Chapter Text
During his presidency, there were few things Richard Nixon did that deserve remembrance, let alone approval. For example, the Public Health Cigarette Smoking Act was proof that even a deeply flawed man could identify a danger, given undeniable evidence – or when he feared the ire of his constituents.
Now, words like ‘DEATH’ and ‘CANCER’ are required to be printed on the side of every cigarette pack; to follow, Joe the Camel is no longer ‘cool’, and at least one episode of each weekly sitcom was dedicated to the dangers of smoking.
The goal was for the average shopper to put down their cigarette, but what Nixon didn’t understand was that an addict cannot change unless they really want it.
Poised at the landing of Gillman Hall, Will Graham blew a cloud of noxious smoke between his teeth before dropping his cigarette butt onto the concrete. With a grainy sound, he smothered it with the sole of his shoe.
Sure, the war against cigarettes had been raised, and one could argue that it was effective, but Nixon was also behind the Watergate Scandal.
It was a good enough excuse for Will Graham. Besides, he liked the taste of his cognitive dissonance.
With his satchel slung over his chest with his head down, he began to cross the grassy quad of Johns Hopkins University. It was early spring, but the last vestiges of a northeastern winter didn’t stop the students from rolling out their picnic blankets. They lounged beneath the cherry trees with sunglasses on their heads and piles of homework around them. Some of the students had their noses in their textbooks, getting a head start for the semester. And they needed it. Johns Hopkins stood among the nation’s most prestigious institutions, as it was ranked seventh in the country and carried the reputation of an Ivy League school, just without the title. Its halls promised a world-class education, a legacy of achievement, and a lineage of notable alumni—take former President Woodrow Wilson, for example.
Will questioned how President Wilson would feel about the cigarette fiasco, but before he could reach a conclusion, a frisbee whizzed by his ear.
“Sorry, Graham!” a student called, waving his arm. Will squinted, confused as to whether or not he was supposed to recognize the guy. The unfortunate part was that Will should have known him.
Because, despite his attempts at secrecy, Will Graham was popular.
And he hated it.
His high status among the student body was not something Will had chased, but it had been caught accidentally. He was a nineteen year old orphan, and he felt passions of a nature that teenagers—or any human, from what Will had gathered—couldn’t. As soon as he landed on campus, Will had begun his attempt to exhaust the school's grand library, chasing a single sentence that might account for the peculiar affliction of his immense empathy, which extended beyond his desires; he understood the emotions of everyone, even the most insufferable fraternity boy.
Will didn’t like it. He didn’t want it. So, he drank. And, when he drank too much, he became the life of the party. Everyone loved him when he was drunk—and so did he—but when he drifted back into sobriety, Will curdled beneath the attention, knowing that the stories of his foolishness would be transcribed into the school’s history.
However, in the moment, Will took comfort knowing that Woodrow Wilson also enjoyed a good scotch and soda.
From the breeze, Will picked up on a familiar, sly accent.
“William Graham!”
He stopped, pursing his lips as he tried not to smile. His unsavory thoughts needed a break, so he dropped them and played along. “What do you want?”
Antony, Will's sort-of boyfriend, sidled up before him. "Turn that frown upside down, love. Your pretty face might get stuck," Antony crooned, his accent as smooth as his persona.
Antony Dimmond was something of an enigma. He drifted effortlessly through Johns Hopkins' social circles, doing so without relying on the social norms that seemed to bind everyone else together. Charm came to him as naturally as breathing. But the most impressive thing about him was that he was an unabashed queer, and for him, it was a badge he wore well; anyone he found good-looking enough could end up in his bed.
Will gripped the strap of his satchel; even with Antony, he felt a level of discomfort. Despite this, Will took joy in catching the shine from his sort-of boyfriend’s deep brown eyes—the eyes you’d find on a greyhound—now and then.
“I don’t like artificial niceties,” Will grumbled.
“You like me,” said Antony, performing a little shimmy with his shoulders.
