodėl ją iš manęs atėmei? Kodėl aš gyvenau?” 

Hannibal felt his small arms tremble under the pressure of his mournful gaze as he choked back the sour taste of meat. He growled, anger roiling beneath it as he pressed the knife closer, puncturing the soft flesh of the man’s stomach. Not enough to kill, but enough to hurt. He watched as pain flickered on the man’s face, but it was wrong somehow. It was the wrong expression, the wrong features, the wrong voice.

“Already marked there, darlin’, you’ll have to pick somewhere else to claim me.” The voice was playful with a familiar twang and twinge of pain that made Hannibal frown, searching for its source.

“Tu juos gąsdini. Turi dabar pabusti.” His sister's voice came with an invisible force in his ears as her small palms took his hand and retreated it from puncturing flesh. 

“Will.”

And suddenly the world shattered.

Hannibal blinked and looked down, his body aching with a strange nausea. The world came into clarity, the afternoon sun coming through the window and falling into the empty space of one of the many rooms in the Estate. Dust danced through the air, and the scent of copper hung in the air like a sticky sweetness amongst the heat. His hand was squeezing his knife, which was poised just above flesh that lay beneath him, clothed in a soft cotton shirt. Hannibal recognized the feel of skin beneath his palm, and the sting of realization hit his spine like a tidal wave. He scrambled backwards as quickly as he could before his body hit the warm, undecorated wall. He looked at his knife, stained now with Will’s blood. Bile gathered in his throat, and he discarded the thing with an echoing clatter on the hardwood.  

He opened his mouth to apologize, to say anything that would explain his behavior. He needed Will to understand, to see, he needed Will not to run. But he couldn't, the words died in his throat, completely unable to conjure any sort of vibration and air. Hannibal frowned and tried again, frustration beginning to make his eyes sting. He clasped his cheeks and closed his eyes, trying to take a deep breath. He hadn’t felt this way in years, so small and afraid. There was so much boiling to the surface, and he had no way of taming it down. To live was a curse, to survive weighed on him, and no more so than in this moment.

He thought of his mother, how unreachable she was to him now. Is this how it will always be?

“Hey, Hannibal, look at me,” Will’s voice came out soft and even, like he was approaching something wild, “it’s okay, you don’t have to talk. Chiyoh told me sometimes you…you can’t talk? Things get so jumbled up for you, it just doesn’t work no more? Is that what happened that day at the diner?” Will asked, maintaining a comfortable distance for Hannibal to regain his composure.

Hannibal nodded.

“Right, well, how can I help?” 

Will was sitting up from the floor, a small blossom of red on his abdomen where a cut now resided. Will was crouched down, hands up placatingly, and a soft smile on his face. His hair was wild, beautiful eyes shone in the setting sun as he looked at Hannibal with all the forgiveness in the world. Hannibal shook his head and gestured to Will, making a move on wobbling legs to stand. Will quickly stopped him, settling him softly back down.

“Just a little cut, ain’t nothin’ to fuss over. ‘M more worried about you, darlin, I couldn’t find ya, where’d you go?” Will approached slowly, and Hannibal couldn’t find it in himself to move. He ached all over, like his muscles had just released a great amount of tension. A jolting shiver sent a phantom chill up his spine. The longest night of his life was still poking pin needles into his senses.

Will tutted his tongue and opened his arms as if to display his health to Hannibal. Eyes pleading softly, a thickness to his expression as if fighting through a film between them. The world was a blur, detached entirely, and Will was reaching. He was still reaching. Will made a motion to move forward, and all Hannibal could manage was a meager nod.

 “There you are, sweetheart,” Will whispered as he wrapped his arms around Hannibal. He was deceptively strong, lean muscle and speckled skin always warm and soft despite the scars that riddled the planes of his body. He was the smooth marble of David against the reclaimation of nature's birth. Ivy and stone, moss and bone. Hannibal wanted to live in him forever. “Besides, lucky for you, I run hot.” Will chuckled and kissed Hannibal's forehead with adoration he didn’t deserve at all.

It took a long time before Hannibal could be coaxed from the room, and an even longer amount of time to coax Will into letting him check his wound. They were encompassed in the muffled chill of the bathroom, open kit on the marble counter with scattered materials carefully lined up. Hannibal’s hands were still shaking, frustratingly so, but he steadied them as best he could as he sat on his knees before Will. Hard tiles digging into the knobs of his bones in self-flagellation. He would worship here, stitching his god together, if only to be looked at by Will for a moment. Sensing this, Hannibal felt Will’s warm hand run careful circles into his hair, untangle the knots that had formed, and tracing a path down his jawbone. 

