Archive of Our Own

Will wakes with a quiet start, trapped in a cloak of warmth. 

Hannibal’s chest is flush with his back. An arm is looped around Will’s waist. The covers wrap above their shoulders, a shield from the cool night. With a glance toward the bedside clock, Will sees that the time is 2:38 am. 

Shrewdly, Will removes himself from Hannibal’s grip and carefully moves to sit up at the edge of the bed, feet touching the floor. Hannibal readjusts himself in his sleep, turning on his other side. 

He doesn’t know what woke him. 

The night is stormy, but without rain. Light flashes now and then outside, a booming roar of a stronger storm resounding in the distance. Rocky nights like these are not known to wake Will, and he cannot help but feel strangely. As if someone is watching him, as if there is something important he must do. 

Knowing he’d be incapable of resuming his sleep, he wanders to the window in their bedroom, the curtains already drawn apart. There isn’t much to see in the dark. Droplets of water paint the glass, and he assumes it must have rained hours ago. Perhaps it only just stopped. 

Slowly, Will turns back to the bed and runs cold with fear when he sees it empty. Consideration of madness settles in his brain in the seconds it takes him to whip around and find Hannibal at his side. Hannibal is observing the barren blackness outside with a mild expression. 

“Quite an early start, wouldn’t you say?” he asserts. 

Will scoffs, tucking his hands into the pockets of his pajama pants. They are incredibly soft. “If your plan is to impress me with your ongoing vanishing act, I’ll save you the trouble and warn you, I’ve never been prone to jump scares.” 

“No, what scares you lives only in your mind,” Hannibal agrees. “Is that what woke you?”

Will shakes his head. Nightmares did not pay him a visit this evening. 

“I’m not sure what did.” 

“Shall I make you something?” Hannibal touches his head, stroking a flat palm over sleep mussed curls. Will leans into it and smiles flinchingly. 

“You don’t have to stay up with me every time I do this.” 

After stroking the lobe of his ear with a thumb, Hannibal retracts his hand and says, “Tea, I think.” 

Will wants to thank him, but the words catch in his throat. Long after Hannibal departs from their room, Will remains staring beyond the window, waiting for more lightning flashes. Wanting to predict when each one will strike. 

The whistle of the kettle screeches in unison with the thunder.

They share organic marshmallow root tea in comfortable silence. Will sits at the island in the kitchen, and Hannibal drinks his standing up, hips propped against the sink. Rain has started again, pattering on like ambient music. Will thinks he might be able to sleep. 

There is a knock at the door. 

At first, Will thinks it might be a tree banging against the paneled frame of the house, but the knock comes again and he meets Hannibal’s eyes with alarm. 

The only consolation that it may not be the police is that they would have burst into their home, guns blazing. They wouldn’t knock. Loud and clear, they’d tell them they’re surrounded. 

Hannibal of course does not appear bothered despite the fact they’ve been house hopping like mad the past year. This is the seventh residence they’ve settled in, ever on the move from the authorities until news of their names and faces dies down. They only arrived at this house last week; it makes no sense there would be any visitors, or that they would be discovered. 

When Hannibal smoothly sets his cup down and tightens the string of his robe, Will stands, barstool creaking, and says, “You’re going to answer it?” 

“Yes, Will.” Hannibal tucks his silver hair behind an ear. It has grown in length since the fall, and Will supposes, so has his own. 

“What if — ”

“Trust me,” he whispers, placing both hands firmly upon Will’s shoulders. “As foreign as that concept may sound to you.” 

Will swallows, and replies sternly, “I’m joining you.”

Hannibal smirks. “By all means.” 

The knock comes again by the time they get to the front door, and they exchange sentimental glances one last time before Hannibal opens it to reveal Chiyoh waiting patiently with a gun strapped to her chest. Rain has soaked her.

Will sighs in relief, tension drooling out of him. 

She looks the same as ever, black hair tight in a bun, barely aged. 

“Hannibal,” she greets curtly. 

Hannibal brightens. “Chiyoh.”

“You knew it was her?” Will asks, testily. 

“I did not know she was coming, though I strongly suspected it was her upon hearing the knocks. She manages the same pattern almost every time.” 

Will refrains from marching out of the foyer, for Chiyoh’s sake. On top of that, his own curiosity is bruising. Though Hannibal has not been vocal about Chiyoh and frankly, his own past, Will assumed he would not be seeing Chiyoh again, for quite a long time. 

“She’s sent for you,” Chiyoh tells him. 

Will turns to find Hannibal’s complacent expression fall, and to his shock, he looks as if he’s seen a ghost. He wonders then what the ghosts of Hannibal’s past look like. 

The silence between the three of them grows frigid; Hannibal’s speechlessness is out of place and alien to Will, nearly to a point where he considers shutting the door in Chiyoh’s face just to snap them back into reality, but he tries to overtake the limbo they’re in instead. 

“Who sent for him?”

Chiyoh turns, speaks to him coldly. “Lady Murasaki, his aunt.” 

He’s heard vague stories of the woman. She seemed like a figment, or a fairy tale. At least in the way Hannibal spoke of her, it always seemed like he found it easier to pretend she was nothing but a dream. 

“What does she want?” Will asks with a smidge of petulance, tugging his robe tighter over his body as the chilly night air swoops in, lapping at the heat inside.

“I am positive the Lady will make that known once he arrives.” 

“Does the Lady realize Hannibal’s not exactly in the best position for a family reunion right now?” Perhaps he’s being a bit acidic, but he doesn’t like where this is going. 

“Will,” Hannibal murmurs, reprehensive

“What if this is a trap? Jack could have found her, struck a deal. They could be leading you right into the clutches of the FBI.” 

“Lady Murasaki would not dishonor him in that way,” Chiyoh retorts, resolutely. With shaky breath, Will exhales and regrets not spiking his own tea. She adds, “Nor would I.” 

“Excuse me if I’m not entirely convinced.” 

“That’s enough,” Hannibal tells him, fingers suddenly vice-tight around his wrist. For a moment, Will fears the bone will snap. Releasing his grip, Hannibal turns to Chiyoh and declares, “I will not leave without Will at my side.”

Chiyoh glances back and forth between them before straightening up. “There is enough room on the boat for him.” 

“Oh joy,” Will mutters, though fails to disguise the nerve in his voice. They just settled. He doesn’t want to risk traveling this soon, let alone venture across the sea to meet Hannibal’s estranged aunt. Mostly, he fears for his temperament with Chiyoh at the helm. 

“Will, go pack essentials for the both of us. I’ll see to the food.” 

Will startles. It makes sense they’d be leaving now, but he’s still taken off guard. He does as he’s told, trembling with the cold of the morning as he overpacks, extra sweaters for Hannibal, extra socks for both of them. Three tubes of toothpaste which feels like overkill, but who knows how long they’ll be gone. This is still a bad idea, in his opinion, not like anyone’s asked for it. 

Hannibal appears in their bedroom looking frazzled fifteen minutes later, and Will helps him into casual clothes of the non-pajama variety. While he’s buttoning up his shirt for him he asks, “You sure about this?” 

“There may never be another opportunity,” Hannibal replies. 

That’s enough for Will. If Hannibal wants to see his aunt, he doesn’t want to discourage him, even if vigilance is steeping bitterly in the back of his mind. He hasn’t shed himself of that strange feeling he’d had upon waking. Something voyeuristic and ominous. 

“Do you plan to keep me in the dark?” Will asks. 

Hannibal straightens his collar when Will’s hands drop away. He raises a brow as he works, and Will elucidates.

“Your aunt. Who she is to you, why she’s sending for you despite the headlines?”

“You may ask me anything you wish,” Hannibal promises, “but for the moment, I’d suggest we do not linger here. The roads are empty this early in the morning.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Hannibal smiles, overwhelmingly fond. 

“I know.” 

They bundle into Chiyoh’s car with large coats and a suitcase each. The doors to their house are locked, the electricity and water shut off. When Chiyoh backs out of their driveway, Will wonders if they’ll ever see the property again. 

Hannibal is sitting shotgun, besides Chiyoh, both speaking quietly to each other in Japanese. Will feels like a stowaway in the back seat, sandwiched between heavy cases of luggage and shivering still because Chiyoh refuses to turn on the heat. 

At one point during the drive, Hannibal reaches a hand back with a parchment-paper wrapped sandwich in his clutch. Will snatches it with a mumbled, ‘thank you,’ and chows it down. Hannibal takes significantly longer to eat his, and Chiyoh refuses to eat. 

The trip is shorter than Will anticipated. 

They arrive at the docking port in under two hours. It is quiet and dark save for the streetlights. When they step out of the car, the mist of rain hits Will’s skin. They’ve driven farther away from the storm. 

“Follow me,” Chiyoh orders before leading them down the boatyard, to the longest stretch of dock. The biggest boat is of course, theirs. It is black, rimmed in brown accents. There must be at least two cabins upon the boat, excluding kitchen and bathrooms. The name ‘Robertas’ reads in golden letters on the port side. 

“The trip will take just over a week,” Chiyoh informs, standing before them on deck. “I will direct the boat. You will keep to your own business. Your bedroom is the cabin closer to the stern.”  

“Understood,” Hannibal states. 

Will nods, fidgeting with the buttons on his coat. 

Chiyoh vanishes without farewell, descending into the bowels of the ship, leaving the two men isolated on deck. The engine revs to life very shortly after. 

On their way down to their cabin, Will says, “Did you bring any of that marshmallow root tea?” 

Hannibal huffs a laugh. “You manage to ask for the one thing I chose not to bring.” 

Will fights with his suitcase when it catches on a corner of the narrow hall. With humor, he grumbles, “Guess I’m going to have to kill you.” 

Hannibal turns, grinning.

“How will you do it?” 

Will softens. “You know how.” 

Three days in finds Hannibal and Will in their cabin, kissing atop the sheets. The entertainment value on the ship is low. They’ve already burned through the two books they brought along, Hannibal reading out loud as Will laid gently on his shoulder, listening. 

Currently, Hannibal’s face is buried in the crook of Will’s neck, working at a hickey that will easily be covered with fabric. Will rocks into the firm thigh between his legs. 

It is lazy and mindless. 

Will breathes fast, sliding an arm around Hannibal’s back, tangling his fingers in his hair to keep him locked close. He turns a bit just to glance at the door of their cabin. Hannibal licks at the tender bruise on his neck and noses at the bottom of his ear.

