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It wasn’t a traditional ceremony, certainly not what every little girl dreamed of. Then again, Molly wasn’t a little girl and she’d already gotten her big wedding out of the way. She knew as well as him what their relationship was and wasn’t.
Whirlwind romance was not something they could claim, and thank god for that. Will couldn’t stomach the idea of it. The thought of emotions so intense… of love so-
Which wasn’t to say that Will and Hannibal hav- had a whirlwind romance. Will had wanted and might still want to kill the man. Not love him.
Not be with him, at least in the traditional sense.
Well, he didn’t really know what he wanted and he’d made a commitment to not figuring it out.
Will had barely survived Hannibal’s friendship. Physically, that was, because emotionally he was still a mess. So—he didn’t need to feel anything close to that ever again—he’d actively sought the opposite. Something steadfast and safe. A ready-made American dream. A wife, a kid, a house. A new boat on the sea to keep him safe. The picture of stability.
He’d thrown himself into Molly’s warm presence—her easy smiles, her plain way of speaking, her predictability. It was a balm to Will’s tortured soul (or so he convinced himself). It was more like dulling his senses, turning away from the tempting wiles of adrenaline. It was shutting away that part of himself that Hannibal had carefully pruned and allowed to bloom.
So patiently Hannibal had manipulated him—— pushed him. Made him. Maybe better? Or maybe worse. Depends on who you asked. molded him and hurt him
Will knew what Hannibal’s answer would be. Hannibal who had broken and built him with… with love. And devotion. Hannibal who.. cared about him. Who wanted to be friends.
Hannibal who he’d betrayed… Hannibal who saved him.. Hannibal who he’d rejected. Hannibal who he robbed of his freedom.
Hannibal who.. who killed their daughter and destroyed their family.
There was too much, Will thought, frustrated. The waters between them were forever murky, stained with their choices. Stained with their history. Some days he was the blood in the water and Hannibal the shark, other days it was the opposite. They were fluid, ever-changing, ever-lasting, perhaps.
But it was in the past now and there was nothing that could be done. Will had made his choice. He chose 'peace', he chose Molly.
Will looked in the mirror, the suit he wore was dark. The shirt underneath a crisp white. The contrast was harsh. Formal, sure—he was getting married—but very harsh. His mind wandered as he stared at the boundary of the black lapel laying atop the white shirt.
Life wasn’t like that. There were no clean lines of black and white. At least not in his life, he lived in a kaleidoscope of grey, reflected and warped in all sorts of directions.
Right and Wrong were set by the law, because he couldn’t trust himself to draw that line. And then Hannibal came to pick up his yardstick and toss it into the shadows of his mind. Was it truly wrong if it felt so good?
Killing must feel good to god too, he does it all the time. And are we not created in his image?
Will frowns at the thought. Frowns more at his internal agreement than anything. He doesn’t want to think about this. He doesn’t.
He tries to clear his mind as he ties his tie. Double Windsor maybe?
A sudden knock distracts him, but he doesn’t move from in front of the mirror. He was committed to the Windsor, but he wasn’t entirely sure how.
He thinks he gets it, it looks a little wonky but it sparks some positive emotions in his mind.
Slowly, he walks over to the door, opening it and peering into the hall. The chapel wasn’t very busy, not even with their guests.
Molly hadn’t invited too many people, too last minute she’d claimed. Will didn’t have a single person he wanted to invite. No family, certainly no friends. Molly thought he was joking when he wanted the dogs as his guests.
Somehow, despite that, there was a bouquet at his door.
Purple.
Was that for him?
The hallway was empty. He’d waited too long and whoever delivered it was gone.
He leans down to grab the bouquet, it was rather heavy.
Does this qualify as a bouquet? There were a lot of flowers mixed in together, and they were in a white ceramic pot. Will wasn’t sure about floral arrangements and all of that. He’d never bought flowers for anyone.
The last time he’d gotten flowers was when his mother died. The flowers were hardly of interest at the time.
This bouquet was rather beautiful though. The colours were vibrant, several shades of purple were nestled in the green of the stems and leaves. There was a distinct scent wafting lightly. He couldn’t place it.
It was clean and familiar. It reminded him of something comfortable. Recently wiped. Like…
Like..
Chandler Square.
Will took a sharp inhale at the realization, nostril once again assaulted by the sweet smell of lavender. The memories come unbidden, of watching Hannibal wipe down after dinner, the scent of his homemade cleaner filling the air.
