Chapter Text
Oxford in October smells like wet stone and cigarette smoke, and the air is brisk enough that it makes Will’s teeth ache when he breathes it in. He already feels misplaced here, like something that’s washed up somewhere it doesn’t belong, but given that he’s spent most of his life feeling this sort of discomfort, he does what he always does: he leans inward, he keeps going, and he watches everything.
He's noticed things without meaning to for his entire life. He hears the hitch in a laugh that comes a half-second too late, he catches the way a girl’s fingers worry at the strap of her bag as though she expects it to vanish, he can see the boy walking ahead of him whose shoulders are already braced for impact, though no one’s looking his way. It’s always like this: impressions stacking up faster than he can sort them, whole lives suggested by posture and pace and what people choose to ignore. He knows who’s homesick before they do, who’s pretending confidence, who’s counting exits.
Spaces speak to him, too. He catches himself mapping where people must have been moments earlier, the absence of bodies lingering in doorways and along paths, footprints half-erased by rain but still legible if you know how to look. A scuffed heel on the stone, the drag path of a bicycle wheel, the way a bench sits slightly off-centre as though someone rose from it in a hurry. It’s never just what is; it’s what was, what shifted to make the present settle like this. His mind moves against the current, retracing steps, assembling small, precise narratives from damage and neglect and chance. It’s exhausting, but it’s part of who he is.
It’s the first day of a new term, and after unpacking a modest pile of boxes, Will takes a cycle around the city to drink it in and find his bearings. It all feels too beautiful to be real – ancient folded into new. Church spires slice into the sky like needles, bells toll somewhere far away, and students flow around him in waves of laughter and tweed. Now he’s walking his bike through the courtyard toward the shed, his shoes clicking over slick cobblestones, eyes lowered to the glistening ground. Someone’s dropped a matchbook, already dissolving in the slush, and he steers his wheel over it just because he can.
From the corner of his eye, he catches a scarf tugged loose by the wind and looks up. That’s when he sees him for the first time.
He’s standing beneath one of the arches, a cigarette poised between two elegant fingers as he speaks. Will watches him lift it to his mouth, watches the slow drag and the smoke that unfurls around him in a long, beautiful exhale. There’s an ease to him that doesn’t read as careless; every movement is considered and purposeful, as though he’s allowing the moment rather than occupying it. Will waits for the usual tells to surface, the small betrayals of habit or nerves, but they don’t. The absence of them almost makes him stumble. He feels the spark before he can even name what it is, deep in his chest, a bright pull of yearning.
He’s like nothing Will has ever seen before: dark eyes, pale skin, cheekbones carved like an artist’s line. Will can’t trace him backwards the way he does with everyone else; there’s no easy reconstruction, no clutter of evidence to follow. The mystery of it entices him. Even watching the smoke slip from his nose each time he exhales – something that’s been inside him, now loose in the cold air – is thrilling. Will wants to breathe it in, hold it there and make it part of himself.
Around this beautiful stranger, a cluster of admirers laugh too loudly, drawn in by his austere magnetism. It’s obvious he’s the centre of whatever world this is – the figurehead; the sun. Will can see it, the near-blinding pattern of it, the way bodies lean toward him unconsciously, pulled in like the tide. He hasn’t met Will yet, but hopefully he soon will, and just as that thought drifts through Will’s mind, the man looks up and their eyes meet.
Will is so distracted that he almost stumbles, his bike swerving against the stones with a metallic groan, his glasses slipping down his nose. A few people notice, someone snickers, and Will’s face burns, heat creeping up the back of his neck. He rights himself, knots his scarf tighter around his neck, and forces himself onward, his knuckles blanching as he tightens his grip on the handlebars.
When he dares to look up again, the stranger’s gaze is still on him, darkly amused and completely unflinching. The look catches Will like a hook tugging beneath his ribs, knocking the air out of him before he can disguise it. He tears his eyes away, the way he always does, afraid that if he lingers someone might see right through him, but even as he walks on, the thought loops around him and tightens: how could he get someone like that to notice him again?
He’s still lost in his head when his front wheel clips someone’s boot. There’s a brusque “Hey!” and he jolts back to life, almost toppling the bike for real this time.
“Sorry— God, sorry,” he blurts, flushing.
The woman he’s nearly run down looks him up and down with narrowed eyes. She’s smiling wryly at him, her loose waves tucked beneath a scarlet beret that looks like it’s been through a few revolutions. Her scarf is patterned with tiny skulls and her hands are ink stained.
“New?” she asks, leaning against the brick exterior of the bike shed. “You’ve got that lost-lamb look.”
Will nods, mortified. “First week. First day, even.”
“Thought so. Beverly Katz.” She extends a hand, and when he hesitates, she takes it herself and shakes firmly. “And you are?”
“Will Graham,” he says, looking back to the boy beneath the arches, who now has his arm slung casually around a girl with dark hair and piercing eyes. He passes her the end of his cigarette, almost burned down to the label, and their fingers brush. A dark and destructive urge ripples deep in Will’s stomach. He swallows and looks away.
Beverly gives a small, thoughtful hum as she considers him, then glances back toward the courtyard. “Don’t tell me you were staring at Lecter.”
Will stiffens, eyes snapping back to hers. “Who?”
She smirks. “Tall, eastern European, looks like he was carved out of marble and money. You’ve got the same dazed look in your eyes everyone gets after seeing him… He’s a third year. Experimental Psychology student. Thinks he’s God’s gift.”
“I wasn’t—” Will starts, too fast.
Beverly’s grin widens. “Sure. You and every other fresher with a pulse. Don’t worry, he’s harmless if you don’t feed the ego. But I’d steer clear, if I were you.”
“Why’s that?” he asks, forcing nonchalance as his eyes move back to hers.
She exhales slowly through her nose as she crafts her answer. “He’s like oil in a world of water. You can get close to him, but you’ll never really mix. That’s how he likes it.”
“Sounds like you have a history…” The words slip out before he can stop them, dappled with jealousy, and his mouth shuts with an audible click.
Beverly only laughs, unfazed and unbothered. “With Hannibal? God, no. Not in a thousand years.” She tilts her head, one corner of her mouth quirking. “He’s not really my type.”
There’s something in her tone Will understands, knows intimately, and he finds himself smiling despite everything. Suddenly she feels safer to him.
His eyes drift back to the archway where Hannibal had been standing, now empty save for a scatter of cigarette ends, as though he evaporated into the damp grey air. Beverly follows his line of sight and rolls her eyes.
“Sit with us at dinner tonight,” she says, bumping her shoulder into his as she passes him. “You can tell me all about your course instead of burning holes through people’s heads.”
Will nods automatically. “Yeah. Sure.”
She taps her beret in farewell and strides off toward the dorms.
Will watches her go, then turns back to the bike shed. A neat line of bicycles lean against the wall. One of them, he’s certain, belongs to Hannibal.
He locks up his own, then lingers. His eyes drift along the row, searching almost idly until he finally finds it. The dark green frame glistens faintly in the drizzle, expensive and immaculate, with a leather-bound saddle and continental tyres that look barely broken in. Will steps closer, running his fingertips along the seat’s delicate stitching.
The gold monogram on the frame glints in the light – H. L. – and Will feels a twisting sensation low inside him at the sight. He stands there far too long, chewing the inside of his cheek, fingers still tracing the leather and hoping it might yet reveal something illuminating of the man who owns it. The rational part of him says to stop. The other part, the part that hungers, wins easily.
