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They sat in the blackening room, Will's words hanging heavy between them. His face burned red, but he felt calm, certain.
Hannibal spoke evenly, breaking the silence. "Explain to me why, Will."
"Why? You know why, Hannibal. I can't do all of this anymore. I don't want to. It's all been poisoned. I feel like I've been becoming something else for a long time. And you have certain . . . appetites . . . that I know I can help to satisfy."
Hannibal was quiet. Barely moving or breathing, it seemed to Will. Sometimes he wondered if there was a human in there. He only rubbed his fingers together next to his temple in the way that indicated he was thinking. Or agitated.
Long minutes passed. Will closed his eyes and listened to the thrumming of his own pulse. It sounded loud, like waves in the deep part of the ocean.
Hannibal finally stood, slid his hands into his pockets, looked down at Will. When he spoke, his voice was still calm. "I won't do it, Will. I don't eat spoiled meat."
"Spoiled meat?"
"Every animal is imbued with a particular flavor. It's not just the fat on the creature that creates it. The thoughts, the emotions, the experiences are all part of the profile. Happiness has a certain flavor, as does fear. And sadness. And pain. Some of these enhance the flavor. For example, terror gives the meat a piquant tartness, like lemongrass and unripe tomato. But some thoughts and feelings spoil it."
Will blinked. "And I am spoiled?"
"Your flavor is not one I tolerate in my food. Mental anguish is the most insidious of the seasonings. It makes the meat taste burned. There's a bitterness to it that coats the tongue. I can smell it on you, Will. It leaks from your pores. Not even that atrocious aftershave can mask it."
Will shook his head as if trying to shake away a fly. "You said you would help me. You promised. You told me you would help me find my way out of dark places when I couldn't get out myself."
Hannibal was silent.
With an edge to his voice, Will continued, "I've given you everything you've asked, Hannibal. I let you into my mind. I let you witness my becoming. Now I want to you to take the rest of me. It brings me a sense of . . . peace, of justness. It's what is meant to be. You've carved me up before. This time, instead of my belly, you'll put your knife to my throat. Hannibal. I want it." His voice wavered. "This is all I ever wanted for us."
Will stood, listing on unsteady legs. "I can see the beautiful things you will make. Shaved meat curled into rosettes, braised cheek, tender tongue. I know . . ."
Will lost his balance, caught himself on Hannibal's shoulder, finished with a ragged whisper. "I know you will savor my tenderest parts."
Their eyes met, flashing through the darkness, and for a moment, there was a spark of hope. A spark of everything that could have been, of everything that could still be. Hannibal's stare made Will's heart grow wings. He imagined himself on Hannibal's lips. He saw Hannibal's capable hands, wet with blood, taking him apart, dismantling everything that had gone wrong and making it good again.
Hannibal took Will's hand and pulled him down to sit. His breathing was unusually heavy, and Will thought he heard a small, strangled choke as Hannibal lowered his head.
"You know I can't, Will," he said.
The black of night engulfed the room.
Hannibal let go of Will's hand.
They turned away from each other to hide the tears in their eyes.