“You gon’ tell me what’s wrong, chere? You won’t look at me.” Will sounded terrified, gutted at the prospect, and Hannibal felt the thick tar of his own chains tying tightly around his throat. He fought against it, the impenetrable grip it seemed to take upon him. He fought it and he blinked, looking at Will’s stomach with glassy eyes and the cutting confession of a tongue between Bible verses. 

“I scared myself.” Hannibal wheezed out, gravelly—like he’d been screaming. Had I been screaming?

Will’s eyes went towards devastation, searching the structure of Hannibal’s face with concern. His hands traveled and took both Hannibal’s cheeks. Just as he had a week ago when he spoke truthful words that changed Hannibal’s world. When Will healed an invisible wound. Hannibal leaned into it, closing his eyes and kissed Will’s palm. Apologies between each breath.

“Hannibal, oh, look at me please,” Will begged, voice choking around the edges. Hannibal laid his hands on Will’s waist, tilted his head up softly, cradled within Will’s touch like a starving dog. And maybe that’s what he was, after all this time. Maybe all Hannibal remains to be is some starving thing in the dark. 

“There is nothing,” Will began, “ nothing. You could do, past or present, that would make me scared of you. I know fear, my darlin’, and that’s not what you are to me.” Will whispered so softly and with such reverence that it made Hannibal breathless. Will placed a kiss on his head, then his cheeks, and mapped his wet eyes and glistening cheeks before landing a tender final seal upon his lips.

“But, would you hate me. Could you hate me?” Hannibal asked, fearful for the first time in years of losing this. Hands gripping Will like a lifeline as he dug his face into his abdomen softly, inhaling deeply and slowly.

“No. No, I…I don’t think I could ever hate you.” 

And what a revelation that was for both of them, Hannibal suspects.

He leaned up so that he could embrace Will properly, synchronizing exhales in the careful dark on the evening sky. The windows were cracked open, and the breeze was a welcome reprieve. Hannibal’s eyes met Chiyoh’s over Will’s shoulder, and there was a silent exchange. He could feel Chiyoh’s concerned eyes on him through the whole ordeal, trying to make sense of what happened and why she couldn’t reach him this time around. Most of his relapses in the past could be stopped through her action alone, and Hannibal knew it was hurting her to lose that purpose. To have to hand it over and ask for help. 

With tender love, he signed softly, ‘Thank you’ and she simply nodded and smiled softly. It wasn’t until Will was changing into pajamas and Hannibal was alone with his cousin that she finally spoke.

“It’s never been like that,” Chiyoh whispered, and Hannibal turned to her. 

“I believe it’s a combination of things.” Hannibal signed, his hands still trembling as he communicated. He lifted his toothbrush and began his routine.

“Mother refused to come upstairs, even when I begged. Father is out of town, and I didn’t know what to do.” Chiyoh was hugging herself tightly, “I’m sorry.” 

Hannibal laid down his toothbrush and walked over to his cousin and took her soft face in his palms. He shook his head softly and kissed her forehead. Hoping it conveyed everything he wanted to say. That every apology that poured from her was unnecessary, that she was perfect, and that he was the one who needed to lay down apologies for scaring her. He didn’t know how, not now at least, and so the silence dripped in the room softly, and they acknowledged each other.

“Better to let ghosts haunt other halls.”

Hannibal hummed in agreement.

Hannibal’s bed was luckily big enough for two, and when he laid down and opened his arms for Will, it was with no hesitation that the other boy fell into them. Hannibal felt relief wash over him, knowing that he hadn’t done some irreparable damage to his life with Will. Hannibal devoured the warmth Will offered and felt the soft hairs of his legs as they wrapped around Hannibal’s body. Will had taken Hannibal’s form and curled it on himself, placing Hannibal’s head on his bare chest and letting the boy listen to his heart. It was a novel thing, after such a day, to be adored this way

And soon Hannibal fell asleep.