Then an idea slowly comes to mind – an opportunity to orchestrate a proper first meeting. He lets the scene unspool behind his eyes before he does anything, considering cause and effect, crime and consequence. The order of things comes to life for him as neat and inevitable as the beat of his own heart. He can already see it: the frustration, the gratitude, the conversation that would follow. It’s all so simple, and it could be his so easily.
When Will opens his eyes, the world feels saturated again, already rewritten in his new design. He crouches, glancing once around him, then unscrews the cap and presses his thumb to the valve of the bike’s rear wheel, just enough to induce a slow leak. Air slips free in a secret hiss, and Will watches it with deep satisfaction.
When he stands, he tucks his hands into his pockets and decides it’s nothing – just a coincidence, waiting patiently to happen.
~
The dining hall hums with chatter and cutlery, and the air is dense with steam and the faint tang of meat slow roasted in herbs and gravy. Will follows Beverly through the crowd carrying their plates, and they settle on an empty stretch of bench. Across from them, two friends of Beverly’s are already mid-argument – philosophy versus physics – and their voices ricochet cheerfully off the high, vaulted ceiling.
“Jimmy and Brian,” she says, pointing her fork at each of them in turn before spearing a potato with it. “Don’t mind their bickering, they’ve been married since first term. This is just very loud foreplay.”
Jimmy scowls, and Brian rolls his eyes. “You say that like you’re not jealous,” Brian mutters, earning a laugh from Beverly.
Their quarrel becomes background noise as Will’s gaze drifts across the hall. Under the soft amber light of the sconces sits Hannibal, a familiar silhouette among another ring of admirers. He’s laughing quietly with the dark-haired girl from earlier, and the sound of it carries faintly through the room. Hannibal listens when others speak, Will notices – really listens – and the stillness of him seems to draw people closer, even as it holds them at a distance. Beneath the table, Will’s fingers flex.
Beverly follows Will’s eyes and smirks. “Told you. He collects acolytes like some people collect vinyl. And you want to be collected so badly, don’t you…”
Will blinks back to her. “No, I was just—“
“Uh-huh,” she says, slicing a roasted carrot cleanly in two with her knife. “I’ve seen it before. That look.”
“What look?” Will asks, bemused.
“That one,” she says, nodding her head at him. “Go on. Ask me about him.”
Will worries his lower lip with his teeth, resting his elbows on the table as his hands curl around himself, as if he’s somehow cold in the warmth of the busy dining hall.
“Well,” he begins awkwardly. “What do you know?”
Beverly’s jaw tightens as she chews, and she takes her time swallowing before she answers.
“Mostly that he makes the rest of us look like we’re colouring outside the lines… Published twice before twenty-one, talks to professors like they’re equals, collects friends like they’re data points.” She gives him a look. “You thinking of volunteering for his next study?”
Will almost laughs, but it comes out thin. “Hardly. I just—” He shrugs. “He seems… Interesting.”
“That’s a dangerous word for someone like him,” she says, leaning back in her seat, but before Will can question her further, she’s already moving the conversation along. “What is it you’re reading again? You look like the literature type, or maybe something with microscopes.”
“Philosophy and Psychology,” he says, looking down at his plate with little interest. “Joint honours.”
“Explains the staring,” she says lightly. “I’m in Criminology. You’ll fit right in around here – there’s plenty of brooding to go around.”
Will glances back toward the table, where Hannibal is smiling at something the dark-haired girl has said, their heads bowed together, and his profile caught in a wash of golden light. They look conspiratorial and close, and the sight curdles lightly in Will’s stomach.
“He doesn’t seem very approachable,” he murmurs.
“No,” Beverly says, voice gentler now. “But that’s part of it, isn’t it? Everyone wants to see what happens when he finally looks back.”
When Will risks another glance, Hannibal is looking back, just for a moment, and it’s enough to make his pulse skip. Will gives him a small, uncertain smile, but Hannibal looks away again, offering nothing in return.
Will adjusts his glasses and turns back, cheeks warm, pretending to pick at his food. “Who’s the girl he’s with?”
“Alana Bloom,” Beverly says, stealing a piece of broccoli from Brian’s plate while he’s distracted. “Reads Classics, naturally. She’s the kind of girl who quotes Euripides in casual conversation and still makes it sound charming. She and Lecter came in together. I don’t really get their arrangement, but I think they’re sort of… Step-siblings or something.”
Will nods, turning all of this over in his mind.
“She’s beautiful,” he says, mostly to himself, teeth clenching on nothing.
“She’s nice, too,” Beverly says with a shrug. “Which makes it worse, somehow. You can’t even hate her for it.” She takes a sip of water, eyes flickering back to him. “Don’t tell me you’re already drafting your wedding vows.”
Will smiles faintly. “I’m just curious.”
“About her?” Beverly asks.
“About him,” he says before thinking better of it, avoiding her eyes as he stares over her shoulder, watching the rain beat down against the windows.
Beverly studies him for a long moment. “You want my advice?”
He nods, though his pulse is drumming in his ears.
“Stay curious from a distance,” she says finally.
He raises an eyebrow. “You sound like you’ve had practice.”
“I’ve just got a good sense for people,” she says, voice softening. “And something about him… I don’t know. It’s like being near a forest fire – warm at first, until you realise you’re a little too close. Then suddenly you can’t escape it and you’re… Consumed.”
Will swallows, the words sitting uneasily. “Is that your intuition talking?” he asks.
“Maybe.” Beverly’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Intuition’s kept me alive so far, so I tend to trust it.”
Her gaze turns back toward Hannibal’s table, where effortless laughter rises again. Then she looks back at Will, picking up her plate. “Come on, philosopher. You’ll miss dessert, and it’s the most edible thing they serve.”
Will hesitates before following, weaving carefully past Hannibal’s table with stilted grace, aware of how unnatural he must look. Just before he passes completely, he spares him one last glance, and Hannibal tilts his head with an effortless smile – not for Will, for someone else. Will takes it anyway, committing it to memory like a secret that’s now his to keep.
~
The following day, Will is riding back to the college when his earlier plans finally come to fruition. It’s late afternoon, and the sun is starting to dip low in the sky, giving Oxford a perfect, burnished hue. The air around him still clings to the scant warmth of the day, and golden sunlight is cast thin across the verge where Hannibal Lecter now sits, his bike propped uselessly beside him, one knee bent, an open book balanced on it. A cigarette burns lazily between his fingers, smoke winding upward through the rays.
Will slows before he realises he’s doing it, coasting to a stop a few yards away. Hannibal is exactly as he imagined, exactly as planned: marooned, immaculate, and unknowingly waiting for Will.
He swallows as he walks his bike closer, caught in the small details he couldn’t see from afar: the definition of Hannibal’s profile, the motion of his hand as he turns a page.
“Hey,” Will begins, heart galloping in his chest. “Everything ok?”
Hannibal looks up, and the shift of his gaze feels almost physical as it lands squarely on Will’s chest. “A minor inconvenience,” he says, voice smooth and faintly accented. “My tyre appears to have lost the will to live.”
Will laughs before he can stop himself. “What a tragedy,” he says, trying not to sound too breathless. “You heading to campus?”
“I am. Or was meant to.” Hannibal taps ash against the dewy grass, closing his book with an elegant snap. “I have a meeting with my tutor in twenty minutes, but I won’t make it on foot.”
“Lucky day, then,” Will says, forcing a shrug as he looks down at his bike. “You can take my bike, if you’d like.”
Hannibal arches an eyebrow, assessing him. “And you’ll walk?”