Will tried to banish the thoughts from his mind. To remind himself of his last memory of that house maybe. But his mind was snagged on those dinners. That routine.
It was so lovely to have that almost-domesticity. To be a regular somewhere, to have someone expecting you.
Well, Molly would expect him. She was expecting him right now actually. That certainly snapped him out of his thoughts.
He checked the flowers for a note, maybe they weren’t for him. Maybe they got redirected.
No note.
Molly’s dressing room was upstairs, the door emblazoned with the word, BRIDE. It was tough to miss, actually.
Wrong chapel maybe. There was no one he could think of that would send him a bouquet of lavender and if there was, he didn’t want to know.
Maybe Molly? He grabbed a single stem, covered with vibrant purple flowers, and tucked it in beside his pocket square. The scent of lavender followed him back to the mirror where he began fidgeting with his hair.
Wearing lavender for his wedding to Molly. Wasn’t that ironic.
In truth, his hair was fine. He couldn’t care less, either way. But if he was done, then he’d have to leave this quiet room and find his place. And he was currently finding that difficult.
All these thoughts and memories were suddenly fresh, again. Thoughts of his other life, the one he’d lived before. He didn’t like to think about it. Not since he’d watched them take Hannibal away.
He’d avoided the trial entirely. He seconded himself in his rural town, found a job fixing boat motors, and lived his quiet not-quite-peace. He didn’t talk about the past and he certainly didn’t think about it either. Not on purpose at least.
He knew what they would do. They would reduce Hannibal into a bogeyman, turn him into Hannibal the Cannibal. They would say he was a psychopath, he was a genius, he was insane. No one could’ve ever known, poor us falling victim to the big bad wolf.
At risk of sounding like a jealous lover, Will hated the pomp and circumstance of it all. He didn’t think any of them had the right to try and define Hannibal. To stuff him into their harsh categories without a modicum of understanding. They didn’t have a clue, he still hardly had a grasp of him. Hannibal was intimately familiar and still an enigma.
Plus, if Hannibal was insane, then what was Will? Will who was so close to saying fuck it and running off with the man. Will who still thought about the What ifs. Will who knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that what he harboured—and what Hannibal sought—was darker and much eviler than whatever Hannibal had.
Were his curls too messy? He ran his fingers through his hair slowly. Might as well redo it.
Slowly, he went through his hair, taking apart the gelled strands. He felt the sharp pinches on his scalp, clumped hair sticking and tugging at his skin.
Hannibal had always liked his hair. He hadn’t ever said as much, their relationship hadn’t permitted it, but he’d seen the glances, the clenched hands wanted to reach out. It was all very Victorian; like Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth. The only thing actually keeping them separate being Will’s own reticence.
He grimaced in the mirror. Was that all there was between them? His own good sense? Hesitation? Fear?
He didn’t like to think about it because it felt too revealing. It felt sacrilegious to admit how strongly he was drawn to Hannibal. The man and his ideologies were wrapped in a sweet alluring scent that called to him.
Will knew that he was swayed, he knew that what they shared was an understanding. Beliefs that resonated with each other. The only way they were different was Will’s fear and shame. In his hesitance.
Framed like that, it sounded like a weakness. Was it weakness to be hesitant to embrace the darkness? Was it weakness to shroud yourself morality?
Maybe it was.
Will’s hair was finally set, or perhaps mussed to the precipice of a birds nest. He looked at himself in the mirror. Done up in a black tux, hair gelled. He looked like…
Exactly what he’d expect Hannibal would put him in if given the chance. He tried to imagine the scenario where that would happen. Maybe the opera or the theatre like he enjoyed.
He’d be dragged around town on Hannibal’s arm, getting to know the man in a less power-imbalanced way.
He’s not sure how their relationship could’ve gone if they met under different circumstance, or if he wasn’t sick.
Hannibal wasn’t exactly subtle, so he’s sure he could’ve figured him out sooner. Maybe that was wishful thinking. Hindsight was 20-20.
If he did, he knew that he would’ve turned him in immediately.
Will hums in understanding. Hannibal knew this and got lucky. Will’s illness was the best thing that could've happened to the man. He wonders how long Hannibal would’ve let his brain simmer before he allowed treatment.
How long would it have taken for a fever-addled Will to develop loyalty and friendship?
