Chapter Text
The faucet dripped, antagonising every one of Will’s last frayed nerves. He closed his eyes, stretching his neck back and exhaling loudly. Will gripped the side of the bathroom countertop a little tighter as he heard his client make an ungodly loud snort as he bent over the small, neatly wracked up line on the little pocket mirror set on the side. His client wrenched backwards, jaw clenching and tipping his own head back as he stood up straight. He blinked rapidly, scrunching his nose and wiping at it with the back of his hand.
“Here,” he murmured softly, scooping a tiny metal spoon-like device into the neat little box of white powder he’d fished out of his suit pocket.
He held the loaded metal device aloft to Will’s face, eyes wide, blown and expectant. Will fixed his face into a smile immediately, demurely wrapping his long, pale fingers around his client’s hand that held the spoon out as he shifted forwards carefully. He inhaled deeply, the sensation of the cocaine rushing up his right nostril overwhelming to his already over-stimulated mind. It wouldn’t kick in just yet, but the apprehension and how on edge Will already was was enough to make his palms sweat and his pulse race.
A soft chuckle; “Good boy.”
Will righted himself, letting go of his client’s hand and smiling widely at him. “Shall we go back?”
His client - a Mr. Christian Naylor, wealthy CEO of some company or other that Will had long forgotten the name of - gave him a hungry look. He was in his late fifties, just a little taller than Will and attractive enough for Will to find him bearable enough on top of his smarmy personality.
“I’m starting to wonder whether I want to go back at all,” Christian smiled darkly, his gaze lingering on Will’s lips. “I have half a mind to take you into one of the stalls right now and have you on your knees.”
Will stopped himself from rolling his eyes, instead smiling wider and stepping closer to him until their chests and groins were flush. “Don’t you want to save that for when we get back to your hotel room? We still have all night ahead of us.”
Christian’s fingers gripped the point of Will’s chin, holding his gaze. Will didn’t look away, refusing to back down from his stare despite every fibre of his being screaming at him to do so.
“My mistake, my dear. I forgot boys like you aren’t just for brief encounters in bathroom cubicles,” Christian chuckled, his spare hand roaming up the back of Will’s neck to thread his fingers through his curls.
If only you knew, Will thought to himself grimly. Instead, he pressed his hips even more firmly against Christian’s. “The wait is worth it, I promise.”
A slight grind of his hips against the older man’s, and then Will stepped free of his hold and headed to the door, glancing over his shoulder at Christian teasingly on his way. “Let’s go. The auction is starting soon, Mr. Naylor.”
Christian righted his tie and followed Will out of the bathroom. Will took a deep breath as he felt the cocaine start to kick in and put his best smile on.
“You must tell us more of your time in Paris as a young man, Hannibal.”
Hannibal raised his champagne to his lips, slowly sipping and smiling at his crowd of acquaintances that were hanging on to his every word. Americans really were so easily enthralled by tales of Europe, Hannibal mused to himself.
“Perhaps later Veronica,” Hannibal suggested, straightening his posture a little. “I do believe the auction is due to start very soon.”
She clucked her tongue at him but smiled, laying an overly jewel encrusted and overfamiliar hand on his bicep. “So modest. Fine, let’s take our seats. This is what we’ve all come here for tonight, after all.”
Not all of us , Hannibal corrected her mentally.
Hannibal took his seat at the table, admiring the calligraphy of how his name had been hand written out for his seat placement. Glancing around the room, Hannibal pondered who would be the first to start making ridiculous bids and forget the purpose of this evening’s charity fundraiser, all intents of helping the less fortunate forgotten in the wake of posturing who had the most money to throw away.
It amused Hannibal to no end.
A hush settled across the room as the lights dimmed slightly in the large dining room of the Sagamore Pendry hotel that had been decorated and converted for tonight’s Winter themed fundraiser ball, hosted by Baltimore’s bored senseless socialite housewives. Said housewives were currently fluttering about on the stage, smoothing down their dresses and adjusting their hair as what looked like their elected leader stepped towards the podium, her thousands of dollars worth of veneers blinding in the spotlight.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began breathily, breasts heaving in her too-tight dress, her Botox looking fresh and rigid, “welcome to our third annual Winter fundraiser for Sisters of Mary World Villages, a charity that so many of us hold dear to our hearts…”
Hannibal had already zoned out - his attention had been captured by something else entirely.
The tall, mahogany doors at the back of the room leading to the hallway to the rest rooms were swinging in their frame as two men appeared, walking closely together. The first was older, roughly around Hannibal’s age. He was olive skinned, his still full head of hair slicked back in a similar fashion to Hannibal’s own, except his was jet black, streaked with grey at the temples. His suit was tailor made by the look of it, everything from his cufflinks to his watch oozing an extortionate price tag. He was a handsome man, deep set brown eyes and a strong jaw, still in good physical shape too.
What Hannibal was really interested in though, was the young man trailing behind him.
He was a little shorter than his companion and clearly much younger. Hannibal didn’t think he could be much older than his mid twenties. His own suit was well fit, not quite as expensive looking as his companion’s, but pricey enough to blend in with the kind of folk that was present at the fundraiser. His face was clean shaven, his jaw and the column of his neck looking as though it were chiselled from marble in the dimmed lighting. A breathing, living Bernini before Hannibal’s very own eyes. His hair was a halo of dark curls, framing his pale face perfectly. Hannibal gazed upon his prominent cheekbones, his startling blue eyes, long lashes fanning around them.