“It’s not far,” Will says modestly, looking down toward the muddy ground for some respite from the heady intensity of Hannibal’s full attention.
There’s a pause, then Hannibal smiles as he rises to his feet. “That’s very generous of you, Mr…?”
“Graham,” Will says quickly. “Will Graham.”
Hannibal’s mouth shapes the name like he’s testing its balance. “Will Graham.”
Will nods, standing awkwardly in the quiet before he gestures weakly at Hannibal’s bike. “I’ll wheel yours back to the shed for you.”
“Very kind of you,” Hannibal replies, but he doesn’t make to leave. Instead, he studies Will openly, the lull between them pulling tight but not uncomfortable. He’s wearing a thin green sweater that clings to his shoulders, and Will can’t stop staring at him. “I’ve seen you around.”
Will’s stomach clenches at the idea of being noticed, pushing his glasses up his nose self-consciously. “I’ve… Seen you too.”
“You’re new,” Hannibal observes. “You were with Beverly Katz yesterday.”
“Oh, you know Beverly?” Will asks lightly.
“She’s reading Criminology,” Hannibal replies, his eyes still focused squarely on Will. “Her tutor’s office is adjacent to mine.”
“Oh,” Will says, uselessly, fingers flexing at his sides. “What are you reading?”
He already knows the answer, knows far more than he has any right to know of someone he’s only just officially met, but he wants to hear it all from Hannibal, to see what it sounds like coming directly from him.
“Experimental Psychology,” Hannibal replies. His gaze travels over Will easily, intentional but not unkind. “And you?”
“Philosophy and Psychology,” Will says after a beat, too aware of how boyish he sounds under Hannibal’s scrutiny.
“Ah. A philosopher.” Hannibal’s mouth curls on one side. “That explains the reflective silences.”
Will smiles, caught between flattery and panic. “You’ve been keeping track?”
“Only in passing,” Hannibal says, as though it were nothing, though it almost makes Will’s heart skip – the idea of being noticed at all. “Beverly’s taken a liking to you, I hear.”
“She has?” Will swallows, a little perplexed by this unexpected declaration. He guesses Hannibal heard it from a friend. News always travels fast in such exclusive places. “That’s… Surprising.”
“Is it?” Hannibal stoops to brush dust from his trousers, and for a moment they’re close enough that Will catches the faint scent of smoke and cedar from his hair. He breathes it in and holds it there, the way he wanted to the day before. “I’m in your debt, Will Graham. You’ve saved me from professional disgrace.”
“It’s nothing,” Will mutters, handing over the handlebars. “Really.”
“I insist on returning the favour,” Hannibal says, sliding onto the seat, the movement unnaturally graceful, and Will feels his mouth water as he watches. “There’s a pub near the college; we go most nights. Join me this evening. Let me buy you a drink.”
Will tries for a nonchalant nod, fails, and smiles instead. “Sure,” he says, too quickly. “That’d be… Nice.”
Hannibal looks at him once more, eyes dark in the dwindling light. “Seven o’clock,” he says, and then he’s gone, pedalling down the road, back straight, smoke still curling from the half-finished cigarette he left smouldering on the verge.
Will stares after him until he’s only a shape against the fading gold. Then he exhales, grinning helplessly at nothing. He feels somehow vindicated.
He stays standing there long after the sound of tyres fades, eyes finding Hannibal’s cigarette in the grass, a ribbon of smoke unspooling from it into the air. He hesitates, then crouches and picks it up, still warm at the filter. He’s never smoked a cigarette in his life, but this one feels different, claimed and intimate, belonging to someone he wants.
Will brings it to his lips and inhales slowly. The taste is acrid and faintly sweet, and the filter is damp where Hannibal’s mouth had been. It makes Will shiver from the nape of his neck down to his toes. The smoke catches in his throat and makes his eyes water, but he keeps smoking it until it’s gone, grinding the stub gently into the dirt with the toe of his shoe.
The world feels a little blurred around the edges now, the air more alive. Will rolls the taste of tobacco around in his mouth, then grips Hannibal’s handlebars and begins the slow walk back to the college, the useless wheel clicking faintly against the path.
Everything has unfolded exactly as he’d imagined it, as if the world had moved to meet him halfway. And now, somehow, he’s been invited into it – a single thread pulled loose from Hannibal Lecter’s universe, glinting in his hand, ready to lead him closer.
He pictures the evening as he walks: the pub’s low light, the smell of beer and varnish, Hannibal leaning in across the table to be heard over the din. Will decides he will play it carefully, modestly, maybe even make him laugh. He rehearses the small, incidental details – how he’ll sit, what he’ll order, how not to stare too obviously.
By the time he reaches the college gate, the golden light has deepened to amber, and he’s smiling again, though he doesn’t quite know why. The empty bike rests against his leg like evidence of something – that he’s been seen or specifically chosen for something important. Either way, the evening can’t come soon enough.
~
Will reflexively runs his hands down his shirt to smooth it out one last time as he approaches the pub, breathing in deep and exhaling a long, shaky breath. It stands low-lit at the end of a narrow, cobbled street, humming with life, all brass fixtures and green glass glinting through the thin windows. He ducks through the doorway, blinking against the warmth and the thick tang of ale in the air, his pulse still running too high. He’s arrived early, far too early, and he immediately regrets it.
Clusters of students spill out across the small space, voices rising and falling in rhythmic bursts, and the floorboards creak as he makes his way through them. Someone’s playing a soft and nostalgic tune on an old piano in the corner, but every so often a note rings out slightly off key. He catches sight of Beverly almost at once, squeezed into a booth with Jimmy and Brian. She spots him too and waves him over, grinning.
For a second, he almost goes, but then his eyes catch on an empty corner table and he shakes his head. He gestures apologetically, mouthing ‘later’, and heads instead to the bar.
He clears his throat, feeling in his back pocket for his wallet.
“Pint of Guinness,” he tells the bartender, trying to sound like he’s done this before. He can still feel Beverly’s eyes lingering on him from across the room, but he ignores it as he retreats to his table with his pint.
She appears beside him a moment later, setting her glass down with a small clink. “Didn’t peg you for a Guinness drinker,” she says, eyeing his drink suspiciously. “Let me guess – you’re waiting for him.”
Will doesn’t have the energy to deny it. “I helped him out earlier, that’s all. He said he’d be here. Wanted to buy me a drink,” he murmurs, tracing a fading ring of condensation left behind on the table by someone else’s glass.
Beverly sighs, mock pitying. “And yet you’re here first. Of course you are.” She takes a sip of her drink, watching him over the rim. “You’re making it too easy for him, you know. He only notices people when they don’t want him to.”
Will gives her a weak smile. “Maybe I’ll try not wanting him, then.”
She frowns. “Good luck with that. Just promise me you won’t let him turn you into an experiment. He’s subtle about it, but I saw it happen last year… I don’t want that fate for you.”
Before Will can answer, a small commotion ripples through the pub, and he doesn’t have to look to know who’s causing it. The energy changes around him; people seem to rearrange themselves slightly, conversations thinning and reforming in his wake.
Hannibal steps through the crowd as though the space were made for him, completely relaxed. The light seems to find him automatically: tailored coat, dark hair, and a knowing smile when he sets eyes on Will. He exchanges a word with someone next to him as he rests his elbows on the bar, and a moment later a glass of red wine is slid over to him. He didn’t even have to order it.
Beverly mutters under her breath, “I’ll leave you to him. Just remember what I said.” Then she peels away, disappearing back towards her table.