He likely would’ve died first, with the way the sickness had progressed, but maybe there was a sweet spot. Maybe there was a thin line that Hannibal was walking along sos they could’ve become friends and then Hannibal could nurse Will back to health.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
It seemed like there were so many possibilities for where Hannibal and Will’s relationship could’ve gone and here they were, stuck in one of the worst options.
Here Will was, stuck in a chapel.
The walk up the aisle didn’t even register in his mind. He came back to himself when he was standing at the alter, looking down into the crowd.
He watched them in confusion, not recognizing any more than Molly’s parents who he’d met briefly. It took a moment before it clicked. The outdoor venue had attracted a good number of passerby. Tourists, park-goers, and seemingly a separate party?
Will wanted to laugh at the sheer busyness of it all. The last place he’d expect a crowd would be Will Graham’s wedding.
He watched idly, letting his gaze wander and not stick anywhere particular. He had no desire to empathize with anyone here when he was already in the midst of his own crisis. So lost he was in the effort of detachment, the hardly noticed the beginning of the wedding march blooming to life.
The outdoor speakers were of surprisingly good quality, the music swimming through the air easily, bass loud enough to break him out of his thoughts. His eyes redirected automatically to the other end of the aisle, finding his blushing bride-to-be.
She looked good. Happy, if not mildly unnerved at the presence of nearly a hundred strangers. She was steady as she walked, as she was in all other things. She really was beautiful. The dress she’d picked wasn’t traditional—it was her second wedding and she was a woman of practicality who had no proclivity for frills. Unlike—
Regardless, she looked good. She looked like a second chance wrapped in a demure cream dress. Marching towards him slowly.
He let his gaze wander briefly and that’s when it happened. His eyes locked someones in the crowd. A someone that caught him swiftly off guard.
Was he hallucinating? Was he sick again?
Surely, through the crowd, he wasn’t looking into Hannibal Lecter’s eyes. The same Hannibal who was supposed to be in jail. The same Hannibal who haunted his thoughts.
Will squinted, trying to get a proper look at him. He could only just see him behind a group of eager tourists, cooing at—
His eyes snapped back to Molly, remembering himself. Remember why he was here. Remem—
Will’s eyes wandered back to the group of tourists, trying to look through them again. There he was. He was smirking that cat smile and looking like right back.
He had to be real… Will had never seen that hairdo before, short and jagged.
The man sidestepped the group then, revealing his full form, before swiftly walking away. He disappeared quickly into the moving crowd at the park, the back of his head growing smaller and smaller into the distance.
Will’s gaze was fixed on the spot, unable to make sense of what he’d just seen. Hannibal?
How?
Why?
Well, why would be obvious if he’d just.. said something. Except Hannibal didn’t say anything. Didn’t make a scene. Didn’t… do anything at all. He made his presence known and then.. left?
Why didn’t he—
Molly was in front of him, holding a hand out for him. He took a breath in and reached for her. He didn’t need to think about this. He was standing at an alter, holding his bride’s hand.
It was just like Hannibal to break out just to play a mind game. He just wanted to ruin the one good thing Will had. He was just… playing with him again.
Will smiled at Molly, clasping her hand and pulling her beside him on the alter. She was his ship. She was his stability. She didn’t play games.
She smiled sweetly at him, comfortably showing her affection. He didn’t have to be in love with someone to build a life together, that was a naive thought.
She held his hands clasped as they both turned towards the minister. He began speaking and Will’s mind drifted at the monotonous drone of it.
Hannibal didn’t do things frivolously. So what did he want? Wouldn’t it have made sense if he stuck around and objected dramatically? Coming to steal Will away?
Except he didn’t. He didn’t even stick around long enough to see the two of them together under the wooden arch.
He just.. left? Was it a smirk or a smile. Melancholic? Teasing?
Will suddenly couldn’t trust himself. Was he reading Hannibal’s emotions or was he projecting his own?
Will wanted to cradle his head in his hands, completely overwhelmed at the thoughts rushing by.
Was it easier to assume malintent? It would be precedented. Except would it be? He knew that everything Hannibal did was a twisted attempt at friendship. Or he was emotional.
Which was it. Did he just come to watch—except he left. Did he come to make a point—except he didn’t say anything.
He still succeeded, he supposed. To prove that he still had an effect on Will. To prove that his control extended past reasonable bounds of time, distance, and other relationships.