He was magnificent to behold.
Magnificent, and so incredibly rude for stumbling into the room when the auction was beginning. The longer Hannibal watched the pair, the more he saw.
The older man was clearly intoxicated in more ways than one, his jaw twitching and swinging between sips of his champagne as the pair took their allocated seats, two tables over from Hannibal. Hannibal could just about make out how wide both of their pupils were, irises giving way to black. The younger man seemed somewhat jittery, fidgeting in his chair, and what became even more apparently obvious was that they were not just companions. Hannibal had wondered if they were family, co-workers, even friends, but quickly understood the nature of their relationship when he watched the older man drape an arm around the young man’s shoulders, lean in close to say something into his ear and squeeze the younger man’s thigh tightly with his spare hand.
Ownership, publicly displayed. Look at me, and how young and beautiful this boy hanging off my arm is. Aren’t I better than you all, to have such a creature in my hands?
The boy smiled darkly at him, whispering something back and playing coyly with the heavy gold Signet ring on the older man’s right little finger. Hannibal found himself itching to know what they were saying to each other.
The boy was clearly one of two things: a sugar baby or a whore. Not that Hannibal cared either way what he was, as it was interesting regardless to watch such obscenity in plain sight at one of Baltimore’s high-society gatherings. Most of the guests at the fundraiser tonight preferred to keep their mistresses and rent boys a secret.
Dragging his attention back to the auction, Hannibal tried his best to ignore the pair and enjoy the imminent peacocking that was about to take place.
“Next, we have the most delicate, beautiful necklace,” the woman on stage announced as her assistant held the jewellery underneath the visualiser camera that was projected onto the wall behind for all to see clearly. “Made from white gold with a Marquise cut, three carat diamond pendant, we’ll start bids at nine-thousand dollars.”
Will could feel Christian’s eyes on him again, suspecting what was coming next. He turned to meet his gaze, smiling unassumingly.
“I want to see you wearing that necklace whilst I fuck you later tonight,” Christian mouthed against the skin of Will’s neck, spread hand sliding up towards Will’s crotch.
“Careful Christian,” Will murmured back, forcing himself to smirk and bat his lashes. “I wouldn’t want you to do anything rash with your money.”
Christian took the bait, of course, as Will knew he would. Christian wanted to show off, wanted Will and everyone else to know how wealthy he was. Who was Will to stop him? He was an escort, for God’s sake, it was hardly the first or last time a middle aged man had splashed stupid amounts of money on him to impress him or his friends. Christian had even insisted on paying for Will’s suit tonight, so if the man wanted to purchase a diamond necklace for Will to wear when they fucked later, Will saw no reason to stop him. Christian had money to burn, and Will would pawn the necklace off once Christian inevitably either grew bored of him or grew so obsessive over him that Will was forced to cut off all contact with the man.
It was always the same, Will had come to learn. His clients were always satisfied enough to hire Will over multiple occasions, but it always ended. Their attention strayed to a new young, pretty thing and Will was politely forgotten about, or they formed an infatuation so deep with Will that Will had to change his number and begrudgingly move in to his manager’s apartment for a few weeks whilst things died down - the constant buzz of his apartment’s intercom from an obsessed client acting irrationally was enough to send him scuttling away to his manager’s home to hide.
The longest Will had ever kept a client was a year, and even that had ended badly when the client’s wife found out - they’d moved out of state almost overnight, it seemed, but not before Will received a drunken, threatening phone call from said wife.
“Don’t worry, Will,” Christian smirked, raising his bid card high in the air, “it’s only a few pennies.”
“Do I hear thirty-one thousand?”
Christian’s jaw clenched tightly, his hand twitching on the bid card but staying on the table. Will looked over to the man who had immediately begun outbidding Christian the moment bids started for the necklace.
He was the picture of elegance, reclined gracefully in his chair with one leg crossed over the other. Even sitting, Will could see his suit clung to him perfectly, accentuating his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His hair was a tawny-grey, smoothed back over his head carefully. His amber eyes glistened in the dim lights, his striking side profile keeping Will captivated.
“Thirty-one thousand? No?” the woman called out one last time. “Well then, sold to the very generous Dr Hannibal Lecter for thirty-thousand dollars!”
Amber met sapphire, and Will’s blood froze in his veins, his heart in his throat. The slightest twitch of a smile on Lecter’s mouth, eyes still locked together, had Will nearly shuddering. A squeeze to his knee from Christian’s insistent hand, and Will tore his gaze away.
“That man must be an idiot,” Christian muttered under his breath. “He knows damn well that the necklace isn’t worth that much, he just wanted to prove a point.”
Will pushed a soothing expression on to his face, linking his fingers through Christian’s over his knee. “Don’t worry about him. Some people have more money than sense.”
Christian nodded, swigging back more champagne. Will desperately tried to ignore the feel of those eyes digging into the back of his skull so persistently as the night continued and the next stupidly priced piece of jewellery was brought up to the stage.