Will turns as Hannibal reaches him, the hum of the pub fading in his ears as his eyes travel up from the glint of his silver belt buckle to the tease of his open shirt collar.
“Will Graham,” Hannibal says, his voice quiet but cutting through the noise all the same. “You’re punctual.”
Will swallows. “You said seven.”
“I did,” Hannibal says, taking the seat opposite him. “And I admire a man who takes me at my word.”
The warmth of him is immediate and intoxicating, almost overwhelming – smoke, wool, and something indefinably expensive. Will feels his knee start to bob beneath the table as he takes a hearty swig of his drink.
“Tell me,” Hannibal says, turning toward him slightly. “Are you always this prepared, or am I a special case?”
Will can’t tell if it’s a tease or a test, and the uncertainty only makes his pulse stutter harder. “I guess that depends,” he says quietly, eyes fixed on the way the light hits the curve of Hannibal’s wine glass. “What do you think?”
Hannibal’s smile brightens, almost imperceptibly. “I suppose we’ll see.”
Will glances out of the window and takes a brief, cleansing breath. Here in the corner, they’re half-hidden by a pillar and a clutch of hanging plants, which makes this meeting feel private and intentional, which in turn makes Will’s heart race. The pub has filled up a little more now; laughter comes in bursts, then fades again. Will has to lean forward to hear Hannibal speak, spilling over into his personal space.
“So,” he says, fiddling restlessly with a beer mat. “Experimental Psychology. That’s… Interesting. It sounds like a lot of lab rats.”
Hannibal’s eyes glitter. “Sometimes. More often it’s people.”
Will huffs a quiet laugh. “Willing participants?”
“Rarely,” Hannibal says, smiling into his glass. Will watches as he takes a sip, blood red liquid spilling into his mouth before it disappears from view. Hannibal wets his lips once he’s swallowed, savouring the taste of the wine, and all Will can think about is chasing it. “My tutor likes to say that all human behaviour is experiment. The question is whether we choose to observe it.”
Will tilts his head, eyes drifting from Hannibal’s mouth up to his eyes. “You mean, watching people without them knowing?”
“Something like that.” Hannibal’s eyes hold him. “There’s a study I’m assisting with at the moment. We look at projection, the ways people invent narratives about strangers. Someone sees a man across a room and imagines his life, his voice, his habits. What he reads, who he loves. The mind fills in what it doesn’t know with what it wants to find.”
Will’s mouth goes dry. “Sounds… Invasive.”
“Only if the subject discovers he’s been imagined,” Hannibal says. “Then it can become… Intimate.”
Will feels Hannibal’s words like a touch to the hollow of his throat. He forces a breath through his nose and finds his voice. “And what happens in your study when the subject finds out?”
Hannibal leans back, expression unreadable. “That’s what we’re still determining. Some retreat, some retaliate, some…” He pauses, eyes flickering briefly to Will’s mouth. “Reciprocate.”
Will finds he suddenly can’t think. He watches as Hannibal reaches into the inside pocket of his coat, pulling out a fresh packet of cigarettes. He takes one for himself, setting it easily between his lips, then offers the box to Will. Will swallows, then pulls one free with shaking fingers, putting it in his mouth then leaning close when Hannibal strikes a match for them to share. It brings them unbearably close, and Will takes the opportunity to admire Hannibal’s eyelashes while his gaze is dipped and distracted.
When Will eventually leans back and blinks through the smoke, he takes the smallest of trembling drags as he watches Hannibal exhale smoke through his nose, cigarette still perched between his lips. Will is conscious he’s looking at his mouth, but he can’t seem to stop.
“Do you ever imagine people?” he asks quietly, resting his cigarette in the ashtray, content to let it burn.
Hannibal’s smile is small and dangerous as he finally shrugs out of his coat. “Constantly.”
The air between them shivers. Somewhere, a glass breaks, and Will startles slightly, pulling back, trying to laugh it off. “Guess that’s what makes you good at analysing it,” he says, though his voice sounds thinner than he means it to be.
“I hope so,” Hannibal murmurs. “Though sometimes I wonder if it makes me cruel.”
Will’s pulse stutters again as he wets his lips. He can’t tell if it’s a warning or an invitation. He wants to ask ‘What do you see when you look at me?’ but instead he swallows and says, “Maybe we’re all cruel, to some degree.”
“Perhaps.” Hannibal tips his glass toward him. “To cruelty, then. So long as it’s honest.”
Will opens his mouth to reply, but before he can say anything else, the door swings open, and a chorus of animated chatter cuts through the pub. Hannibal glances up, and Will follows his eyes to see Alana Bloom leading a bright, chaotic parade of people toward them. The table seems to fill with them before he can process who’s who, bodies pressing close, voices overlapping. The atmosphere shifts instantly, warm and perfumed and exclusive.
“There you are,” Alana says, dropping a hand to Hannibal’s shoulder before she bends to kiss his cheek. Will straightens in his seat. “We thought you’d vanished. You’re missing Evelyn’s tragic dissertation story.”
“Tragic?” Hannibal repeats, his tone mild. “Or merely predictable?”
There’s laughter, and Will suddenly feels left out. He sits back, trying not to shrink under the sudden scrutiny as Alana finally notices him.
“Who’s this?” she asks, polite but uncertain, the way people sound when they’re trying to place a name they don’t really care to know.
“Will Graham,” Hannibal says smoothly, before Will can answer for himself. “He saved me earlier. He’s quite the good Samaritan.”
Several heads turn as a hush falls over the group. Will feels suddenly hot under his clothes, reaching for his previously abandoned cigarette just for something to do. He taps the substantial tower of ash from its tip, then leaves it resting between his fingers as his thumb traces the gnarls in the tabletop.
“Saved you?” Alana arches a brow. “From what?”
“From an untimely brush with mediocrity,” Hannibal replies, exchanging a knowing look with Will who seizes it with a small smile. The table laughs again, but quieter this time, more uncertain. None of them are quite sure what he means, but they’re eager to be in on the joke. Will feels a flush of pride to already be there.
Someone slides onto the bench beside Will, forcing him closer to Hannibal, who has now given his chair to Alana. Their thighs press together, and the contact feels intentional, though Hannibal doesn’t seem to notice. Will immediately goes very still, afraid any sudden movement will disturb him or move him away.
Alana leans in, glass in hand. “So, Will,” she says, drawing out his name. “You’re in… Philosophy, right?”
She smiles as she asks. Will notices the way she angles her body toward him without quite closing the distance, how she gives people room even as she steps into it herself. She’s careful with her curiosity, he thinks, gentle by design. It makes her easy to talk to, easy to underestimate
“Philosophy and Psychology,” he manages, wondering how she knew. Her eyes don’t move from his when he answers; it settles attentively, already slotting him into place. Will’s eyes drift around the circle of faces beyond her, but none of them offer the same kind of focus she does.
“Oh, so you two must have a lot to talk about,” she says, nodding toward Hannibal with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Endlessly,” Hannibal murmurs, and Will has to glance down at his drink.
Conversation spirals around him and Will lets it happen. He feels like he’s witnessing it all through frosted glass. Then someone calls out to him across the table.
“Graham, you’ve not bought a round yet!”
It’s said like a joke, but people take it up like a chant. Will laughs weakly, but they keep going. He feels a flash like lightning in his chest, catching Alana’s wary look before he stands.
“Sure,” he says, forcing his voice to seem light and level. “Why not. Same again?
A chorus of yeses follows him up to the bar.