Will exhaled through his nostrils, finally giving in. “Yes, I do. I like you. I would like you even more, though, if you didn’t sleep your way around campus.”
“Oh, but I do it all with you in mind.” Antony laced their fingers together and squeezed Will’s hand.
Will’s jaw moved—twitched—the way it always did when Will was stressed. He turned the other cheek, his grip on the leather handle tightening. Sure, being Antony’s favorite of the pack was at least something. However, it did nothing to subdue the feeling of incompetence that made Will’s skin hot. It was a rather rare blow to his self-esteem.
“Hey,” Antony said, his voice like velvet, “it looks like you’re on your way to the library.
Will wouldn’t look at him. His teeth ground into each other and brought a fuzzing ring to his ears. “That’s because I am going to the library.”
“Care for a bit of fact-finding fucking?” And there goes that shimmy again.
Finally, Will leaned forward until he was smiling against Antony’s lips.
It wasn't a dramatic kiss, as Antony never seemed interested in drama when he could have amusement instead. He grinned into it, the corners of his mouth lifting as though he'd won some private wager. And, for all intents and purposes, he had.
"There you are," he murmured. With one hand, he squeezed Will’s fingers. With the other, he held delicately to the back of Will’s neck.
"I wasn't aware I'd gone anywhere." Will viscerally felt himself become stupid, as all Antony’s playthings were made to feel.
"You disappear into your own head." Antony brushed his knuckles over Will's jaw, where the muscle continued to work itself into a knot. "I have to lure you back with indecent proposals."
"You make them sound academic."
"They are. Field research." Now, Antony’s hand touched Will’s thigh.
Will laughed despite himself, quiet and a bit nervous. It felt so alien that he almost looked around to make sure no one else had heard it.
The hallway outside the library buzzed with students rushing between lectures, voices echoing against polished stone. Antony ignored every passing glance with enviable ease, one hand slipping into Will's as naturally as if the gesture required no courage at all.
Will instinctively looked over his shoulder.
"You always do that," Antony observed.
"What?"
"Check to see who's watching."
"They are watching."
"And?" Antony’s sideways smile came to mock Will.
Will hesitated. "Well, it only takes one person."
For a moment, Antony's usual irreverence softened. The smile remained, but it lost its performative edge.
"It does," he admitted quietly as his head nodded toward the ground.
The admission surprised Will more than any joke could have.
"I know I make it look easy." Antony leaned against one of the marble columns, his expression thoughtful. "Truth is, I just got tired of asking for permission to exist. It isn’t as fun as it looks."
Will searched his face, expecting another grin to shatter the sincerity. It never came. "I don't know how you do it," he said, smiling to make up for Antony’s missing jest.
"Neither do I." Antony shrugged in a rare moment of sincerity. "Some mornings, I'm terrified. I find terror to simply be less exhausting than pretending."
Something touched Will’s heart —a feeling he couldn't name. Admiration, perhaps. Envy, certainly.
Antony reached into the pocket of Will's jacket and triumphantly produced the folded library request form he'd been carrying.
"So," he said, waving it between two fingers, "are we actually going to hunt down obscure medical journals about bugs, or have I put the faggy faith back into you?"
Will grimaced. "I needed the journals."
"And as for me?"
Will met his eyes for a long beat before answering. "...You found me anyway."
Antony’s grin returned in full force, bright enough to rival the afternoon sun spilling through the library windows.
"I usually do." Antony nudged his shoulder. "Come on, Graham. Let's see if knowledge is as satisfying as sex."
Together they disappeared into the cool silence of the stacks, where dust drifted through shafts of light and the rest of the university seemed impossibly distant, leaving only the quiet sound of shared breaths, soft sighs, and restrained moans between them.
Double-checking the ledger in his hand, Will made his way to the Bradford apartment building. Like much of campus, it was built from red brick and marble, and its grandeur was fitting for an institution so proud of itself. His trolley, hung with clothes and the rest of his worldly possessions, glided easily into the elevator. Most of the students had finished moving in hours ago. Will, on the other hand, had been too occupied being "rightly fucked,” as Antony said.