“You check the door as if you expect it to grow eyes,” he murmurs, kissing fever-warm skin. Will sighs, humored, and noses along the contours of Hannibal’s face until he finds his lips. 

They kiss some more, until Will glances at the door again. 

Hannibal’s palm scrapes over Will’s cheek. “Would it humiliate you if she were to walk in?” He tries to untwist himself from Hannibal’s grip, but the man is a snake. “Would it be worse for the world to discover me in your arms or the corpse of an innocent?” 

“That isn’t fair,” Will mutters, sucking in air when Hannibal dips down to bite at the mark he’d made on his neck. For a few seconds, he’s incapable of thought, muscles loosening. 

“We haven’t seen her since we boarded,” he tries, arching into Hannibal’s touch the more he tries to fight it. “I keep wondering when she’s going to pop in out of nowhere.” 

“Chiyoh can avoid social interaction better than anyone I’ve ever known,” Hannibal laughs, breath hot on Will’s neck. “Better than you, even.” 

The comment stings without reason. 

“I don’t think she likes me,” Will admits.

“She did throw you off a train.”

“My point.” 

“As long as I’m with you, she will not make another attempt on your life,” Hannibal assures as if that erases the problem altogether. He kisses the hollow of his throat. 

“Can’t wait until your next shower,” Will retorts softly, though he doesn’t actually believe Chiyoh is out to kill him. She knows Hannibal would never forgive her. 

“Incentive to shower with me?” 

“I think that’d be skipping a few bases.” 

“Life is short,” Hannibal murmurs, kissing his parted lips and coaxing his tongue out. They kiss deeply, until Will is moaning and tugging strands of his hair eagerly. 

He forgets all about Chiyoh, focus tunneled entirely to their two hard cocks bumping into one another between the fabric of their briefs and night trousers. 

“Touch me,” Will begs, knowing he won’t. 

“I think that’d be skipping a few bases,” Hannibal parrots, easing off, and smirks when Will sinks into the mattress, fostering an explosive air of frustration. 

“You’re going to kill me,” he grumbles, quelling his erection with a palm. Hannibal is re-buttoning his shirt, facing away from him, but he knows he’s smiling. 

“Anticipation is the greatest ingredient for passion.” 

“We’ve been healed for months.”

“I’m aware.” Hannibal moves on the bed, sitting criss-crossed at the edge. He lifts one of Will’s feet up and into his lap before massaging it deftly, strong thumbs and calloused fingertips. Will closes his eyes and lets himself feel good. “You haven’t asked.” 

“Mmm, about what?” Will mutters, lost in sensation. 

“My aunt. My history.” 

Will cracks an eye open. If Hannibal brings up the topic, it is usually because he wants to discuss it. He hadn’t expected Hannibal to want to discuss this, let alone bring it up on his own. 

“Your uncle adopted you,” Will states. “This is the same aunt who was married to him?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why would she send for you?” 

“I can’t begin to fathom,” Hannibal admits, sounding sincere. He strokes a finger down the instep of Will’s foot, almost light enough to be ticklish. Will twitches. 

“Alright, let’s retrace your steps. When was the last time you saw her?” 

Hannibal pauses, for an incalculable moment, resuming with a whispered, “On a houseboat in France. Her parting words left me disquieted. I expected never to see her again. After the fact, I mourned her as if she were dead.” 

“What did she say to you?” Will questions, unsurprised when Hannibal remains unresponsive, bending his leg away from his lap and to gather the other.

“You told me briefly about your uncle’s passing.” Will swallows over his words, thrilled at the prospect he can still find himself nervous in Hannibal’s presence. “How did he die?”

Hannibal smiles, rubbing hard into his heel. “I did not kill him, if that is what you are asking.” 

“Did she kill him?” 

“No." Hannibal’s smile becomes reminiscent. “She was quite docile.”

Will frowns, drawing his leg back. 

“You loved her.” 

Hannibal stills, palms on his own thighs. When he doesn’t immediately protest, the truth sinks into Will and he sits up, feeling woozy and off-balance. 

“It was not love,” Hannibal explains quietly. “She knew that before I did.” 

Remembering Chiyoh stuck in purgatory in the cellar of the Lecter castle, and Miriam Lass at the bottom of a grimy pit — Abigail with her ear shorn from her body, waiting in the dark halls of his Baltimore home, Will’s teeth grind. 

“Did you try to change her?” 

“I expected her to be changed by the time I realized she'd never even made the first step. Her love for me overpowered volumes of her hesitations. She killed, and framed, all for my freedom. The ties of family are strong, and we can often turn contempt into care, if we want long enough. The longevity of that alchemy is often disagreeable.”

Hannibal inhales, staring at the sheets solemnly.

Will understands then; Lady Murasaki wasn’t a pet project, but the first person who had ever seen Hannibal for what he was. And she rejected him in the end, incapable of choosing love over morale. 

“I was a different man then,” Hannibal continues. “Far different from the man you know now, and far more dangerous. After my departure, I discouraged my own curiosity. Wondering what I could have been had she joined me in all things. Had she seen and accepted, and wanted.”

“What if she’s willing to see you now?” Will asks quietly. 

Eyes close and Hannibal licks his lips, bordering on amused. 

“The years between have been vast, Will. I have forgotten the details of her face. She no longer lives in my memory palace. If what she wants is closure, it will be my gift to her, as she never once wronged me. Nothing more is owed.” 

“I could have stayed at the house.”

Something resembling sadness takes over Hannibal’s features, and it kicks Will in the gut. He fiddles with a wrinkle in the sheets as he speaks. 

“If you wanted to stay, you could have told me.” 

Will scoots closer until his knees are touching Hannibal’s. “No, no, I wanted to come, Hannibal. I’m just worried I’ll be imposing. You haven’t seen her in years, she doesn’t even know me.” 

“You’re family, Will. When she understands that, she will know you.” Will sighs, compliant when Hannibal presses a lingering kiss to his cheek. “And you could never impose.” 

“Chiyoh might disagree.”

“I’m quite sure my aunt will take very kindly to you. You’re similar in several respects.” 

Will isn’t sure how to feel about that, so he nuzzles his head against Hannibal’s sternum and doesn’t respond, melting at the light touches he receives on his scalp and back. 

Will runs into Chiyoh on the second to last day. He wakes up much earlier than normal, deserting Hannibal to go brew coffee and finds her at the machine already, pupils the size of pin needles. 

“Morning,” he greets, voice gruff with sleep. 

She doesn’t respond, glares at him until her coffee is finished, and departs from the kitchen to god knows where. Not her cabin; he’d passed it the last few days and found the sheets tightly made and pressed, pillows practically untouched. He wonders if she ever sleeps. 

The next day, Will is nauseated; the unusual churning in his stomach signals the boat has stopped. The hum of the engine is absent, no longer lulling him into a mostly nightmare-free sleep. Hannibal has already woken, dressed to the nines in a maroon suit. He of course has laid out something black and grey for Will, with red cufflinks to match. 

Will often goes on deck at night, the sun quite damning in the morning, and burning in the afternoon. So, when he exits the ship with his suitcase in hand, he flinches forcibly at the morning rays beating down mercilessly upon his skin. Hannibal is unphased unsurprisingly, and Chiyoh is already on the pale-wooded deck, waiting with her gun and dressed in the same suit she’d worn to their house a week prior. 

When Hannibal helps him down onto the dock, Will finally takes in the landscape. 

They’ve docked the boat at an isolated port, connected to a cobble road leading up to one of the biggest houses Will has ever seen. The architecture is more American-colonial than he would have expected a mansion in Japan to be designed as, and it is all white with grey tiled roofs and window panes. Columns make up most of its depths. Shrubberies and hedges swallow the circular forked stairwell leading to the narrow glass front door, and Will is almost petrified to walk through the foresty underbrush, afraid to lose himself in it and never find his way out. 

Birds tweet in the distance, and the sound of the ocean water splashing and rushing against the stone wall at the base of the property’s hill calms him, so he follows Chiyoh and Hannibal diligently up the steps. 

The porch, if you could call it that seeing as it is seemingly miles long, is marble tile. There are statues of ancient samurai warriors on either side of the door, sculpted in the same hue of the exterior. They look to be guarding the entrance; it is unnerving. 

Chiyoh slips inside, then opens the large doors, locking them open. 

She takes their luggage without asking.

Hannibal turns to Will, smiles and moves delicately to stroke his hair. He had given him a haircut on the boat, curls cut short and groomed to one side. Shaky, Will smiles back. 

The foyer is boundless, stairwell to the second floor nearly vertical in its steepness. It is far beyond them, still far even when Will makes his way to the center of the room. The home feels empty, as if Lady Murasaki manages it herself, though he knows that cannot be true. 

Chiyoh has gone, disappeared into the halls, or one of the many maroon doors lining the walls. The color matches Hannibal’s suit. He can’t help but to note the difference between the outside aesthetic of the house and the internal. 

Gold accents, decorations of Japanese descent, and dusty surfaces. 

“I traveled here once,” Hannibal tells him, voice echoing. “In search of my uncle. This was one of many properties he abandoned, deciding to instead live in France.” For a moment, he appears proud. “She redecorated.” 

“Why would she choose to live here if she knew you could find her?” Will asks. 

“She knew I wouldn’t look for her.” 

The one difference between he and Murasaki, Will reconciles. Hannibal would always seek Will; it seemed he never had the intention to look for his aunt when she left. 

Chiyoh returns several minutes later, without her gun or their suitcases.

“The Lady is in the garden.” 

Hannibal bows his head, and he and Chiyoh exchange a glance that seems to say something along the lines of, I will speak to you later. Will shifts awkwardly when Chiyoh leaves, disregarding his presence entirely.

Without a word, Hannibal leads Will out to the garden. Sliding glass doors merge directly into a beige cobble path, winding through flowery pastures. Cherry blossom trees scatter the landscape, amongst white, flowered, thinner trees Will cannot name.

There is a circular clearing with a fountain, a rendition of the classical Japanese lion motif with water spraying from its nostrils, spilling in rivulets down its stone jaw and into the pool. 

A woman sits on a bench before it, weaving a tapestry of sorts. Her hair is loose and black, despite what Will thought the color would be. Her posture is suspectedly noble. 

She pauses despite neither of them making a sound, sets the fabric down. 