The order is simple enough – four pints, two gin and tonics, and a lurid cocktail with an umbrella – but Will’s pulse is drumming hard, louder than the music as he recites the order at the bar. He reaches for his wallet, thumb brushing the folded notes inside, and hesitates. He has enough, barely, but a dark curiosity twists inside him, or maybe it’s hope.
He wonders what would happen if he didn’t have enough. The thought strikes like a match inside him, and he glances at Hannibal to test the fantasy. What would it take for him to intervene? Would he like Will more if he were destitute? Would he find him interesting, or perhaps develop a protective streak if he thought him impoverished? Take Will under his wing, look after him?
When the barman tells him the total, Will makes a show of patting his pockets, deciding to proceed with his experiment.
“Shit,” he says, brow furrowing. “I must’ve left my card. I’ve only got…” He pulls out a fiver, the lie tasting both bitter and thrilling in his mouth. “Can I settle it tomorrow? I’m good for it.”
The barman’s expression doesn’t move. “Afraid not, mate.”
Will leans in a little, voice lowering, like he’s negotiating something darker than beer. “Please. I’ll come by tomorrow afternoon. I swear.”
The man looks ready to tell him where to go when a voice slices through the din behind him.
“Ah, there you are,” Hannibal says. Will turns to find him beside him at the bar, too close, a smile resting easily on his face. “You dropped this.”
He places a fresh twenty on the counter.
Will stares at it. “No, I didn’t—”
“Of course you did. Quite careless of you,” Hannibal interrupts, tone perfectly level, a whisper of amusement colouring it. He nods to the barman. “Keep the change.”
The man shrugs and rings it through. Hannibal waits patiently, watching as Will gathers the drinks, hands trembling just slightly as he does it.
When Will finally meets his eyes again, he says softly, “You didn’t have to—”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Hannibal replies, and his dark eyes linger on Will a beat too long before he turns back toward the table.
Will watches him go, chest tight, adrenaline still burning in his veins. The lie sits between his ribs amongst it all, hot and strange, warming him pleasantly. He’d wanted Hannibal to save him and he had.
When he follows with the tray, Hannibal’s already reclaimed his seat, a perfect picture of composure amid the noise. As Will squeezes back in beside him, he leans in close enough for his breath to touch Will’s ear.
“You do invite rescue beautifully, Will Graham.”
Will’s breath catches and he smiles before he can help it. “Maybe I just know my audience,” he says before he can stop himself.
Hannibal’s smile brightens. “Then I’m flattered.”
Will doesn’t answer. He lifts his glass instead and drinks, tasting smoke and gin, and wonders when exactly he stopped pretending this was all an accident.
~
The library is quieter than most sanctuaries this afternoon, which is perhaps why Hannibal likes it so much. Silence, to him, is not the absence of sound but a distillation of it – the low hum of radiators, the scrape of chair legs on hardwood, the soft cadence of a page turned. He listens to these things, hears thought as it takes shape in the air.
From his vantage on the mezzanine, he can see Will Graham alone at a long oak table below, a citadel of books constructed around him. He’s bent over his reading, lips parted slightly as though mouthing the words to himself. The concentration evident on his face has a feral quality to it; instinctive and utterly absorbing.
Hannibal lingers, observing the small mechanics of his body: the way he runs a hand through his hair when he reaches the end of a page, the small frown that deepens as he annotates in the margins. He recognises the posture of obsession when he sees it, devouring knowledge like a starving man.
He made inquiries that morning. Will is a scholarship student, solitary but gifted. His peers in Will’s introductory seminars noticed he finds eye contact distracting, and he typically prefers to observe unseen, though Hannibal has noted with interest that Will doesn’t seem to have that problem with him. He looks at him easily, staring into his eyes like he’s trying to read the thoughts behind them.
There’s something untamed about Will that calls to him, like the scent of soil after rain or the pulse of an animal that refuses to be domesticated.
Will rises to collect another book, so Hannibal descends the staircase slowly, silent despite the ancient wood. Will doesn’t notice him until he’s standing right behind him, peering over his shoulder to watch him trace his fingertips down the spine of a well-loved, leather-bound book.
“Mr Graham,” Hannibal says softly, the words rolling easily off his tongue. “I see you survived last night’s baptism by fire.”
Will glances back at him, startled, then smiles tightly. “Barely. Your friends are… A lot.”
Hannibal’s lips curve. “They do rather multiply in noise and number, but you seemed to weather them admirably.”
He watches a faint blush bloom at the shelves of Will’s cheekbones.
“I think I probably made a fool of myself,” Will says quietly, eyes returning to the shelves in front of him.
“On the contrary, you performed an experiment in social endurance,” Hannibal says close to Will’s ear. “Quite useful in our line of study.”
Will huffs a small laugh, eyes flickering over to the books on his desk. “I’ve been reading about projection. You said it was about how people invent each other… It got me thinking.”
Hannibal moves closer, following Will’s eyes. “And what did it make you think of?” he asks, scanning the spines – The Mask of Sanity, Human Aggression, Animal Behaviour and Violence. His smile deepens, pleased by this inadvertent confession. “Interesting reading for someone contemplating projection,” he adds lightly. “I wonder, do you often find yourself projecting, Will?”
Will shifts, drifting back until he’s almost touching Hannibal’s chest. He considers the question more seriously than it deserves, brow knitting. “I don’t think so,” he says at last. “It’s more like… Noticing what’s already there. The way people leave impressions behind them. Little habits, or gaps.” He shrugs, his shoulders tensing. “Places do it too.”
“Is that so?” Hannibal asks, his attention honing. “How modest you are. Most people project because they cannot bear the uncertainty of others. You describe something closer to identification, or perhaps reconstruction.” He tilts his head. “You’re more familiar with projection than you claim to be. Just not as its author. You see through it.”
Will’s breath catches, the corner of his mouth lifting in a nervous, disbelieving smile.
“Maybe I do both,” he says softly. “We build stories around people because we want to know them. Maybe it’s not projection. Maybe it’s desire.”
“A beautiful distinction,” Hannibal murmurs. “Though desire and invention are rarely strangers. We imagine what we wish existed, and sometimes…” He wets his lips close to Will’s ear, smiling as he finally turns to face him. “Sometimes we meet it.”
Will laughs under his breath, his curiosity winning over his shyness. “And what happens then?”
“Then we must decide what we’ve really found,” Hannibal says, resting a hand against the shelf beside Will’s shoulder, boxing him in. He lets the tension that has built around them swell for a few beats before he looks away.
“I must confess, my research has shifted since that study. I’ve now begun exploring violence.” He studies Will’s face, eager to analyse his reaction. “Not its performance, but its appetite. What happens when instinct is forced to disguise itself as civility. I find repression breeds far greater brutality than impulse ever could.”
Hannibal sees it happen, the subtle withdrawal, not of the body but of the mind. Will’s eyes drop away, lashes lowering as if to shield him from something newly exposed. The ease drains from him, replaced by a stillness Hannibal recognises at once. It’s caution, and the awareness that curiosity cuts both ways. Hannibal waits patiently, tasting the change in Will and noting with satisfaction that whatever he’s touched has hidden teeth.
“So, you think repression twists it, makes it worse,” Will says slowly, as if testing the thought. “Turns instinct into something sharper… Do you—“ he begins, cutting himself off, but Hannibal waits, watching him carefully, waiting for him to build the courage to continue. “Do you think maybe… Maybe we’re all violent underneath?”
