Work Text:
He'd drunk far too much of Hannibal's expensive wine on an empty stomach and the piano was just...there. There. Waiting for him. Limping haphazardly towards it, he dropped onto the soft cushion of the stool and carefully lifted the closed lid. He felt some eyes turn to him but like so many they simply sniffed and looked away. He knew his reputation, knew what people thought of him. Closing his eyes he picked at the keys and thought back to waking up alone in the hospital.
The moment Gideon's scalpel cut into him he knew he was dead, as each organ was removed and presented to him he knew he was dead. Losing consciousness had been a relief, to finally succumb to his inevitable death. Waking up alone in the cold sterile noise of the hospital had been...painful. The realisation that his death would have meant nothing had hit him harder than any wound Abel Gideon could ever inflict. He knew he would never be celebrated, could only dream of the prestige Hannibal Lecter or Alana Bloom had achieved but what was the good of life without a dream?
His hands slipped from the keys as the weight of his loneliness began to overwhelm him.
The applause startled him. He stared at the small crowd gathered around the piano through watery-eyes. A hand rested on the small of his back as a soft accented voice whispered praise in his ear. At that moment he realised he would never wake up alone again.