When she stands and turns, Will blanches. She is just as young as Hannibal, almost appearing younger, though he knows she must be years older than him. He had imagined an older woman, grey and wrinkle-worn. This woman is beautiful, even in her middle age. The lines on her face only add to her appeal, and there is a glow to her skin that advocates youth. 

The smile that spreads across her face when she sets eyes on Hannibal makes her look younger still, and though Will does not want to, he forces himself to glance at Hannibal, displeased when he sees the ungovernable affection on his face. 

Will knows; Hannibal hadn’t expected to be affected by nostalgia. 

She moves closer to wrap him up in a hug, nearly reaching his height. They hold each other for a moment too long, Hannibal’s face blocked from Will’s view. Up close, Will can see the silk-tight long sleeved shirt beneath her loose brown dress. It coils around her throat almost like a turtleneck, mesh floral in very small detail throughout. 

He sidesteps a bit to give them room, feeling very out of place. 

Murasaki pulls back, holds both of Hannibal’s hands in her own and they don’t break eye contact as she speaks softly, in a foreign language. Hannibal chuckles in such a sweet way that Will is pissed he’s never managed to pull that noise out of him himself. Then Hannibal mentions something along the lines of ‘English’ and Lady Murasaki turns to Will as if taking him in for the first time. 

“I suspected I would be meeting you,” she greets, accent thick and voice smooth “You may call me Murasaki, no need for appellations. You are Will Graham, I have read much about you.” 

Clearing his throat, Will reaches out a hand which she holds in a butter-soft palm, not shaking, but smoothing a thumb over his skin in a sensual manner. She seems to appreciate eye contact just as much as her nephew, and Will is incapable of looking away. 

“Just Will,” he offers, managing a wonky smile. “Hannibal isn’t precisely an open book, but I’ve heard a bit about you.” 

“Have you?” she muses, glancing playfully at Hannibal who hasn’t stopped looking at her. Will has the childish urge to step on his foot. “Well, Will, if Hannibal deems you worthy company, that makes you quite special. I am honored to know you.” 

Will is burning with social ineptitude, a long lost feeling, but he nods in response, wrestling with his tongue to say something appropriate in regard to that sentiment. 

“I would very much like to ask you about yourself over dinner. Would you mind if Hannibal and I had time to ourselves to catch up until then? Chiyoh will direct you to a guest room inside should you ask.” Her hand has traveled to his shoulder, stroking down to his elbow. It’s soothing, and Will can’t find it within himself to disagree. 

“Of course,” he turns to Hannibal, who finally meets his eyes vacantly. “I’ll see you in a bit.” 

“Yes, Will,” he murmurs. Will waits a moment before inclining his head in his withdrawal. He is relieved to saunter through the garden and back toward the mansion, though he realizes he’d rather be anywhere else other than alone in the unending depths of an unfamiliar house, in search of Chiyoh no less. He finds he’s also loath to leave Hannibal’s side despite the fact he knows he deserves alone time with his family. There is a spinning feeling like envy in his gut, and he shoves it down, convincing himself there is no place for it. Their past was long ago, and his present is with Will. 

Fear should not be prevalent, but he feels sick with it. 

Distracting himself, he decides to snoop around the house with no intention of finding Chiyoh. Will chooses the kitchen first, assuming she would pick a more secluded hideaway. 

There is a shortage of food. Or perhaps he’s just used to Hannibal overstocking their cabinet. He could manage spaghetti if he was really hungry, or screw around with the flax seeds he finds in the shelf above the fridge. 

Tiring of the pots and pans, he makes his way up to the third floor of the mansion. The stairs are hidden, two at each end of the second floor corridor. Leading around a corner and up in a spiral. He finds a narrow hall of all doors, like a hotel, and strolls down, nudging each with his foot. 

Some open, some don’t. 

He worms his way inside the room with the only door that doesn’t creak, and his stomach drops when he sees what the walls are lined with. Newspaper clippings, drawings of crimes Hannibal drew before committing them, portraits of men he’s never seen before also drawn by him, looking straggled and war-crazy. Most of the clippings are from current news articles though some are from years back when Will was framed for all those murders he notoriously didn’t commit. Some are even further back. Despite the extensive collection, they are organized symmetrically, in a way that looks almost sane. 

However, when he crosses the room and observes the desk, he finds the most current article courtesy of Freddie Lounds’ press team. It covers the time not long ago they were spotted in France and had to retreat to one of Hannibal’s safehouses in Russia. 

Will’s face is circled in red ink. 

The sick feeling returns, and he puts a hand on his head to quell the nausea, forcing himself to breathe evenly and efficiently. He cannot think the worst of this situation. And yet, he does. He thinks about whether Lady Murasaki wishes him gone from Hannibal’s life, if she’s finally ready to put aside their differences and accept her nephew for who he truly is. 

If Will is nothing but a short chapter to her, in Hannibal’s bigger story. 

She knew him first, and perhaps she knew him longer. 

Better.

Will vacates the space, closes the door behind him, and moves down to the farthest room from that one, opening the door and secluding himself inside. It seems to be a plain guest room at first glance, until he lies on the bed, breathes and relaxes, and notices the photograph on the end table. 

An older man, very much resembling Hannibal, and a younger Murasaki. 

He takes it in his hands and holds it up so the light from the window can better catch the details. Hell, the man is practically identical to Hannibal. And it’s only his uncle. He wonders what Hannibal’s father looked like. 

He wonders also, why his uncle married a wife so young. 

Wonders again, how he died. 

The door creaks open, and he drops the framed picture on his chest. Chiyoh appears in the doorway, hair down, and in flowy clothes, not her military-esque suit. 

“I noticed your absence in the garden and suspected you were wandering aimlessly through the mansion’s passages,” she states, ghosting forward to stand stiffly in front of the bed. 

He discreetly places the photo back where it belongs, and sits up. 

“More curious than aimless,” he corrects. “Here to toss me off another train?” 

“Do you know of any nearby?” 

“Cute.” Will grunts as he hops up from the springy mattress. “They asked me to find you so you could lead me to my ‘guest room’.” 

“Follow me.” 

She ditches Will while he is in the middle of straightening out his suit and he’s forced to catch up to her quickly, in the hall, surprised when she guides them back to the second floor and down another corridor that winds off to a large, shuttered balcony. They pass it, and a master bathroom, before stopping in front of a bronze door. There is a strange design on the doorknob. 

Will doesn’t enter right away, looking off towards the brightness of the terrace. He ponders what Hannibal and Murasaki are talking about, if they’re touching or not. 

“You look like a lost puppy,” Chiyoh announces, curtly. 

Will grits his teeth. “I didn’t plan to meet Hannibal’s family this weekend, or any weekend. It’s all moving so fast. I don’t know how to feel, or I feel like this is a mistake and I don’t want to feel that way.”

“A mistake that you came, or a mistake that Hannibal did?” 

He doesn’t respond, hand on the doorknob. He is surprised when she doesn’t leave. “Chiyoh, how do you feel about this little reunion?” 

“I don’t feel one way or the other. Both of them appear to need it.” 

Hannibal didn’t need it before she sent for him. Or perhaps he did need it, and had no clue he did. Will doesn’t like that thought very much. It stirs something rotten within him.

“Do you know what Lady Murasaki said to Hannibal, when they parted?” 

Chiyoh nods, sullenly. Memories swim in her eyes.

“She told Hannibal there was nothing left in him to love.” 

Hannibal arrives in their guest room at 5:40 pm. 

Festering in muted resentment alongside hours of overthinking their situation, Will isn’t exactly happy upon seeing him. He turns away from the door, spinning a top he’d found in one of the end table drawers. It swirls in pink and yellow colors, and he spins it again when it topples over. 

“Dinner will be served in twenty minutes,” Hannibal tells him, sounding chipper. “You must be hungry.”

“Yeah,” Will murmurs, tensing when the bed dips. 

Hannibal just lies behind him, in silence, and it grows stiflingly uncomfortable, so Will forces himself to turn around and abandon the top. Hannibal is closer than he expected, lying on his shoulder, gazing at Will like he’s the whole world. 

Will bitterly reminds himself how he shot that same look toward his aunt. 

“You find yourself in distress so early into our visit,” Hannibal notes. His eyes graze over Will’s body, making him tense harder. “Shall I rectify that?” 

Will knows he doesn’t mean sexually, but the thought right now is nice. 

Sex usually forces his brain to take a break, and sex with Hannibal could easily make him forget just how similarly he looked at her, and how much he parallels Murasaki himself. 

Will jumps when a hand clasps his cheek. 

“How could you, of all people, rectify my distress?” he grumbles. Hannibal doesn’t take to that comment, so he sighs and adds, “There is not always a cure to my mental habits.” 

“No, but I find having you speak aloud what ails you has often held a virtuous effect. Despite your arguments to the contrary, conversing is quite therapeutic.” 

“She has a whole room of us you know.” The words spill from Will’s lips before he can stop himself, a dense overflow. “Newspaper clippings of you and me. Sketches, my face circled in red ink.”

“I saw it for myself,” Hannibal replies, simply.

“I don’t trust her.” It pains Will to say it, because it feels like a lie.

To his surprise, Hannibal merely smiles.

“Perhaps to you, it might seem extravagant, but I had a similar room in the home I once shared with her. I see this as a way to honor my memory, by keeping track of me in the same way I kept track of others important to me. She circled you because your name and face appeared side by side with mine, for all these years. Did you truly suspect foul play, when the door was left open, for all to see?” he asks, lacking any of his usual audacity. 

Will shakes his head, incapable of debating the point. Despite wanting to and wanting even more to have a reason to. 

“She’s beautiful,” he whispers. It needs to be said; he’s been thinking it ever since he laid eyes on her face, and he knows Hannibal must have been thinking it too. Still beautiful, after all these years. Not a scar on her face, skin luminescent and eyes guileless as a dove’s. 

“I imagine she’ll be beautiful for years to come,” Hannibal agrees, sighing. 

Will wants to say, ‘Will I be? ’ but he doesn’t. 

Since when has he ever wanted to be called beautiful? 

Turning on his back, Hannibal mirrors the action, and reaches for his hand. Will allows him to interlace their fingers, bring his hand up to his lips and kiss the knuckles. 

“What was your uncle like?”

“Brash,” Hannibal recalls. “Stately, much like any Count. I didn’t know him well. He died of a heart attack a year and a half after he adopted me. I remember nothing of my father now, but I remember thinking he was nothing like him.” 