The question lands softly, but it ripples through Hannibal all the same. He’s thought as much since the first moment he saw Will – that there is something coiled tight inside him, waiting behind those eyes, something Hannibal recognises intimately. He feels the air shift between them, a pulse, newly alive. Beneath Will’s hesitance he hears curiosity, not fear; a man testing the edges of his own darkness. It moves Hannibal more than he expects, and he wonders how long it will take before Will stops pretending he’s speaking in generalities.
“I think we’re all authentic underneath,” Hannibal says softly. ”Violence is merely authenticity without permission.”
He watches the small motion of Will’s throat as he swallows – a modest, involuntary betrayal of nerves. He looks almost startled by Hannibal’s assessment, as though hearing something he’s already thought, spoken aloud by someone else. It delights Hannibal endlessly.
“I guess so,” Will whispers, eyes darting to Hannibal’s mouth, and in that instant an energy within Hannibal that’s usually so vibrant suddenly falls abruptly silent. In its place comes a pulse of pure, wordless want, burning behind his ribs like a truth he’s spent a lifetime avoiding.
He feels momentarily thrown off kilter by it before he seamlessly recovers, letting his shoulder rest against the bookshelf, close enough that Will has to tilt his chin up to meet his eyes. He smells faintly of rain and paper and a hint of fragility; a physical and emotional restlessness.
“Psychology and Philosophy,” Hannibal says finally. “An ambitious combination. What do you hope to find between them?”
Will glances past him, then back. “Something like truth.”
Hannibal tilts his head, amused. “Truth,” he repeats. “Such a simple word for something so elusive. You’ll forgive me, but it sounds almost naïve.”
Will’s mouth pulls into a soft smile. “What would you call it instead?” he asks, taking a small step back to create some breathing room between them. Hannibal leans in closer, chasing him.
“A compulsion,” Hannibal says, glancing briefly at Will’s books again. “You want to know what makes people do things, don’t you? Why they lie, why they hurt. You’re studying the architecture of the human soul, savage as it may be, as though it might yield a pattern under glass.”
He watches the words settle over Will, the slight tightening at the hollow of his throat, the smallest tell.
“You think human nature, violence, cruelty, can be explained,” he goes on, reading him easily. “That understanding it might absolve it.”
“I—” Will exhales a small, humourless sound, shaking his head. “You make it sound pathological.”
“It is,” Hannibal murmurs. “But then, all curiosity is. To look too closely at another person – to see them entirely – that is its own form of violence.”
Will’s eyes lift to his, searching them quickly, like a storm trying to read the sky that created it. “You think observation is violent?”
Hannibal’s smile softens. “Doesn’t it take something from the subject?”
A silence stretches between them. Will’s throat works, and his eyes flicker from Hannibal’s mouth to his eyes again.
“So, what—” Will begins, cheeks colouring, tone probing. “Are you assuming that’s what I want? To hurt people?”
There’s challenge in it, not innocence.
Hannibal allows himself a pause, almost tender. “I think,” he says, “You already know what it feels like to want to.”
Will’s silence is answer enough. He doesn’t step back, and Hannibal, indulgent, doesn’t either.
“I don’t think that makes you wicked,” he adds. “Only human. Most people are too polite to admit it.”
Will’s expression shifts, more thoughtful and a little wary. “Maybe politeness keeps the world from burning down,” he says as he looks away, quiet and half to himself.
The air between them has thinned, and Hannibal straightens slightly, as though granting a small act of mercy.
“You have an unusual mind, Will Graham,” he says finally. “I’d like another opportunity to see how it behaves outside of this place.”
Will arches a brow, mouth twitching. “Outside as in socially, or scientifically?”
“Just a small gathering next weekend,” Hannibal replies smoothly. “Friends, conversation, a little wine. You should come.”
A flash of disbelief, or anticipation, passes over Will’s face. “You’re inviting me to a party?” he asks with a small, shy smile.
Hannibal’s mouth curves of its own volition. “Consider it professional interest.”
Will stiffens, eyes dropping away from him, the light in them dimming just slightly.
“Professional interest,” he echoes, and Hannibal notes the shift with curiosity, the little wound he’s inflicted.
He lets the silence hover a heartbeat too long before answering. “Would you prefer I told the truth?” he asks softly. “That I find myself curious beyond the boundaries of my studies? That I’d like to learn more about who you really are?”
Will’s eyelashes flutter, and his mouth twitches into an uncertain smile.
Hannibal returns it, then steps aside, finally giving Will a path through the narrow space to make his escape.
“Saturday. Nine o’clock,” he says, pulling a notepad from his pocket to write down his address.
Will hesitates, his hand brushing the spine of a nearby book as though to steady himself.
“Right,” he says, almost to himself as he takes the slip of paper from Hannibal’s fingers and clutches it to his chest. “Nine.”
Hannibal inclines his head in acknowledgement. Will lingers a moment longer than is necessary, then turns away, his shoulders tight beneath his sweater as he retreats back to the sanctuary of his books. Hannibal watches him disappear down the aisle, the smallest suggestion of colour still high on the nape of neck.
When the quiet finally settles again, Hannibal exhales. The air tastes faintly of dust and Will’s lingering cologne. He can already imagine Will among the flicker of candlelight and glass this weekend, awkward and alert, the soft panic of prey that hasn’t yet decided whether to run.
He selects a worn volume from the shelf and slides it beneath his arm. Some pursuits, he reminds himself, are best begun slowly, and curiosity always thrives on patience.
~
Will spends the next week and a half in a heightened state of anticipation, each day crawling past with exaggerated slowness. He buries himself in the library, expanding on his research into projection, violence, human nature – anything to distract himself from thinking about the party. If he stops for too long, he stares into nothing and starts wondering what he should wear, what he should talk about, what he could do to secure a moment alone with Hannibal.
In between everything else, he replays their meeting in the library over and over in his head. The way Hannibal’s storm-dark eyes seemed to curl around him, the way his words sliced straight to the bone. Will could tell that Hannibal could see things inside him that nobody else ever had, that nobody else ever could. His obsessive tendencies, his inner darkness, the violence that flickers just beneath his skin that he works so desperately hard to quell. Will wants to show him more. He wants to see what more there is to discover in Hannibal.
Since that chance meeting, Will has watched him everywhere across the city: through pub windows, across parks, lingering in quiet corners just out of sight. He notes Hannibal’s late arrivals and early departures, memorises who he meets, how he moves, how he occupies space, every small detail feeding his obsession. Each fresh sighting stokes the same relentless curiosity: he wants to know him, to understand him, to be granted the same intimate insight Hannibal draws effortlessly from others.
Now he’s walking to the party – some apartment in the city centre – marching through the darkness and squinting at the street signs. His heart is already running ahead of him, like his body knows where it’s going before he does. He’s so busy scanning the corners of buildings for the right address that he almost collides with Jimmy, who’s leaning against a lamppost with Brian in tow, both grinning like they’ve been waiting to catch him.
“Well, well,” Jimmy says. “Look who’s returned to the land of the living. Beverly’s been looking for you.”
Will stops in his tracks, glancing at them only briefly before his eyes continue searching around him for clues of where he is. “I’ve been around,” he says, rubbing at his forehead.
“She’s got a soft spot for you already,” Brian adds. “But if you’re sick of her, I’m sure she’ll find another poor soul to babysit in no time.”
“I’m not sick of her,” Will replies, harsher than he means to be. “She barely knows me. Why does she even care?”
Brian and Jimmy exchange a look.
“She tends to have a thing for vulnerable people,” Brian says, eyeing Will up and down. “Guess she saw something in you she wanted to look out for.”