Fishing his room key out of his pocket, Will nudged the door open, pulling the cart behind him.
He was greeted by the smell of miso and green onions. He bypassed the kitchenette and living room, planning to go to his room and lock the door behind him.
An apartment smelling like a Japanese restaurant, he thought, wordlessly moving towards his room. Better than mold or asbestos.
Then there were several taps against porcelain.
“Excuse me.”
The voice was soft, polite, and flavored with another accent.
Will felt like he was collecting Europeans like they were baseball cards. Intrigued, Will walked towards the sound. The kitchenette was not what he expected. Instead of an exhausted college student hunched over a Cup O’ Noodle, shirt wrinkled and stained with coffee, there were organized ingredients, the counter spotless beneath a bundle of green onion, garlic, and ginger. A pot was boiling on the stove and a knife lay perfectly across the cutting board, fresh chilis sticking to its blade.
Will’s new roommate had a soft smile on his face. It made Will feel welcomed.
His next thought was that his roommate was different. Not older – not exactly. He was like every other student on campus, but he carried himself with a composure Will rarely saw in people their age. While most students wore exhaustion like a uniform, this man looked carefully put together. He had brown hair, parted neatly to the side except for the soft strands that fell across his forehead. His clothes were simple but immaculately put together. There were no creases or lines in his shirt and his sleeves were rolled up past the elbow, just like any chef. His posture was somehow both casual and proper.
“You’re my roommate,” Will said stupidly. Not a question, but a simple fact.
That made said roommate’s smile widen slightly. “And you are mine.” He resumed dicing the chilis. “Will Graham?”
Will unfolded his pamphlet. He pouted, then tilted his head. “The only other Hannibal I can think of is the Carthaginian general.”
Hannibal turned his back to Will, sliding the red chilis into the pan to crisp. “A man so determined to defeat Saguntum that he crossed the Alps with elephants.”
“The Punic Wars,” Will said, as though he was drifting away. “He could spot his opponent’s weakness faster than a blink of an eye.”
The chilies hissed when they touched the pan, steam rising from their skin. “Yes,” Hannibal said before opening the fridge, pulling out a carton of eggs. “I find that I am more at home in the kitchen – much less prone to frostbite.”
“Or death.” Will took the carton of eggs. He gave the boiling pot of water a quick once over. “How many?”
“That depends,” Hannibal said over the sound of cooking chilis. Hannibal moved them frequently in the pan with a spoon. He added extra olive oil. “How many eggs would you like in your ramen?”
“You’re making me lunch?”
“I thought it would be funny.” Hannibal turned off the burner and let the pan cool on the counter. “And a kind gesture towards the person I will be sharing a home with for three semesters.”
Will plucked four from the carton, still somewhat suspicious at his new roommate’s grandiose hospitality. He plopped four eggs into the boiling water.
After the noodles had cooked and Hannibal had delicately placed the chilis, green onion, and soft boiled eggs – two each – on top of the broth, he nodded to a pair of French doors. “There’s a balcony if you’d like to sit with me.”
Will was speaking before his mind could catch up with him. “Sure.”
They sat down, their view overlooking the campus. While the school may have been prestigious, their patio furniture creaked under their weight. Will swiped a bit of dirt off of the glass table.
He set his bowl down, watching the spiral of steam rise from his bowl. The ceramics were both painted a dark blue, decorated by delicate cherry tree branches. Will nudged at the large ramen spoon floating in the broth.
“I wasn’t expecting such an ornate welcome wagon,” Will said, feeling his stomach disagree with a hearty grumble. He felt guilty for the effort Hannibal had put in the meal, but Will still found himself uncomfortably squirming underneath the attention. His plan of isolating himself in his room would have to wait.
Holding his own spoon, the corner of Hannibal’s eyes – brown – crinkled. Will noticed that his roommate’s smile was punctuated by two sharp canines. It was an imperfect smile, which incidentally made it perfect.