“I thought you might have eaten him,” Will says softly, binding their hands tighter, and Hannibal laughs, a short noise. 

“I ate very little of my family.” 

Will curls into him, and finally relaxes when Hannibal tugs him closer, and massages his shoulders lightly with broad hands. After some time passes, Will turns his head so he can speak. 

“Your aunt thinks you look like him.” 

Will doesn’t need his empathy to gather that much. 

“I’m aware,” Hannibal murmurs knowingly. “I must look more like him now, than I ever did.” 

“Was that why she loved you?” Will asks, blunt and unaware of it. 

Hannibal’s fingers ease on his shoulders, trailing like phantoms down his spine. Will wants to shiver, despite the enveloping warmth. So much time passes, he assumes Hannibal won’t respond, until he does, rousing Will from his near slumber. 

“I believe it is why she wanted me and coveted my physical affection. His death rattled her, and I was the nearest thing to an echo of what he was. She loved me, however, like a mother loves a child. Because she must, because somebody has to. There was an obligation in her eyes, to love what could not be loved.” 

I love you, Will thinks, but buries it fathoms deep.

“A mother doesn’t abandon her child,” he answers without thought. 

“Yours did.”

Will is nearly moved by his own apathy towards the claim. Another thing he and Hannibal have in common, and another part of them tarnished in the world’s righteous shared view. 

Will doesn’t bring up what Chiyoh told him about Murasaki, nor do they speak for the rest of the twenty minutes aside from communicating through the dreamy brushing of fingertips and drowsy responsive twitches. Chiyoh arrives at their door, and knocks without entering. 

“Dinner,” comes the announcement, softly from behind the door. 

Hannibal opens his eyes and Will can’t tell if he slept. 

Dinner rolls by smoother than Will expects.

He’s far more intimidated by the majesty of the dining hall than speaking with his company. A dining table that covers nearly the whole length of the room lies under their utensils, along with a ceiling that stretches triangularly above them, black-curtained windows fastened closed so candlelight can brighten their meals alone. It’s claustrophobic and too-open all at once. 

Bowls of Sukiyaki are brought about minutes after they finish their hor d'oeuvre salads. Round dishes plump with meat loin and thick, green vegetables. Will is stunned by the numerous waiters, as he guessed no one was in the mansion other than Lady Murasaki herself. When one of them pours him a second glass of umeshu, he nods in thanks, and glances over at Hannibal who is watching his aunt with no small amount of interest. Murasaki eats delicately, blowing on each spoonful of broth. Chiyoh sits adjacent to her, Hannibal parallel to Chiyoh, and Will by his side, the furthest away from the Lady of the house. It’s not as if he doesn’t understand why. 

There has been mumbled conversation ever since they first sat down, but mostly everyone spends their time filling their stomachs with haste, hungry and growing further along to being sated.

“Will, you’ve been quiet,” Murasaki notes, resting her spoon against the edge of her bowl. “I would like to hear more about you, if you’re game.” 

Will has always despised ice breakers.

“There’s not much to tell,” he manages as politely as possible. 

“You are from Louisiana.” 

It must have said so in the news articles. 

“Yeah. I used to work on boat motors there,” Will responds, glancing once (desperately) at Hannibal as if he can personally save him from his newfound social plight. Hannibal merely watches him with proper patience, swallowing down a spoonful of meat. Will turns back to his aunt. 

“I have always been fond of boats. My late husband collected them,” she says. 

“Were they for travel or for show?” 

“Both, I think.” She smiles, nostalgically. “He liked to have the biggest and the best, but he also liked to bring the boat far out onto the water, until there was no one other than me and him.”

“I sailed from the U.S. to Italy once, on a really, really, small boat,” Will recalls, poking at the vegetables submerged in his broth. 

“For business or pleasure?” 

Will turns again to Hannibal who has a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. Will smirks, and chews on a string of green beans. Swallowing, he responds, “Both I think.” 

Chiyoh barely suppresses an eye roll, but Will catches it. 

They glare at each other from across the table, daring the other to speak any details about his trip across seas when Lady Murasaki speaks again, tone gently curious. 

“I would like to know how you met.” 

“Work – ” Will says immediately. 

“A mutual friend – ” Hannibal says at the exact same instance. 

They exchange glances. Considering Jack a friend seems like overkill, but he supposes that is how they met. Hannibal raises a brow at Will’s own curtailed reply. 

Murasaki laughs, the noise light and lovely. 

“I see,” she says. 

“We didn’t get along,” Will graciously adds. “I didn’t find him interesting.” 

“Must have been novel for you,” she says to Hannibal who shrugs, but Will knows there is something small and fragile inside of him seething and hissing. Will can’t help but to smile a tad, and continues poking at his food. 

The stilted conversation drones on for several more minutes. Will is surprised at the lack of murder-talk at a table of murders, even if some are foreseeably retired from the act for the rest of their lives. It still seems blatantly, almost offensively, false to sit here and discuss life without death. 

“Have you ever fought with a sword, Will?” the Lady asks whilst dessert is being brought about. It is a miniscule, frothy cake, with light cream swerved atop the cut. 

“No,” Will says with humor, taken aback. “Can’t say that I have.” 

She and Hannibal exchange glances, and she turns back to Will with a grin. 

“I have told Hannibal I would like him to inherit my katana collection before he leaves. There is a training field around the back of the garden, and I’d be honored if you would both make use of it during your stay. Hannibal can teach you many things about a sword. The grounds are overgrown, and have long since been useful. I believe you’d find much use in martial arts.” 

Will nearly chokes on his cake. 

“You know martial arts?” he asks Hannibal, dumbfounded. 

“I’ve dabbled.”

“An understatement,” his aunt corrects. “He rivaled even me.” 

Hannibal averts his eyes, staring bashfully down at his own cake. He hasn’t touched it; Will knows that means he’s far too wrapped up in discussion if he isn’t touching his food. 

“Thank you,” Will tells her. “But, I’m not sure my coordination is fit for that kind of thing.”

“With practice, you will be able to hone it, I’m sure.” 

Will isn’t sure he wants to hone anything, but he also isn’t sure he doesn’t want to. He’s more anxious he’ll make a fool of himself, but if it’s just he and Hannibal, he can’t imagine anything going awry. 

A smug expression has taken residence on Chiyoh’s face. 

Will wants to fling a portion of his cake at her.

The rest of dinner flies by, continuously awkward, but less so than when they first sat down. Will feels calmer about their visit, and the Lady herself, but of course there is still a humming warning sound in the back of his head, curling around his ears. A signal hard pressed to avoid being silenced. 

He watches Hannibal watch Lady Murasaki for the remainder of the evening, and simmers.

The sound of two swords clicking together reverberates through the yard. There is a gazebo-type overhang above them, the metallic noise bouncing off its shingled inclines and the vine-covered support columns. Will stumbles back with the force of Hannibal’s maneuver. 

“Upper body, Will. You’re relying too much on the thrust of your hips.” 

Will holds back the dirty joke on his tongue, striking his own katana forward again. He’d picked the one with a purple and black handle. It stood stark against the red, gold, and brown grips. 

Hannibal blocks his move, swerving and ducking, dropping out of Will’s view briefly to knock him off his feet. Will lands on his back with a feral grunt, the katana clattering out of his hand. Hannibal is standing in the next moment, jabbing the tip of his sword against his stomach. 

“You’re not exactly going easy on me,” Will mutters, arching against the prod with a rebellious flare. “You learned this for years, I know nothing, remember?” 

“You’re more agile than you’re admitting to, my love.” 

Will snarls at the endearment.

He grabs his blade swiftly and attempts to mimic the act of slicing through Hannibal’s gut, hip to hip, but Hannibal swings his own down and it clangs against the silver. Will groans, exasperated, and rolls away to give himself the momentum to soar up on his feet. Hannibal’s blade nearly collides with his face, but he blocks it with last-minute adrenaline. 

The morning light reflects brightly off the polished sword.

“That’s it,” Hannibal encourages softly, backing him up to a post as their blades meet, over and over. Will only manages to block as Hannibal continues swinging fluently to help him build up his reflexes. 

Will’s back meets one of the stone columns, and Hannibal’s sword brushes his neck. Their faces are inches apart, Will pushing the edge of his katana as hard as he can against the other to keep it from cutting his throat. He knows Hannibal would nick him, just for fun, and he’s not up for that. 

Spurred on by proximity and adrenaline, he closes the gap and ambushes his lips, planting a decoying kiss there. The press of the sword eases, and Hannibal’s face softens. 

A wicked smile spreads on Will’s face and he knees him in the center of his chest, solid enough to make Hannibal stumble back. Will’s katana meets his throat in the same manner, pressed tight to his skin, Hannibal able to block only in the last second, feebly pressing back.

“Your aunt never taught you about distraction?” Will gallantly inquires. 

“She plays by the rules,” Hannibal murmurs, playful and vengeful all in the same breath. He shoves Will back and they both heave in air, feet apart, circling one another like sharks. 

“Another difference for the books.” 

“I find I much prefer your spontaneity.”

“Good,” Will remarks, prowling around him before he can turn and grips the blade and the handle with both hands, tossing it around Hannibal’s head to ensnare him. The sword does dig into his skin then, without the shield. 

“Have you satisfied your urge to trap me?” 

“I’ve satisfied my urge to capture you,” Will replies, nipping his ear. 

Hannibal hums, dropping his sword to the ground in defeat despite the fact their brawl had veered far from the teachings of martial arts by the end. It makes a loud sound, echoing through the gazebo and out through the field. It makes Will glance toward the garden, and then up to the figure of a woman in one of the third floor windows. Murasaki in a morning robe, watching. 

He quickly drops his sword from Hannibal, and moves away. 

“Have you overexerted yourself?”

“No,” Will bites out, feeling queasy. “No, I just, I think I’m done for today.” 

The scent of clove oil rises up in the air, making his stomach taut with something uneasy. It polishes the swords, he knows, but it smells too strong. It’s intoxicating in a way that he hates. 

“There’s always tomorrow, or the next day.” Hannibal runs a finger down the length of his katana on the floor. “They are ours to keep and care for now.” 

He imagines battling Hannibal with samurai swords in their small hideaway house in Russia and can’t help but to laugh brokenly, digging his palms hard enough into his eyes he sees stars. 