Here Will stood, staring down he barrel of a wedding, at the precipice of change. Of sealing his fate in the opposite direction of Hannibal Lecter.
He felt sick. Sick at the sudden realization of Hannibal’s point. Of what Hannibal wanted. Of what Will wanted.
Of what he was about to do.
Will blinked and looked at Molly. She smiled back with eyes full of warmth. Slowly, he reached into his breast pocket and fished out the flower. He handed it to her, holding her hand tightly and smiling.
“I’m sorry,” was all he said before he turned and walked down the aisle, away from her and towards Hannibal.
The walk up the aisle to take his place hadn’t even registered in his mind, but the walk back down was feeling his anxiety. His heart was beating rapidly and if he lifted his hand he knew it’d be shaking.
This was his all-in moment, he decided as he picked his pace up into a jog.
He had to catch him.
He found Hannibal rather quickly. He was in the nearby thick of trees, waiting. He was sitting on one of those donated benches, from a widowed lover who missed the old times.
Hannibal turned his head away from the trees and watched Will approach. His face was blank, but his eyes were alive.
Will paused a few feet out, struck simply at the sight of the man. He took a cleansing breath, expelling with it the anxiety that had been clawing at his chest. The sight of the man, the reality of his decision, seemed to sit comfortably in his mind.
Hannibal swept his eyes up and down Will’s frame before finally speaking.
“You left your lavender behind.”
Will smiled softly, resuming his walk towards the bench.
He sat down heavily beside beside Hannibal, letting out a sigh. He looked forward, but could feel Hannibal’s eyes on his face. Trying to parse his intent, he was sure.
“Decided against it,” he asserted, turning to catch Hannibal’s eyes.
“When I saw you in the crowd, I was sure that I was sick again. There was no reason I could think of that you would go through all the effort to show up and then say nothing. Not even stick around.”
Hannibal’s eyes crinkled in amusement, “Am I another ghost you’ve followed into a forest then?”
Will huffed again, face devoid of amusement, “That’s not funny.”
He looked away. This is why it was hard. So many sore spots between them, there was always a wound being reopened or a bruise being depressed.
The air was fresh here, the leaves in the trees blowing and creating a soft symphony. He knew he was angry, but he’d already made his choice.
He glanced back to Hannibal, who had the decency to look regretful.
“I figured it out though,” he continued. He brought his hand up tentatively, sure his face projected how unsure he was.
His hand was steady, though, as it raised to rest on Hannibal’s head. The same way Hannibal had cradled him many times before. His thumb swiped across the mans cheekbone, satisfying a curiosity he’d long held.
“You wanted me to choose you for once, you wanted—” Will broke off into a smile as Hannibal’s eyes closed and his head tilted into the touch, like a cat.
“You wanted me to know where you were.”
Will withdrew his hand, feeling the creeping heat on his cheeks in embarrassment. Hannibal’s eyes blinked open, catching his gaze.
“I’m sorry, Hannibal, I wasn’t ready then. I was,” Will broke their eye contact, looking back at the trees.
“… angry, not that you helped that.”
His voice was resentful, he knew, but he was resentful.
This was a minefield. The conversation. The relationship.
Hannibal took a moment before replying. His voice was soft.
“There have been many hurts between us, many disagreements, many roadblocks.”
Hannibal’s hands came down to rest on his thighs, wiping, tapping, fidgeting as they always did.
“I know that I have caused you pain, but it was all with greater intent. I had—,” Hannibal broke off, hands running down his pant leg again. “I—“
Will sighed, cutting off Hannibal’s sentence. Will looked down at his own hand, resting on his thigh.
“Shall we talk about tea cups and time?”
He looked at Hannibal.
“Disorder has lost its appeal” he said softly, still not looking at Will.
Will huffed a laugh, nodding in agreement, “And time marches on, there’s no way for a tea cup to gather itself back up.”
Hannibal turned back towards Will, catching his eyes, “And if it had help?” he asked.
Will was struck at how meek the man sound in that one moment. He never considered that Hannibal would feel remorse for his actions. The outcome was clearly not as intended, perhaps that was enough to have the man reassess.
It made sense, then, for Hannibal to need Will to choose him.
“Kintsugi?”
Hannibal smiled, “My Aunt taught me the practice in my youth.”
Will looked back down at his lap, “And here you are.” He flipped his hand over, offering it to Hannibal.
Hannibal reached towards him, hesitantly resting his hand in Will’s, “And here I am.”