“I know,” Hannibal replied. “But you’ll see that I cherish my time in the kitchen.” Hannibal picked up a swirl of wheat noodles with a pair of chopsticks Will hadn’t noticed. He held them up, letting the noodles cool before he took a neat bite.
“Nice slurp.”
“Eat your food.” Hannibal tapped the point of his chopsticks against Will’s bowl.
Will picked up his own chopsticks, looking at the chopped green onions floating in the greasy broth. He mixed the noodles with fresh avocado and chilis. He mirrored Hannibal, waiting patiently before he took a bite. He leaned back, chewing with his hand over his mouth.
When he was able to speak, Will had only one word to say: “Wow.”
“And the broth,” Hannibal angled his chin towards Will’s renge spoon.
Will followed Hannibal’s direction, dipping his spoon into the broth before tipping the liquid between his lips. The avocado mellowed the heat of the chilies, while the green onions added a sharp bite. The yolk of the egg was runny and thick, cooked perfectly at a soft boil.
The apartment grew comfortably quiet, save for the muted scrape of chopsticks and the occasional hum of conversation drifting from below. Somewhere down the hall a door slammed, followed by distant laughter from another apartment, but it all felt strangely far away.
“Have you always had a proclivity for cooking?” Will asked, wiping his mouth with a napkin that seemed to appear from nowhere. If Hannibal had gone to the trouble of making their meal, Will would try to be social.
“Only when I regained my appetite.” Hannibal still sounded chipper, but he looked down at his ramen, aimlessly moving the noodles around with his chopsticks.
Sensing the moment of vulnerability, Will uncharacteristically felt the need to fill the silence.
“It was very good.” Just as he got the gumption to ask for another serving – and, shockingly, more conversation – there was a sharp ‘ping!’ against the door.
Neither of the young men moved, confusion and curiosity melding them both to their chairs.
‘Ping!’
This time Will saw the tiny pebble bounce off of the door.
“I believe you have a visitor,” Hannibal said, his voice forcibly cheerful. “He wears Parfums de Marly Percival.”
“Antony,” Will said. The legs of his chair screeched as he stood up. The ramen and tender moment was forgotten once Will was leaning over the balcony. He crossed his arms beneath his chin. “Has your pattern for dramatics made you forget the existence of doors?”
Antony was looking up, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun. “My ‘pattern for dramatics’ is what lured you in…William.”
Will rolled his eyes with enough force that he was sure to see his brain. “That line sounded much better in your head.” Behind him, there was a clatter of dishes as Hannibal started to clean up after their lunch. Guilt coiled inside of Will’s stomach, but it was brief.
“I sounded magnificent.” Antony dramatically put a hand to his chest. “You STEM majors have no respect for the liberal arts.”
“I have no respect for you,” Will clarified.
Antony’s grin widened. “I don't need you to respect me. You only need you to fu–”
Hannibal spoke softly. “There is leftover ramen inside. I will put the leftovers in the fridge.”
It was enough to briefly pull Will from Antony’s enchantments. He turned, almost wilting at the sight of Hannibal clearing the table.
“I can –”
Hannibal smiled. However there was something sad behind his eyes – something only Will Graham would notice. “I’ll be back by dinner.” It was a promise Will didn't know why he made.
Whatever emotional affliction that haunted Hannibal disappeared. He straightened up, cradling their ramen bowls. There was an air to him, something that felt forced. “No need for promises Will. You are not beholden to me.” He picked up their renge spoons. “Besides, I would like to get ahead of my studies.”
Antony made the decision for Will by pelting him with another pebble.
“Shit!” Will rubbed the back of his head, his attention ping-ponging back to his ‘sort-of boyfriend.’ Forgetting Hannibal, Will shot Antony a glare. “You're a child.”
Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Antony shrugged. “I can leave, if you’d like.” He kicked at the ground once, putting on his best faux self-pitying show.
Will heard the sound of their balcony doors close behind him. The click of the doorknob sealed his fate. “I’ll be right down.”
Antony clapped his hands together. “There’s a good lad!”
“Shut up,” Will grumbled, knowing he was being completely insincere.