He feels dizzy when Hannibal gently takes his hands away and kisses him on the lips. He wants to pull away, loathes that Murasaki is probably still watching, but keeps himself still, making a pathetic sound close to a whimper when Hannibal deepens it. 

He refrains from tugging at the fabric of Hannibal’s shirt or latching onto his hair to drag him closer, keep him steady and locked in place the way he wants. He harbors dignity, after all. 

“Why are they so significant to her?” he asks when Hannibal steps away to slide the swords into their respective sheaths. 

“They belonged to her relatives. Her family all died in war, and she’s taken to caring for them as if they were her ancestors themselves, in the flesh. She polishes them once a week at their altar.” 

Will pictures her kneeling in front of a katana stand, dragging rough cloth covered in clove oil down the length of the blade. There is care and beauty in her life, traditional and proper. Just the type of person Hannibal would love, and has loved. Will can only say he ever polished a boat motor, already rusted and fragmented from disuse.

“Why would she give them to you?” 

“I’m her only family.” 

“She’s young. It seems rather early to be giving away prized possessions,” Will murmurs, conversationally, as he straps the sword casing around his back. 

Realization seems to cross Hannibal’s face, and he gazes toward the mansion. Something ghostly glosses over his eyes and Will snaps him out of his haze by finding his shoulder with a hand. 

“She trusts you to take care of them, after all this time. That’s saying a lot.” 

Hannibal nods, still appearing vacant, so Will leads them back down the trail to the garden without another word. Hannibal follows at his heels, and doesn’t say a thing until Will begins ascending to their room to shower and turns a separate corner with a quiet murmur. “I will join you in a bit, Will. There is something I must discuss with my aunt.” 

He hands Will his own katana, kissing his forehead quickly before departing. He refused Will ample time to question him, merely vanishing like an apparition down the corridor. 

Disgruntled, Will sighs and finds the shower. 

For hours, Hannibal is absent. 

Will travels down to the kitchen on his own, when no one comes to bring him lunch or even call him down to one. The kitchen is empty, and he makes toast with bread from an expensive looking loaf. He doesn’t run into Chiyoh or anyone else on his way upstairs. 

Loneliness begins to seep in languidly, and though he knows he could find a study or two and settle down with an old book, he does not have the urge to read. Nor does he have the urge to take his isolation quietly. 

He snoops, perhaps overindulgently, throughout every room open to him. 

Searching the three floors he’s already vaguely familiar with, signs of any living person are void. It begins to worry him, that perhaps the whole ‘family’ so to speak abandoned him in the vast halls of the mansion. A road trip of some sorts. 

Desertion. 

One could get lost in this place. 

It crosses his mind someone might want him to. 

Eventually, he stumbles across two big doors on the first floor, detailed extravagantly. It is smooth rosewood, and when Will drags fingerpads along the carved designs, he finds the timber cool to the touch.

They click open with a heavy noise, revealing a stone stairwell steeping downward into darkness, like a cave. Passively, he envisions crossing the threshold of the catacombs nether of the Norman Chapel. 

Patience has worn thin waiting for Hannibal to return, and because at this point he scarcely cares to keep up a charade of polite attitude for Lady Murasaki’s sake, he descends the steps without permission, tensing with nearly every creak. It echoes down the passage, lamplight coming into view the closer he gets to the bottom. 

There, he meets a statue of a samurai head on; it is a legitimate suit dressed on a mannequin unlike the marble sculptures on the porch. He imagines it has been passed down for centuries. 

He passes it, following the lamplights down a mossy cobble corridor. 

It feels as if he’s being led into a dungeon, winding his way through a labyrinth of dimly lit stone halls that look as if they belong in the bowels of a worn down castle. It resembles the cellar of the Lecter estate. He wonders if he’ll pass barred cells with starved souls within their depths.

A soft murmuring of voices bounces off the walls. He pauses, looking down at this path which warps into two avenues. For a moment, he puts himself in the mind of Hannibal and chooses the left path. Sure enough, the voices though whispered, grow louder. 

Firelight burns hotter, and the stone walls fade into a wood paneled antechamber, with sliding doors thrust apart at the entranceway. The floor is oakwood, polished and smoothed down. Paper lanterns hang from the ceiling in jagged asymmetry, like icicles.

He can pick out Hannibal’s voice now, the deeper timbre of it. 

A feminine voice responds, something along the lines of, “ – never collided in the right place, or the right time.”  

Discreetly, Will circles behind a floral grated panel of wall just beyond the doors out of view, positioned as a barrier between what looks to be an altar. Samurai armor of brighter colors stand out vibrant against the earth tones of the room. They are both kneeling on a futon in front of the altar or shrine itself, knees touching knees. The scent in the chamber is overpoweringly clover, filled also with the musky scent of the earth, like rocks after it has rained. Will knows if the scent was not so acute, Hannibal would be able to smell him. 

He doesn’t precisely plan to eavesdrop, but the segment of the conversation he hears sends pins and needles up his spine. His grip against the edge of the panel he’s behind whitens his knuckles. 

“I never stopped thinking about you, and I never will,” she tells him, and he lets her touch his face, his cheeks, smoothing her thumbs down his almost-stubble. 

“Promise me you’ll remember that, if all else fails, Hannibal.” 

Will’s heart rate picks up when she presses her forehead to his. Hannibal looks at peace with himself. He looks like he belongs in her arms. 

He finds himself moving, body wanting to stop whatever has set in motion, the gears of his mind impotent against his actions. He’s half-way into the chamber when Murasaki presses a kiss to Hannibal’s lips. Turning colder than ice, he immediately finds himself paralyzed. 

Rigidly he forces himself to back away and swerve around. They seem to finally notice him. He can hear abrupt movement, rising limbs. Hannibal’s voice speaks his name, but Will is already moving, as if a conveyor belt is pulling him back the way he came. 

Burning rage engulfs him head to toe. It sears his bones. 

Every step he takes feels like wading through flame, but he goes, quickly and efficiently, zigzagging through the caverns to retreat to the basement stairs. Distantly, he can hear the clap of shoes behind him, perhaps his name being called once more, but he’s faster and determined to the point of deafness.

He’s going to kill Hannibal. 

With the precious katanas his aunt passed down to him.

And then he’s going to kill the beautiful Lady Murasaki. 

Before he can blink, he’s back in their room, rummaging like an animal for the discarded katanas, waiting their turn for their next polish. This time, they’ll be polished in blood. Straight through the heart; Hannibal will like the poetry of it. 

In the middle of unsheathing the weapon, Hannibal makes it to their room, panting a bit in his exertion. Will doesn’t turn, icily calm and willing to let him speak and spin lies into gold; tell him that this trip has been anything other than what it actually is. 

The door clicks shut.

He runs a finger over the tip of the katana, the sharpness attractive, momentously so. He pictures it penetrating Hannibal’s flesh. He pictures what noise will come out of his lips, but there's no noise from him now.

The silence sets his teeth on edge.

Hannibal will stand there until Will either kills him or demands he speak, and he knows Will won’t kill him before speaks. That isn’t their game; it never was. 

Turning, his rage blossoms when he sees the façade of disappointment on Hannibal’s face. 

“When you declared a reckoning, you promised your hands. Do not betray yourself by sliding silver-lined barriers between us and our denouement.” 

Will’s heart clambers against his ribcage, and he raises the katana slowly, to a calm man who takes it against the tip of his chin and doesn’t move to flinch away or to press into it. Just remains, as still as a corpse, barely breathing. He should be defending himself, he should be lying. 

“You still love her.” Will’s voice comes out as quivering as it had the first time he declared Hannibal the Chesapeake Ripper, in Abigail’s house, before their true understanding of each other took the reins. Will isn’t in the place of mind to even out his tone, or care to. “She kissed you. You let her.” 

“A parting kiss.” 

Will draws blood, nicking him and keeping the tip of the blade between the folds of skin he’d separated. “Bullshit,” he spits. 

“I do not love her as I did, Will. Not in that way.”

“Don’t lie to me, you –Don’t you dare lie about this, Hannibal, not this.”

Hannibal’s eyes are mellow, staring affection in rays. Will is trembling, blade shaking with it. He holds it as steady as he can manage, every response in him screaming to sink it in. 

“She is family,” Hannibal tells him. “You are family, but you are also my equal. You are far more than she ever was or ever will be. Do you truly wish to believe that I have wanted my aunt all this time, an aunt I deemed dead, an aunt I loved foolishly as a boy who had never known love? That she would be the one I choose over you and that the choice genuinely exists?”

A vicious noise is ripped from Will’s throat and he surges in, pressing the flat end of the blade against Hannibal’s jugular, knocking him harder into the closed door. Fruitlessly, Hannibal attempts to swallow against the cruel pressure.

The urge to kill is quickly slipping away, replaced by something terrible and unwanted. Will is petrified of the feeling, but it’s curling up his limbs like vines, poisoning him with vulnerability.

“If I wanted her dead, would you kill her?” 

Without hesitation, Hannibal declares, “In a heartbeat.” 

Will falters, grip loosening on the blade. His left hand is fisting so fiercely around the sharp edge, he’s bleeding over his palm. It drips onto the rug. Stupor distracts from the pain

“Say the word,” Hannibal whispers, arching his head back so his neck is lewdly on display. Verging on hyperventilation, Will drops the katana, wanting to collapse to the floor with it. 

Hannibal doesn’t allow the opportunity, scooping his bleeding hand up and sucking down what leaks, making Will gasp and twitch and helplessly hold it up to his mouth, closing his eyes against the onslaught of sensation. There is a noise of satisfaction when Hannibal eases off. 

Will opens his eyes just as his face is grasped and dragged in for a searing kiss. Teeth click together, and Will knows then, there is nothing in this kiss he would give to Murasaki. Not an ounce. He can taste his own blood, and moans as he sinks backwards with the force of Hannibal’s passion. The katana is forgotten as they maneuver mindlessly to the mattress. 

Air is punched from him when Hannibal tosses him indelicately onto the comforter. Will shimmies back on his elbows until his legs aren’t hanging off the side and gapes as Hannibal begins unbuttoning his own shirt, ripping the belt from his pants like it offends him, and slips off the garments one by one. When Hannibal gets around to his briefs, the gears in Will’s brain finally start moving and he frantically attacks his own pants, belt, and fly. 