____________________________

Will awoke in the middle of the night to the unfamiliar surroundings of Hannibal’s bedroom. The decor was a strange contrast to what Will had expected, but no less strange than the boy it belonged to. The moonlight peeked through the linen curtains, and a slight breeze brushed a blueish illumination through the room. It was hauntingly beautiful in its own way, and Will found himself with the acute sense that he could get used to the view of it. Hannibal was a ghostly prince, someone old poets would have written about until their deaths. Beauty cut over his cheekbones and restless eyes, a soft exhale on his plush lips. He looked so fragile that Will wanted to sink his teeth into anything that threatened them. Like a watchdog, he thinks he could be happy being Hannibal’s watchdog. If it meant the leash was being held by Hannibal’s soft hands. If there was no prison promised, but instead redemption for the rot and damnation in his heart. He thinks of Alana, he thinks about how she wanted to save him. He wondered if Hannibal ever wanted to save him. Will laid a gentle hand on Hannibal’s cheek and kissed him softly on the forehead before untangling himself from the boy. 

Will went to the bathroom before he found himself wandering the strange halls of the estate. Curiosity was a tangible thing as he wandered, hands trailing the delicate frames. He saw pictures of Hannibal and Chiyoh, a few years younger and smiling stoically before the Eiffel Tower. There was a lot more evidence of Chiyoh in the home, academic achievements, and school concert pamphlets, carefully preserved in glass. But on the contrary, Hannibal’s life was a phantom in the home. It seemed he existed only within his room and the stray leather jacket hanging by the door. Will found evidence in the Wilde book stack by the fireplace and the Dante sketches scattered on the desks. But, if you didn’t know where to look, disgustingly and horrifically, it seemed Hannibal did not exist.

Will could relate, perhaps they were both ghosts then. 

Everywhere in Willowmarch was haunted, even these places. Places of purity that housed creatures of the night. Because that's what Hannibal was, wasn’t he? The darkness, the rage, there was a kinship that made Will hunger. He knew Hannibal, to some degree, was like him. He had seen it, tasted it, and he had cradled the aftermath of it as Hannibal licked his wounds. He smiled softly at the realization that he had predicted correctly.

“So you’re the boy.” A feminine-accented voice came from behind him as the kitchen light was suddenly turned on. The sudden light made Will wince as he spun around. He knew who it was, of course, and tension roiled in his shoulders. He licked his teeth and bit his tongue hard enough to taste blood.

“Murasaki, I would say it’s a pleasure, but lyin’ is a sin.” It came out like bones grinding to dust between his teeth, it came out like something horrible and buzzing in his skin. It came out like Murder.

“ Lady Murasaki,” She corrected and Will finally met her gaze. She was cold the way freshly fallen snow was, sinister beauty and grace that smothered the world. Her features were deceptively kind, the control of a manipulative tilt. Voice soft and harsh, thin and airy all at once, with the practice of a woman used to getting what she wanted. Will debated how much time she would have to scream if he ripped out her throat, “And I was not aware you subscribed to such belief systems.” She picked an invisible piece of linen off her robe and adjusted her stance, head tilted up with a curious brow.

“When in Rome.” Will gritted out with a curt smile, aware he was wildly underdressed but felt a cool sense of power from dirtying her pristine vicinity. 

“So, your inclinations are with god?” She sighed, and Will felt his hands begin to shake. He thought of Hannibal and his hair, the smooth beauty of his features, and the lean muscle of his body. The weight of Hannibal above him, around him, skin to skin like a god begging for attention. Equal in their hunger and desire, a church of deprivation. He smiled, something wicked.

“Of sorts.”

This grated her, Will could tell. 

“I don’t appreciate the disrespect within my own home.” 

“I find myself not caring much for your appreciation of respect, or your home. I think you’ve appreciated enough, erased enough, and demanded enough. Dontcha think?”

He watched her expression change, the tendrils of fear that he knew were beginning to take hold of her senses. He scented it, dug his claws into her fear, and ripped it open slowly.

“Excuse me?” She choked out dryly.

“Tell me, Lady, do you know what sound a bunny makes when it’s caught in a bear trap? When it's starving and desperate?” He eyed her, backing into the shadows of the hallway, a half-cocked vision of damnation, “It’ll gnaw its own leg off.”

Will pauses and takes a drink. Letting himself be swallowed.

“I wonder what sort of creature is waiting in the dark to hear its screams? Sometimes all you have to do is wait for someone to hang themselves with their own rope.” 

“And who are you in this scenario, boy?” Murasaki took a step back, retreating her power in the face of a predator that matched Hannibal’s.

“Oh, this isn’t my story…” Will chuckled dryly, “Does that frighten you?”

“No.” 

A lie. 

Will laughs.

“Goodnight, Lady Murasaki. Careful ‘o the bear traps.”