Will frowns, uncomfortable under their scrutiny. The word ‘vulnerable’ lingers in his head, and he can’t tell if it stings or just embarrasses him.
“Well, tell her I’m doing just fine,” he mutters, turning away before they can say anything else. Their conversation follows him down the street, fading behind him as the city noise swells, but his focus is already elsewhere. He checks his watch, 8:48pm, just as he finds the street he’s looking for. He breathes a sigh of relief.
About halfway down the alley, he finds it: a red door, already wide open and much louder inside than Will was expecting. Music leaks down the stairwell and into the street, and for a moment Will almost turns back, struck by the sudden awareness that he doesn’t belong here and that this isn’t what he was expecting. But the thought of leaving, of missing the chance to see Hannibal, keeps him moving forward.
He knocks once on the open door before realising nobody can hear him and heading inside. Warm light spills into the hallway, diffused through candles and half-empty wine glasses. The smell of perfume and red wine mixes with a richer, spiced and faintly animal aroma. Will drops his shoulders and attempts to relax as he ascends the stairs, trying not to look too obviously out of place.
The apartment feels both lived-in and curated: books spilling from shelves, oil paintings hung between clusters of people with cigarettes and champagne flutes. Conversations knot and spill over around him, some academic, some more intimate, and Will feels the same strange sensation he did when he first met Hannibal, as though everyone here knows something he doesn’t.
He moves through the crowd, offering tight smiles, looking for him. Hannibal isn’t immediately visible, which only hones the sense of unreality threatening to crawl down Will’s throat and suffocate him. Despite his growing sense of unease he keeps searching, scanning faces, shoulders, and hands for anything familiar. He feels overly aware of every movement, every laugh, every stranger who brushes too close.
A glass of wine is pressed into his hand by a girl he doesn’t recognise.
“Drink,” she says, smiling vaguely, already turning away.
He takes a cautious sip, wincing when it burns his tongue, then sets it down again, feeling suddenly hot and overdressed. He’s on the verge of leaving the room, or leaving the party entirely, when he catches sight of him across the crowd.
Hannibal is standing near the balcony doors, head inclined slightly as he listens to someone speak – one hand circled at the base of his glass, the other tucked casually into his pocket. The light from outside cuts over his shoulder, painting the edge of his face in gold. He looks utterly at ease and completely untouchable.
Will freezes, watching him. The sound of the party dulls, receding under the rhythm of his own heartbeat. He stands there staring for what feels like an eternity until finally, agonisingly, Hannibal must sense his presence. His head lifts, eyes cutting cleanly through the crowd until they find Will’s. That same knowing smile passes across his mouth before he murmurs something to his companion and starts toward him.
Will jolts. He straightens instinctively, trying to look casual as Hannibal weaves effortlessly through the room, every turn of his body smooth and concise, people shifting out of his way as if they’ve been trained to do just that.
“Will,” Hannibal says, his voice low and close, as though he’s speaking only to him. “I’m glad you came.”
Will swallows. “I, uh— I wasn’t sure if I’d find the place.”
“You found it perfectly,” Hannibal says with amusement. He gestures mildly toward the room around them. “Forgive the noise. My friends tend to bring their own chaos.”
Will glances around, the party now louder and brighter than ever. “Do you live here?” he asks, raising his voice slightly. “I was surprised when I saw the address – I thought you lived on campus.”
“I do,” Hannibal replies. “But I keep this apartment as well. For when quiet is necessary, or impossible.” His smile deepens slightly, as though he’s letting Will in on a private joke. Will’s heart skips a beat in his chest. “Consider this an experiment in the latter.”
Will huffs a breath that might be a laugh. “It’s… More than I was expecting.”
“Yes,” Hannibal says, glancing past him at the swelling crowd. “It always is.”
Someone calls his name from across the room – a woman’s voice, half-laughing, half-commanding. He turns back to Will apologetically.
“You’ll excuse me a moment?” he says. “Make yourself comfortable. Drink, eat. I’ll find you later.”
And just like that, he’s gone again, swallowed up by conversation and movement and bodies, leaving Will totally alone.
Will stays where he is, still tasting the echo of Hannibal’s presence. The warmth of his voice lingers like a hand on his shoulder, his cologne faint on the air. He watches him move through the crowd, graceful and contained within a Merlot-coloured shirt, perfectly tailored across his broad shoulders. The room seems to bend subtly toward him wherever he goes.
Will wets his lips and takes a breath, stepping back out of the way, next to a vanity, until his time comes around again.
He tries to talk to people, half-heartedly, but it’s useless. Everyone here feels like they belong to a world he will never fully understand. Most look through him as if he doesn’t even exist. Every time he catches sight of Hannibal’s familiar silhouette, he’s gone again before he can home in on it, drawing Will tighter into himself.
Eventually, he stops trying to blend in. He finds a corner near the kitchen and starts drinking methodically. The wine tastes expensive and sour, but the more he drinks, the less it matters. Time becomes shapeless. The room ebbs and folds around him, the light sinking from gold to a red-wine hue. Music trembles through the walls, and Will drinks until the sound dulls, until his tongue feels heavy in his mouth and the alcohol burns like retribution.
He lost sight of Hannibal somewhere between the second and third glass. At first, he watched for him, following the rise of that distinctive voice across the room, swallowing the shimmer of resentment when someone leaned too close to laugh at something he’d said, but the more Will searched, the less he found. Hannibal’s presence seems to exist only in flashes: a glimpse of dark hair, the cuff of a sleeve, the curl of a smile not meant for him. The ache of it has started to sour.
He shouldn’t have come. He shouldn’t have thought this meant something. He pictures Hannibal inviting him the way one might invite a particularly interesting specimen to a lab. Will was Hannibal’s experiment, just like Beverly had said he would be, just like Will had wanted, but not like this. The room feels smaller by the minute, his skin too tight, his breathing too loud.
By the sixth glass of room-temperature wine, he’s angry, though he couldn’t say at whom. At Hannibal, for making him feel this way. At himself, for letting him.
He leaves his half-finished drink on the nearest table and pushes through the press of people, out into the stairwell. From there, he stumbles down the stairs, collapsing into a heap on the bottom step just to sit, just to breathe and wait for his head to stop spinning. The front door is still open, revealing the lamp-lit street beyond, calling to him like a beacon, like heaven, like an escape.
A small, humiliating part of him doesn’t want to give up this easily. He almost wants to go back upstairs, find Hannibal, convince him that he’s more than a lab rat, but the stronger, more wounded part of him wins out. He can’t bear any more of this prolonged embarrassment, this deepening feeling that he was invited as a spectacle or a joke. He rises on shaking legs and stumbles out into the street.
The cold air outside hits him like a slap but he heaves it in anyway. He stumbles down the middle of the empty road, unsteady but determined, the city unfolding in front of him, slick pavements and the smear of lamplight against wet stone. He doesn’t know where he’s going, he can’t remember how to get home, but it doesn’t matter. He just wants to be anywhere but here.
He’s halfway down the street when he hears his name drifting toward him on the air. It’s quiet, but unmistakable – that smooth, patient cadence that always seems to find its way beneath Will’s skin. Will turns, heart lurching, and sees Hannibal standing a few paces away, coat unbuttoned, hair dishevelled as though he’s been looking for him for some time, even though it’s hardly been a few minutes. Will shakes his head at the absurdness of it all, of the audacity of him to look like this now.
“I was beginning to think you’d vanished,” Hannibal says. There’s no reproach in it, but it cuts through Will all the same.
He laughs under his breath. “You didn’t exactly make it easy to stay.”