Hannibal is staring at him like a beast, fully naked and hairy chest proudly on display. Will startles when the bed dips and he crawls stealthily forward until he’s over him. He swats Will’s hands away from his pants and tugs them down his legs, boxers flying off with the motion. 

Will makes an indiscernible pleading noise in the back of his throat when Hannibal runs both of his calloused palms up his thighs, stopping when his knuckles meet the fabric of his shirt. 

Suddenly, Will’s jaw is being gripped to the point of pain and he whimpers for another reason, left inert under Hannibal’s brute strength and aura. 

Legs are straddling him punishingly. 

“I did not pursue you, give my life for you, want you for as many years as I have felt alive, to have you doubt the sincerity of my devotion to you, and what you are to me.” 

Will shudders with the truth of it, abruptly aware of the erection Hannibal’s thighs are crushing. He lets out something akin to a moan and Hannibal’s grip on his face tightens. 

“Tell me you understand.” 

“I understand.” Will’s voice is breathy, shattered. Raising his hands up to touch Hannibal’s bruising fingers softly and then trailing his lips, he rasps out, “I couldn't bear to see anyone touch you like that.” 

Hannibal’s hand loosens and curves around his nape, grasping a handful of hair taut. Pupils dilate in both their eyes before he locks their mouths together, sucking harshly on Will’s upper lip. Will groans into the kiss, succumbing to the urge to explore his scarred back. 

After a minute of passionate, senseless kissing, it truly hits Will.

Hannibal is naked, in his lap.

Will’s cock is rocking responsively against the back of his thighs, smearing pre-come all over his crease. There’s heat, filling him, scorching his inner thighs and tightening his sack with its intensity. Hannibal isn’t stopping his kiss, as if incensed to pull every bit of arousal from the marrow in his very bones and set it aflame with his tongue, nip at it until it swells. Needless to say, he’s forgotten all about Lady Murasaki. 

When they break for air, Hannibal gives him only a few seconds of reprieve before he’s propping himself up on one arm, towering above Will, and sliding three of his fingers into his mouth. 

Will grunts in shock, but sucks, as is his first instinct. 

Hannibal seems to approve, nearly gagging him with the digits, thrusting over the surface of his tongue, expression melting a bit every time Will’s tongue slips into the crevices between. 

“Wetter,” Hannibal murmurs, and Will feels foolish and aroused all at once as he meets his eyes and slobbers all over his fingers, throat working hard to produce what the man desires. 

After what seems like ages, Hannibal rips his fingers from Will’s mouth, teeth scraping along the pads in their descent. He’s reaching behind himself one moment, and distracting Will with another kiss in the next. Will is obliviously satisfied to caress their tongues together, kiss open-mouthed and panting. He doesn’t realize Hannibal’s intentions until the man sits up fully and spits in his hand, reaching back to coat Will’s cock. 

Will clenches all over, hands floundering for purchase on his hips as the pleasure of Hannibal’s stroking, spit-slick hand, runs through him like a quick-acting drug.

Revelation falls over Will.

Oh. Oh god. 

“Hannibal–” he warns, meaning to say ‘no’ or tell him to stop. He’ll hurt himself, cause irreparable tears. It isn’t worth an in-the-moment decision to– “Fuck!”  

Hannibal’s heat sinks down on him, inner walls squeezing Will’s cock from the head to the base so intensely he feels faint. God help him, Hannibal appears unbothered by the intrusion, though Will can’t imagine stretching himself for only a minute or two with saliva eased the way. Hannibal rolls his hips back and forth until they are flush with Will’s pelvis, and then surges forward again, a manic grin spreading on his face as he pins Will’s wrists above his head. 

“Jesus, fucking–” Will groans, squirming as the angle shifts him inside, squeezing his eyes shut and flicking them back open as if he expects this to be some fantastical dream. 

Hannibal is still there, looking for all intensive purposes, hungry. 

Helpless beneath him, Will meets his eyes with lust, fear, concern, and a handful of other emotions he doesn’t have the mentality to sort through right now. 

“Is this what you wanted, Will?” he questions, voice husky. “When you asked me to touch you? When you held the knife to my throat and demanded I prove my devotion to you?” 

Will eyes shut again as Hannibal starts to move in earnest, instead of continuing the rocking, adjusting motions. Skin slaps together obscenely as moans start to fall from Will’s lips. 

“It’s better, god, Hannibal, I didn’t think.”

Hannibal’s hands tighten on his wrists and he gasps, craning his head back and arching into the rapturous thrusts of Hannibal’s hips. If he opens his eyes and looks, he’ll be done in seconds. 

The friction is devilishly good, dry enough to feel every drag, slick enough that there’s no pain. Hannibal picks up the pace with those monstrously versatile thighs, breath coming in short when he angles his hips to get Will deeper.

“I–I can’t Hannibal, I’ll– god, you’re so tight.” 

“Let go, darling.” Hannibal’s voice has become velvet-soft with affection, and when Will opens his eyes, he finds him watching with a marvelled gaze, averting his own when Will meets it. 

He's magnificent, torso stretched gorgeously, head hanging low as he rides. There is blood on his chin from where Will nicked him last. He’s Will's and Will's alone.

He's close, so close, but Will pushes against Hannibal’s grip on his forearms until he releases them, then clutches his sides to roll his cock up into that warm passage, smiling a bit when the expression on Hannibal’s face cracks. He pistons up, searching for the spot that makes him wilt like a flower. One pointed thrust sends out a strangled moan from behind gritted teeth. 

The way they do this is like speaking a language. 

Push and pull, and somehow they both automatically acclimate to it. 

It feels slicker, the harder Hannibal rides him, and he can imagine how copiously he’s leaking inside, eyes slipping closed of their own volition, pleasure sailing high. His climax tears through him unexpectedly and his eyes burst open in time to watch Hannibal fold in on himself, an arm between his legs, tucking his face into the crook of Will's neck and coming undone, body pulsating as their orgasms intersect. 

Wetness bursts and spreads, accumulating between them. 

Sex fills the room with its flagrant scent. 

It couldn’t be more perfect. 

With a loosened tongue, words rush out of Will, “That was so goddamn good.” He rolls them until they’re on their sides, still rocking his half-hard cock into Hannibal as they come down from aftershocks. He kisses his pliant lips and the place where he'd cut him with the katana, palms at the meat of his thigh until it’s hooked around his own waist, holding him close. 

Hannibal kisses him back, weakly and lovingly. Wrung out in a way Will’s never seen. 

“Dear boy, I wish you knew how beautiful you are.” 

He sounds ruined. 

Will pulls back, meets his watery gaze and exhales, nudging his forehead against Hannibal’s lips. They collide with the scar there, and kiss. 

“I’ll try to understand the way you see me,” Will murmurs, cock finally slipping out and pressing sticky into the dip of Hannibal’s pelvis. “If you try to understand that my…volatility does not equate to doubting what we share, what we are to one another.” 

“A fair exchange,” Hannibal agrees, moments later. 

Will’s shirt feels sticky and uncomfortably tight, so he tugs it off, probably breaking a few buttons in the process. It’s tossed carelessly off the side of the bed before he huddles closer to Hannibal and allows himself to be wrapped up in bare limbs and sweat-sheen skin. 

Hannibal smells good, like spices and wealth. Fancy stale aftershave.

“I do not want to incense you further, however, I do wish to make this clear.” 

“Oh boy,” Will mutters into his sternum. 

“It was a parting kiss, perhaps not as chaste as Europeans dole out in farewells, but one to seal the end of an era. She is dying, in a few years time.” 

Will goes still, fully perceiving the entire picture. 

“I made the connection when you told me earlier that it was strange she was gifting me her katanas at this point in her life, when she is still so young.” Hannibal continues, “We had been discussing her life, and our mutual trespasses. What could have become, and what hadn’t. She finds comfort in the ifs and whens. I cannot say I share her enthusiasm on those matters, though I believed she deserved a proper conversation, with truthful answers to her age-old questions.” 

“I couldn’t see beyond this red veil, when I saw you with her,” Will explains quietly, mortified at his own thoughtless celerity. “It blinded me. I was going to kill you.” 

“I will never evade death until it is your hands that move to kill.” 

Will looks up, a question in his eyes, and Hannibal smiles.

“You could never manage my murder unless it was by your hand, and your hand alone. The fatal touch of a blade, or a bullet, would haunt you for the rest of time.” 

“Will you ever stop knowing me so well that I’ll be able to think beyond the forts of our minds alone?” Will asks, eyes fluttering when he shifts and hears Hannibal’s heartbeat. 

“Doubtful.” 

With a grin, he hugs Hannibal around the waist. “Hmm, you’re going to be sore,” he croons, buoyantly. No outsider would assume he was homicidal mere minutes prior. “Was it worth it?” 

“Quite worth it. As you know, I do not experience pain like–”

“We’re using lube next time, so don’t even try.” 

He can feel Hannibal’s smile in his hair at the words ‘next time’ and then thick biceps cage his face, wrapping around until he feels suffocatingly warm. This is much better than murdering Hannibal. Not that he’d admit it out loud to himself or to the man in his arms. 

“We’re departing tomorrow night. I do not believe our extended stay would prove beneficial for either of us, or for my aunt,” Hannibal murmurs after some time. He rubs circles over Will’s spine. 

“Don’t leave because of me.”

“I decided this hours before you interrupted our conversation, Will.” Hannibal caresses his fingers over one of his ass cheeks, squeezing to feel the give, and to appreciate Will’s bemused expression. “I’ve sketched this part of you often.”

“I’m aware,” Will grumbles, yelping when Hannibal grips his bottom with both hands and turns them so Will is sitting directly in his lap, groins pressing together. When he gropes again and drags probing fingers sensually up his sides, Will shakes his head and chokes out words;

“I’ll get hard again, don’t.” 

“Are you that pent up?” Bolts of shock rush through his nervous system when he ghosts a finger over Will’s spent cock. Will grabs his hands to stall them. 

“Whose fault is that?” 

Hannibal makes a sound like a purr and leans forward to kiss Will’s stomach, his chest, licking his own release from where it’s dried on his skin. Will shivers and tenses when Hannibal mouths the lobe of his ear and whispers, “When we are in the company of one another alone, I will teach you bodily pleasures that will tear unbridled screams from your throat.” 

“Christ, Hannibal.” 

He’s so screwed; Hannibal is going to send him to an early grave. 

