Chapter Text
Hannibal gives him a nod and Will closes his eyes, immobile in the black leather chair, hands clasped around the armrests. His body tries to relax as he listens to the disarming voice of his psychiatrist. He hears footsteps on the floor and soon is invaded by the scent of strong cologne. Hannibal slides careful fingers into his hair and brushes the dark locks away from his forehead; his other hand rests against Will’s shoulder.
"I want you to understand that this is not because I have a lack of faith in you, Will. It is simply so that this experience will be easier.”
He let go of his shoulder for a moment. Will’s muscles tense and the corner of his mouth twists uncomfortably as something soft and silky rubs against his left cheek and temple. Slowly, Hannibal slides the blindfold between his curls and knots it in his back, effectively blocking his view. Only when the hands leaves him do he recovers his ability to breath. His head slumps down, as if his neck gave out.
Will raises one hand tentatively, touches the fabric upon his eyes with two fingers, and traces along the shape of his skull until he reaches its back. The blindfold feels strange on his skin… it’s pressure is lax enough not to be a hinderance, yet it has a paralyzing effect on the rest of his body.
The darkness is familiar; he’s been there countless of times. He should be terrified, but he realizes it’s not the case. He pictures an ostrich with its head deep within the sand, while a lion roams nearby with palpable hunger; the bird isn’t scared though, it still believes in its ability to fly.
Will discovers himself standing in the middle of the ocean. Blindness offers him a boat to stand on, yet it is lost to the lulls of many waves. Hannibal’s presence serves as a beacon to where he should sail. He’s at a distance, visible through the mist, howling in dark pockets of his mind.
It is an uneasy task to quiet him.
The music comes almost as a relief, the weight of the silence too much for his shoulders to bear. It’s different from Hannibal’s usual repertoire; not a melody but sounds. Percussions clamours without competition, claves and oboe whispers secrets to each other under the dull growl of a french horn and, hidden, the melancholic singularity of scattered piano chords. He offers a caustic smile.
He can visualize Hannibal nimble walk back to his chair. The leather creases under his weight and the folds of his pants brush as he crosses one leg over the other. Will can fill in the blanks, imagine his body lean forward, his arms rest on his knees and his head slightly bow to the side, expectant.
"Can you hear me, Will?"
He nods amidst the discordant sounds, amusingly pliant.
"Good.” Hannibal licks his lips. “I want you to listen to this music, concentrate on it, and then gradually eliminate the existence of every single thing you perceive in this room.”
It is not a hard task. His mind works slowly along the corridors he so often used during crime scene reconstruction. Erasing Hannibal is as easy as a sweep of broomstick; the single, sharp beat of a metronome handle. It’s a painful exercise though. The emptiness it leaves quickly becomes eerie, and acoustic desperation transpires through the edges. He has trouble keeping his world empty this time because he has not been tasked to do something within it.
Without a Hannibal Lecter, no interference comes forth but the laconic derision of his own thought process.
He’s floating, aimless, the world around him fragile, like a soap bubble. He is the only material entity of his world. Still blind, he wills in some light, and soon, like an epidemic, stars begins to pop in every direction. He realizes his power almost immediately, and spreads out the cosmic diaspora as he sees fit. Soon he adds planets and nebula, and paints with bright and diluted hues.
A world without Hannibal is his.
He notices he is breathing rapidly. There is a disconnection he cannot make with his body, as he clenches at the armrest in fear of falling. The stars are now by millions,spreads out everywhere out of his control, taking a life of their own.
"This isn't working." Will gasps. “Whatever this is, it’s going all wrong.”
Hannibal has moved. He listens carefully but nothing contradicts his absence. Will can’t see, but he’s certain the chair before him is empty. He calls out for his name, agitation weakening his voice. He forgets his ankles and wrist are not bound to his chair and start trashing. The mere thought he ought to trust Hannibal makes planets crush against each other and gravity contract.
He tries to calm down; he’s losing balance, as if the floor is due to cede under his weight and drop him overboard. He attempts to stabilize the boat, scatters himself on the deck; he finds the rope but it is gnawed and the anchor is gone.