Hannibal regards him for a long moment, the wind teasing the corner of his collar. “You seem… Uncomfortable.”
“I’m fine,” he lies, so obviously and so petulantly that he winces, pushing his fingers through his hair and pulling tight to try and sober himself up. It doesn’t help.
Hannibal takes a step closer, then another, until Will can smell the party he just left behind – smoke, wine, books, and a depth that belongs only to Hannibal.
“You’re drunk,” Hannibal says softly, reaching for Will and tracing his thumb along his jaw.
Will twitches away from his touch, then regrets it. “Yeah,” he says, because it’s true, and because he doesn’t want to talk about anything else.
Hannibal slowly lowers his hand, looking injured, and the sight pains Will so acutely that he has to look away from him, staring determinedly at a row of chained up bikes as he takes a breath.
“I think you should stay,” Hannibal says finally, not a suggestion but a command.
Will laughs, the sound coming rough and unsteady, his earlier bitterness bubbling rapidly back to the surface. He turns away, continuing down the street, heart thumping a heavy, distorted rhythm in his chest, but when he glances back, Hannibal is trailing along behind him.
“You invite me here, barely say a word to me all night, and now you’re following me?” Will says, incredulous.
Hannibal smiles innocently. “I didn’t want you to leave angry with me.”
Will looks at him, really looks at him, his dark, earnest eyes and his high cheekbones and the divine curve of his mouth – the mouth Will has been unable to stop thinking about since the moment he first laid eyes on it. His chest twists painfully, and all at once the resentment, the alcohol, the longing, all collapse together into one ungovernable impulse.
Before he can think better of it, he’s moving purposefully across the cobbles, closing the space between them to take hold of Hannibal’s collar and pull him in close. He hesitates right at the precipice, but only for a moment, only to savour this exquisite, unknown closeness before drifting slowly forward and kissing him.
For a suspended second, Hannibal doesn’t move; he simply allows it to happen, the warmth of his mouth shockingly still against Will’s, the world spinning quietly around them. Will can feel his own pulse hammering between them, frantic and adolescent and humiliatingly alive. He presses in harder, the taste of wine and bitterness thick on his tongue, but Hannibal remains motionless, steady as a brick wall before him.
And then, barely, he exhales. A slow, measured breath against Will’s cheek that could almost be mistaken for reciprocation. That small mercy is enough to undo Will utterly as a shiver drips lazily down his spine.
Will breaks away first, breath ragged, heart in his throat. He looks at Hannibal and finds his expression blank, his eyes neither shocked nor scolding, simply knowing. It makes Will want to crawl out of his own skin.
“I shouldn’t have—” he starts, but the words collapse under the weight of themselves. His throat is tight, his face burning. He feels a primitive urge to hide, to destroy something, to run until this version of himself disappears, but he can’t. He just stands there, caught in the net of Hannibal’s gaze.
When Hannibal finally speaks, it’s almost gentle.
“You feel too much,” Hannibal says quietly. Not condescending, just true, but it wounds Will all the same.
Will swallows, staring down at the cobblestones. He can’t tell if he wants to hit Hannibal or apologise to him.
“Do you always make people feel like this?” he asks quietly, shamefully, his voice trembling.
“Like what?” Hannibal asks, maddeningly.
Will looks at him, finding the same unmoved expression on his face. His fingers clench into fists at his sides until he forces them back out, feeling the cold air against his open palms.
“Like insects,” he says through the tightness in his throat. “Under your microscope.”
“Only when they insist on crawling toward my flame,” Hannibal replies lightly.
Will’s head snaps up at that. It feels like a cruel metaphor, but the corner of Hannibal’s mouth betrays a softer intent, easing Will’s shoulders back down.
They stand there for a long moment, the city humming quietly around them, until Hannibal reaches out to him again, this time brushing his fingers over Will’s sleeve.
“Let me see you home,” he says quietly, and Will’s heart trips over itself behind his ribs.
He almost refuses. He wants to assert that he doesn’t need help, but he can’t. He doesn’t really want to. He’s been waiting all night for an opportunity like this – some time alone with Hannibal where he can be the sole focus of his heady attentions. The shame only makes it worse; he feels stripped bare in a way that almost feels good.
Hannibal doesn’t say anything when Will sways on his feet; he just catches him, one hand steadying his shoulder, the other curling around his wrist. The contact makes Will smile as he sighs into the night and lets himself be led home through the damp streets, the air clean and cool against his flushed face. It feels just right, the two of them walking quietly together, shoulder to shoulder in the cold.
By the time they reach his building, the alcohol and adrenaline have conspired into a dense, glowing fog inside Will’s head. He fumbles for his keys, but Hannibal takes them gently from his hands, guiding him inside as if they’ve done this a hundred times before.
His dorm room feels dim and too close, and he can hear the thud of his own pulse in his ears. Hannibal moves through the space like he’s been there before, switching on the bedside lamp, drawing back the covers. Then he turns his attention to Will.
“Sit,” he says quietly, and Will obeys, eyes fixed on Hannibal’s face as he slowly sinks down onto the mattress.
His breath catches when Hannibal’s fingers undo the top buttons of his shirt, his touch light but impossibly steady, intimate without ever crossing the line. Every so often his fingertips catch Will’s bare skin, leaving him feeling raw. When the buttons are undone to his sternum, Hannibal pauses. He lifts Will’s glasses with both hands, his fingers briefly framing Will’s face, brushing the bridge of his nose, the warmth of his skin lingering a second too long. Only then does Hannibal draw Will’s shirt up and over his head, bringing them perilously close once more.
Will wants to speak, to apologise, to explain, but every time he opens his mouth the words die against the heavy air between them, leaving him quiet and childlike as Hannibal readies him for bed with practised hands.
Then Hannibal crouches slightly to unlace his shoes, and Will feels his stomach lurch; shame, gratitude, want — all tangled together in his chest.
“Why are you doing this?” he manages, voice slurred and thin.
“Because you need someone to,” Hannibal murmurs.
Will swallows, watching Hannibal blearily until the sight becomes too much. He drops his gaze to his belt instead, unbuckling it himself with clumsy hands – anything to spare himself the exquisite torture of Hannibal doing it for him. Better this than endure the slow agony of Hannibal’s hands there, gentle but impersonal, undoing him without meaning to.
“You don’t have to—“ Will tries as Hannibal reaches for him, but he disregards him, pulling Will’s jeans down his thighs until finally Will is sitting in only his underwear, shivering beneath the pale, cold moonlight.
Hannibal eases him down onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he draws the covers over Will’s shoulders, as if tucking away the evidence of everything that’s just passed between them. When Will’s hand shoots out and catches his wrist, he’s relieved when Hannibal doesn’t pull away. Instead, his pulse flutters steadily beneath Will’s fingers.
Will stares up at him, a halo of lamplight catching in his hair, his expression calm, almost tender, and thinks, ‘This is love. This must be what love feels like’.
Hannibal reaches out, brushing his thumb along Will’s temple as a small smile flickers across his face.
“Sleep,” he says. “You’ll feel better when you wake.”
“Will I?” Will asks, wanting to nuzzle against Hannibal’s hand, sleep with it under his cheek like a pillow. He closes his eyes and sighs. “I’d wager I’ll feel worse.”
“We’ll see,” Hannibal murmurs, so soothing that Will feels himself drifting with surprising ease.
By the time his eyes flutter open again, the room is empty and dark. Only the faintest trace of cologne lingers in the air, and the sheets beneath Will’s hands are cold.