Will kisses him, hands gripping tight to his shoulders, and then one moving to angle his face in the manner he wants, because he accepted this reality a long time ago and if death feels this damn good, he’ll be the first to sign up. Over and over again. 

Will spends breakfast with Chiyoh and Hannibal in the kitchen, or what Will has come to realize is one of the kitchens. With the amount of waiters at dinner, he expects there is something akin to a restaurant-style cookery in either the basement or another secluded section of the mansion. 

He’s grateful he doesn’t have to face Lady Murasaki head on after last night, at least not this early in the morning, but he does wonder on her absence. 

Chiyoh notices his antsy ticks before Hannibal does. 

“The Lady is attending to business this morning.”

“Personal business or financial business?” Will asks, genuinely curious. Chiyoh seems to consider this too candid of a question because she continues eating quietly, ignoring. 

“My aunt has been overlooking my uncle’s investments since his death,” Hannibal explains in substitution, cutting a piece of egg and toast from his plate to lift to his lips. 

Will nods, blankly eating the rest of his own breakfast. 

Chiyoh vanishes after they’ve finished, and Hannibal encourages Will to follow him to one of the mansion’s studies, rife with book collections they’d never be able to collect themselves, constantly on the run the way that they are. In their old age, he imagines they’ll own a library, when the world forgets to fear their names, and he and Hannibal will have only domesticity left in their ever-fluctuating equation. 

An hour into Hannibal fiddling with one of the estate’s grand pianos and Will chapters deep into pious tragedy, Murasaki appears like a specter in the archway to the study, Chiyoh in tow. 

She is gorgeous as always, in a black flowing robe with a multi-colored floral design on the sleeves. The shade matches her hair, and she is distinctively ethereal as she moves closer. 

Gracelessly, Will shoves the book he’d been reading back on its shelf. 

“Good morning, gentlemen. I have a request, should you wish to grant it.”

He slips his hands into his pockets, nodding vaguely without meeting her eyes. Hannibal stands, arms behind his back as he crosses the room to stand beside him. 

For the first time, Will wonders how they look as a pair. 

“Hannibal, I need you to run an errand for me in Tokyo.” Will frowns, knowing the city is far from where they are located. “I am leaving Chiyoh with instructions, but I’m afraid the trip is too arduous for any of my housekeepers.” She turns to Will. “I would greatly appreciate it if you were to stay and help me with my boat, Will. It’s been acting up this past year.” 

He stiffens, holding back the comment, Then why did you use it to send for us? and merely nods with mediation. She wants the two of them separated, that much is certain. 

Hannibal doesn’t appear to expect this, looking fractionally concerned as Chiyoh coaxes him away from Will and out of the study. Apprehensively, Will watches him go, exchanging one last frantic glance before he disappears down the hall. The room suddenly feels thick with tension. 

“I’m afraid I just told a lie,” Murasaki confesses softly, and Will isn’t sure whether her remorseful tone is coming from a genuine place or not. “The boat is faring quite well.” 

Will’s throat feels tight, as he moves distractedly around the back of the couch, but the Lady doesn’t follow him, nor does she look to have any malicious intent within her eyes. 

“Am I supposed to guess at what’s going on?” 

She smiles with a sigh, and gestures towards the couch. 

“Please, sit down.”

Hesitantly, he does, and looks away when she sits down beside him, posture straight and far calmer than his own stance. The clock ticks louder with each quiet second that passes. 

“I do have an errand in Tokyo that needs attending. However, I could have easily ordered one of my butlers to run it. I wanted time for you and I to talk.” 

Will turns to her, brow creased with confusion. 

“Why?” 

“I am leaving a sour impression upon you. I do not wish for you to think ill of me, and after last night I wanted to personally apologize for causing you unneeded distress. It was not my intention, and it was never and will never be my intention to take Hannibal from you.” 

Will’s nostrils flare with agitation. It’s as if he’s being spoken to like a child. 

Though, some part of him feels thankful to her. There is an assumption that Hannibal is his to own and possess, and the more he thinks on it, the more he agrees.

“Our, uh, relationship has always had its ups and downs. It’s not directly because of anything you did,” Will explains to her, offering a placating smile. 

“I care very deeply for Hannibal, Will,” she says, looking over the head rests of the couch to the garden outside. “A long time ago, I cared for him in part because he reminded me of my late husband. None of those feelings remain, and even if they did, I know his heart belongs to another.”

Will doesn’t respond, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. 

She places a palm over his right fist and like magic, the rivulets of anxiety spiking through him begin to dwindle. Her presence is a calming force, and with her touch, he can feel her sincerity, tangible and real. His empathy reaches in long pulls and finds only purity. Kindness. It astounds him that Hannibal could have ever lived under the roof of someone so delicately gentle and opposite of him.

He meets her eyes and finds his animosity lacking. 

“I was watching you, the day you trained with him. I have never seen him look as happy as he does when you are by his side.” She laughs, incredulous, “Even before his sister’s death, in pictures. I don’t know what is inside you, Will, that you have managed to ease the ache of his tortured soul, but you have made me rethink a sentiment I’ve long believed to be true.”

There is nothing left in you to love. 

“I wouldn’t call him tortured, he manages to torture other people’s souls just fine,” Will jokes, deflecting from the generous declaration. 

Murasaki laughs again, and lifts her hand to his hair. Her nails are soft and blunt against his skin when she finds a curl and coils it around a finger, seconds later letting it loose. 

“I knew you would come here. I’ve been following the news since Hannibal’s name became prominent, and yours was on every page, in every source. Where he went, you followed, and vice versa. I never believed he could change, but he has. I am grateful to you, Will.” 

Will’s eyes burn a little and he blinks the sensation away rapidly, folding his hands over his lap. Sheepishness isn’t precisely what he’s feeling, but it’s close. 

“He changed me too,” he admits, without venom.

“I don’t doubt it.” 

He wonders what she thought of the victims in the papers, if her thoughts changed when she began to see the two of them working together to wreak havoc across the globe, instead of just Hannibal. As if she can read his mind, she responds tenderly. 

“You will not receive judgement from me. I am not your maker, or Hannibal’s, nor do I expect you to heed advice from a woman comparable to an in-law. And at this point in my life, I have grown weary of damning those I do not fully understand.” 

Will frowns, knowing this is leading to something more.

“I do not wish to ask more of you than I already have, but I am asking you to keep a secret from Hannibal. You may tell me now if you are not willing to hear it.” 

The situation is tricky, very tricky. Hannibal does not take kindly to secrets or surprises, despite keeping several under the cuffs of his own sleeve so often. 

Will’s curiosity is also a brutal thing to withstand.

“I’m handy at evading the truth,” he replies, in accordance. 

“I informed Hannibal I was sick, that much was true. However, I have only a few months left, not the years I promised him. I fear if he knew the date was so soon, he would feel obligated to spend my last waking days by my side. It is not what I want, and it is not what he deserves.” 

Will would say Hannibal deserves very little of Murasaki’s gratitude, but he knows how strong the tug of the ties of his own love are. He nods somberly, bereft all of a sudden at the loss of a woman who he’d been suspicious of for days. 

He can see the impressions now, of why Hannibal must have cared for such a woman. Her outer beauty reflects her internal. She is far more mature and knowledgeable about predicaments that surround her than he first anticipated. Doting like a mother, and Will thinks, perhaps this is what having a mother is like. Feeling safe in a wiser woman’s familiar grasp. 

Will sighs, emotions crashing waves through him. 

“I think it’ll hurt him, if he finds out from me or from someone else.”

“If he finds out about when I die, it can easily be explained as a fluke, a cruel act of nature. And it is, in a way. Though I do not believe the news will reach him for quite some time.” 

“I feel like I’ve made a fool of myself, the past couple days,” Will mutters, lifting his hands from Murasaki’s touch and running them over his face, blinking away a layer of fog. “Are you sure I’m the right person to trust with this?” 

“Though I do not know you well, I know Hannibal dearly enough to know you are far less abrasive than you come across. You will respect my wish, because you respect Hannibal.” 

“Respect is a strong word,” Will laughs and she grins back. 

“Tolerance, then?” she tries. 

“Oh, not the ‘T’ word. He can’t stand that one.” 

“Some things never change.” 

Will imagines what a teenage Hannibal must have acted like. Immaturity, still very much prevalent in his adult self now and again. Resentment towards anything not beautiful. 

“Tell me about him,” Will implores, eager now not to leave this couch in the very least for a few hours. “When you met him, what was he like?” 

“Mute,” she admits. “Straight out of the orphanage, he came to us abused and apparently hadn’t spoken for years. Perhaps since Mischa’s death, though I never heard an exact estimate.” 

Will perks up at Mischa’s name. He’d never been able to hear the full story, only fragments scattered throughout their conversation, some vague enough to force Will into crafting assumptions. It feels repelling to ask about Mischa and her demise, so he doesn’t. That is Hannibal’s story to tell. However, Murasaki is in possession of quite a few stories of her own that will be intriguing to his ever-curious ear. He smirks, settling back against the couch cushions with intent. 

“How’d you get him to speak?” 

Murasaki brightens at the continued line of questioning, apparently at ease and ecstatic at being able to settle the dissonance between her and Hannibal’s new partner. She begins explaining Hannibal’s first day in their home, his hilariously stilted awkwardness, and her own. 

Will listens thoroughly, filing away the new information into the profile he still has of Hannibal stashed deep in his mind. It feels satiating to listen, like he’s being fed. 

He doesn’t realize hours pass, the sun moving in the sky as they speak and ask each other questions, sharing stories neither knew before today. Will gets along with her famously, which surprises him in some respects, but is sorely unsurprising in others. 

Butlers and housemaids flit by the room, dipping in to ask if the Lady is satisfied sitting here idly without any aid or refreshments. She raises her voice the fourth time it happens. 

Will watches amused as the butler scurries away. 

By the end of their conversation, Will is turned entirely to face her, criss-crossed on the couch. His jacket has been shed atop the ottomon, all the laughing having made him sweat. 

She checks the time and sighs, “Oh dear, they’ll be back soon.”

“Oh,” Will mutters, disappointed. The realization they’ll be leaving tonight sinks in.

“I have one more thing to share with you,” she says mischievously, rising to search the bookshelves lining one of the goliath-tall walls of the study. She pulls out a large book, or rather, an album covered in dust and old markings. 

“He may kill me,” she muses, unbothered. “Well, anyway.” 

