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He's beautiful, Hannibal thinks, the very first time he lays eyes on Will Graham.
Will is stalking from one side of the room to the other, shoulders hunched, movements sharp, jerky, furtive. He doesn't look at Hannibal or Crawford when they enter together nor does he pay attention to the stilted conversation. He's in a place of his own making, of his own choosing and he stares down at the ground defiant when Crawford steps into his path deliberately and forces him to acknowledge the outside world once more.
When Will looks up at the introductions, he inclines his head sharply, once, and barely meets Hannibal's eyes before he turns and resumes his uneasy pacing again.
Will is an untamed animal, a wild beast still with sharp claws and sharper teeth. Hannibal finds this out to his startled delight when the verbal retaliation rakes him, draws blood, all metaphorically of course. He wouldn't mind feeling the pain of a bloody wound though, over his chest, across his heart maybe, but it's too soon, not yet time, he knows.
There's a fierce spirit half buried underneath the jittery neurosis of Will's psyche, still unbroken despite all the horror that Hannibal instinctively knows that he's had to endure for years on end. A result of his unique mind, his unique thoughts, something that no one else in the world can understand. Except for him, of course. They are more alike than either of them would like to admit, he thinks with a tiny curl of a smile.
Will is devastatingly beautiful. It's not just physical, with his slender body, long fingers and his almost delicate features. Hannibal wants him more for his mind; he wants to possess both the fragile crystal tower that holds Will's sanity and control the army of darkness and fear that besieges it. He wonders, even as he spins his glittering web of words filled with truth and lies dipped in honey and poison, at how light a touch he would need to topple that tower, to bring it crashing to the ground and at how much force would he need to crush it, to ground it into nothing but dust.
Hannibal imagines, with a tilt of his head, at how much more breathtaking Will would be, draped in darkness, eyes drowning with fear, features painted with his own lifeblood. He knows that reality would be even more appeasing, for then he would be able to touch fingers to soft skin sticky with blood, to lick the crimson drops from the paleness of Will's jaw and to tighten his hands around that bare, vulnerable throat and leave nothing but bruises the shape of his hands behind, his mark.
Hannibal shudders at the mere thought. There is a heated warmth, a delightful feeling of possession that coils within his belly at the picture drawn within his mind, with nothing but his own imagination.
Will stands, and he's almost vibrating with anger, with fear, and the scent is so delicious that Hannibal has to fight the urge to shove his chair away and stand, to pull Will to him and sink his teeth into that sliver of skin bared at Will's collar. He has trained himself well, over many years, and he suppresses his urge and remains seated.
He sits, perfectly still, steeples his fingers, and just watches.
*
Hannibal has always liked beautiful things. He likes admiring them, possessing them and then breaking them.
There was a priceless Ming Dynasty vase he had owned once, a gorgeous piece inherited from his father's side. He remembers the startling shade of blue of the chrysanthemums wound over the almost translucent white of the vase. It was the only one of its kind to be made, a rarity that couldn't be priced; a tribute to a beloved concubine from the emperor himself, hundreds of years ago, a symbol of a love that remained even when everything else was long gone and completely forgotten.
Hannibal only has to close his eyes to remember the sound of it shattering against polished wooden floorboards. He flexes his hand, remembering the feel of the whisper sharp edge on the biggest fragment and the pain of the shallow cuts that ran over his palm, across his wrist. He can never forget - and he never wants to forget - the coppery, warm scent of blood trickling between his fingers, darkening the floor and the euphoria that threaded through his body and mind with each drop of blood, each beat of his heart.
That scent fills the air now and the desperate gasping for breath in the middle of the sunny kitchen is almost reminiscent of that time, it's almost cathartic in a way. Hannibal stands back, just beyond the doorway and holds himself perfectly still, just watching.
Will's hands are coated with blood, and he kneels on the floor, uncaring for the state of his wrinkled trousers. Almost immediately, his knees and the leg of his trousers is completely soaked through, tainted dark and heavy with blood. Hannibal sighs, a silent exhale of breath, and his lashes flutter down, brushing his cheek as he closes his eyes and holds the sight, just for a bare second, imprinting it into his memory, to be kept and cherished.
A heartbeat and two long strides later, he kneels opposite Will; his beautiful, tortured Will, with his dark hair and soulful eyes, and Hannibal watches him, keeps his eyes on him, even as he dips his fingers in the deep ruby red of arterial blood.
It's a beautiful picture, a masterpiece, he thinks, finally catching Will's gaze over the dying body of the girl and holding it. The fear in Will's eyes is almost palpable and Hannibal fancies that he can actually feel his heartbeat stutter and his pulse quicken, something he's never felt before. As the blood puddles around the expensive leather of his shoes and Will's eyes never lose that almost frantic touch of fear, Hannibal wonders if Will would shatter as easily as porcelain within his fingers.
There is a slow shiver the crawls up his spine when he thinks about it and it ghosts over his skin with a sharp prickle and settles into a low burn coiled deep within his chest.
Hannibal watches and he can almost hear the gentle sound of crystal breaking, splintering into countless slivers, the sound only barely muffled by thick carpet. He can almost taste the panicked, desperate fear and can almost trace that agitated tremor over smooth skin with the tips of his fingers.
He inhales, gaze steady on Will's, and he knows that soon enough, Will Graham will be his to possess.