Will bites his tongue about how he almost had her killed yesterday; what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. 

She plops the book down on Will’s lap, and he cocks a brow in her direction before opening it to the first page. There are pictures of a newborn baby swaddled in a lacy, embroidered blanket. She sits back down, folding the robe under her hips before pointing out the first picture. 

It is of the baby in a hand-carved crib. 

Will has spent enough time woodworking to know when something is hand-made. 

“Hannibal’s third day on this earth,” she provides, finger trailing down to the fourth picture containing two adults holding him. “His parents.”

Will gleams, and though it is near impossible to recognize facial features in a newborn, he swears he can see the resemblance. The eyes are the exact same as they’ve always been, even in innocence there is something dark there, something other. 

Hannibal’s father looks less like Hannibal than his uncle. His mother is gorgeous, high cheekbones and dark hair and demeanor. He knows where he gets it. 

They flip the page together, and Will snorts.

There is a picture of Hannibal as a toddler, much more recognizable now, with nothing other than a bowl cut. He’s sitting in a wooden bathtub with a large tooth gap. Will’s heart strains. 

“You’re right, he’s going to kill you.” 

Murasaki chuckles, pointing out the picture of his uncle holding Hannibal up above him with both hands. Will has never seen that much unharnessed joy on Hannibal’s face. 

Perhaps he’s been hiding his smiles, the one Murasaki claimed to see from the window. Soon after this, he’s going to have to find a way to drag them out into plain view, mercilessly. 

“When he came to us from the orphanage, he had no memory of Robertas. He just knew his uncle was his last resort until he found his footing.” 

“He never expected you,” Will murmurs. His uncle’s residence was a pit stop, a place to rest before finding the men who killed Mischa. He never expected this obstacle of all things. 

“I merely slowed down the inevitable,” she replies, quietly. 

Will gazes at the picture of him being held by his uncle, and turns to Murasaki seriously. “Do you ever wish he hadn’t stepped into your life, after everything?”

A knowing veil falls over her eyes. “Do you?” 

Will scoffs, shaking his head down at the album. 

“The lives he’s destroyed, changed for the worse. The violence he’s coveted and the innocents he’s slaughtered, and somehow, I feel relief, that he found me and I found him.” 

Murasaki touches his cheek, and Will closes his eyes, lips forming into a tight line as he holds back from shattering to pieces. 

“Above all else,” she affirms, “Even stronger than violence, even stronger than death, when we find the one that understands us, and who we understand in return, we must cherish them.” 

Yes, this is what family feels like. 

Echoes of Abigail and visions of Florence flicker through his mind, and he lets them pass, knowing Hannibal can be family for him, and wherever they go can be home. It is strange his aunt has made him come to understand that, but somehow, he wouldn’t want it any other way. 

They hop through memories together, Murasaki showing him pictures of Mischa, and Will having a revelation upon seeing her, of why exactly Hannibal felt so protective. A docile and delicate flower of a girl, blonde as a wheatfield, and dressed in the outfits of a doll. 

Fragile. 

It feels odd looking at pictures of her without Hannibal, so he focuses on the embarrassing ones of him as a child instead.  

Will and Murasaki have quite a few laughs; they are so wrapped up in humiliating Hannibal they don’t notice him standing in the archway fifteen minutes later, steam practically spewing from his ears until Will looks up and slams the album shut with a strangled noise. 

Murasaki gasps, snatches the book and places it behind her back, as if that hides what they were up to. Will can’t help but to bite his lip and choke off the laugh that threatens to spill out. 

“You’re back early!” Will greets, with a coy grin. 

“Did the errand go smoothly?” Murasaki asks, definitely sounding suspicious. Will has no idea why he found her insincere before when she can’t disguise misbehaviour for the life of her. 

Hannibal is looking less murderous than Will expected, but his eyes are still sharp, staring at the place between them on the couch where the album sticks out blatantly. 

“Have you been in this room all day?” he asks coolly. 

“We did, um,” he and Murasaki exchange frenetic glances, “leave for lunch?” 

She agrees on the lie instantly. “Yes!” 

Hannibal crosses his arms behind his back, and Will fully takes in how disheveled he looks. Ridiculously handsome comes to mind first, and then he comprehends he must have been in a rush to get home and save Will from the extremities of social interaction. Little did he know Will was enjoying himself, immensely, and at his detrimental expense. 

“You’ve been getting along,” Hannibal notes with a hint of underlying bitterness. 

“Better than not getting along,” Will proclaims (tauntingly) and Hannibal very nearly rolls his eyes. He’ll work on that. 

“And the boat?” Hannibal questions, glancing between them.

Will is confused before he remembers he was supposed to be fixing the boat for Lady Murasaki. He feels her elbow him a bit and a smile cracks through the expression he’s trying desperately to school. Hannibal’s bafflement is bone-wrenchingly hilarious. 

“I fixed it right up. Took me no time at all.” 

Hannibal levels him with a glare. “I see,” he mutters. 

Murasaki pats Will’s shoulder. “Well, I’ll see to my floundering attendants so they don’t end up serving us something absurd for dinner, but the book is yours to keep. Keep it safe, and do whatever you please with it.” She whispers, quieter, “It needs a good dusting.” 

When she passes Hannibal at the archway, she touches his shoulder too and gently commands, “I’ll see you both for dinner.” 

He bows his head agreeably, and then she’s gone. 

Will is alone in the lion’s den, with slabs of steak tied to every limb. Hannibal towers above him and he feels as if he shrinks into the cushions with each step the older man takes. 

“What is it my aunt gifted you, Will?” 

“There’s no end to this situation where I’m able to leave this room without you seeing what’s inside this book, is there?” 

“No.” 

“Thought so,” Will grumbles, tossing Hannibal the photo album. Hannibal opens to the second page and after a few moments of consideration, slams the book shut with menace. Will’s lips twitch up and he adds, “Personally, I thought the bowl cut suited you.”

Hannibal’s eyes dart over the room, and Will can tell, searching for a fireplace. 

“There’s pictures of your sister in there, Hannibal,” Will warns, sitting up to cup one of his elbows. “Let’s not go burning your history to ashes for her sake, alright?” 

Hannibal blinks and looks back down at the closed album, stroking a thumb over the binding. As if he had no clue such a thing existed, that photographs of his sister were ever taken and stored. 

Will absently strokes at his arm until Hannibal whispers;

“What did you and my aunt speak about?” 

“You, but nothing I knew you would want to tell me yourself. She assured me that she would not attempt to take you from me, and that she does not have reason to." Will feels stuffy when he adds, "In fact, she seems to approve of me.” 

Hannibal smiles a bit and then places the album down upon the coffee table before kneeling between Will’s legs, and placing a kiss on the inner portion of his knee. 

Will inhales, dragging a hand through his hair and sighs when Hannibal rests his cheek against his leg, as mellow as a domesticated animal. Will could get used to his vulnerability. 

“I toyed with the idea I would come back to find her dead,” Hannibal murmurs, nuzzling into Will’s stroking hand. 

“Did you care?” 

He hums, and opens his eyes. There is brutality there, and warmth. 

“No. I found comfort in that fact.” 

Not to be shackled to the reality of caring for another, to be unbothered still by the death of anyone who is not Will. Of course he found comfort in it. 

“Hannibal,” Will whispers and Hannibal turns his face up at him directly, eyes sparkling in the sunshine from the window. His palms rest gently on Will’s legs. 

Will lets go of a shaky sigh and tells him, “You’re my family.” 

Hannibal looks like he was just struck. 

Eyelids droop, and he grasps for one of Will’s hands, bestowing an ardent kiss to his palm, and allows his lips to linger until the urge to breathe becomes vital. 

Lady Murasaki sees them off at the dock. 

She’s wearing a long sweater wrap over a thin nightgown, hugging it tight across her bosom to fight off the chill of the night air. They are helping Chiyoh load their luggage into their cabin, along with the katana collection and photo album. 

Meeting one last time on deck, she circles them both in a hug, and then individually. She presses a kiss to Hannibal’s cheek and then Will’s with a whispered, “Watch over him for me after I’m gone.” 

Will nods, sullen when she retreats to the dock. 

A cold, destitute feeling takes hold when he pictures her dead. 

The engine revs and both Will and Hannibal move to the edge of the boat, gripping the railing simultaneously. Lady Murasaki waves to them as it begins to move. 

“The water flows, my dears!” she calls, grinning wide as they cascade out onto the sea. 

Will waves back and Hannibal watches her vanish further into the foggy distance with a fond smile that slowly begins to fade. Soon enough all that is visible to them is the ocean water, rippling and crashing along the barnacle-ridden sides of the boat. 

Slipping his arm through Hannibal’s, Will burrows into his shoulder. 

The waves lull him into a sense of calm, despite the sorrow that lingers. 

“Did she tell you?” Hannibal asks after some respectable silence. 

“Tell me what?” Will mumbles. 

“That she’s dying in months.” 

Will tenses, turning his cheek until he’s looking out on the vast blackness of the sea. For a moment, he weighs the pros and cons of telling Hannibal the truth, and then decides they’re far enough away from shore to risk it. 

“Yes.” 

“I could smell death as if its hand imprinted upon her shoulder,” Hannibal whispers, eyes glistening. “When I knew what to look for, I could sniff out the traces of her expiration. I had a feeling she might tell you.” 

“Intuition?” 

“She has a habit of keeping information from me for my own well being. While it is endearing in many ways, she must know by now I do not need such protection.”

“She can’t help it, Hannibal. You’re her only family left.”

“As are you and Chiyoh, of course.” 

Chiyoh won’t be pleased she’s been lumped into the same familial category as Will, but he supposes not all family gets along like peaches and cream. That’s the fun of it. 

Hannibal leans down to kiss him and he parts his lips easily, no longer experiencing the urge to look over his shoulder and check for signs of watchful eyes. 

They kiss until their lips are warm against the whipping winds of the starry night. Will sinks into his touch, and laps at his bottom lip, nipping the smile that tugs at Hannibal’s lips when he does.

“You’re going to continue my training at home,” Will tells him, darkness brewing in his heart as he pictures the purple handle of his katana, “And eventually I’m going to put you on your knees.” 

“You don’t need a sword to encourage that,” Hannibal whispers, kissing him gently in short, chaste touches. Will rubs a thumb over the scar on his cheekbone, and grins. 

“I’ll hold you to it.”