Archive of Our Own

Oh won't you come with me,
Where the moon is made of gold,
And in the morning sun,
We'll be sailing free,
Oh won't you come with me,
Where the ocean meets the sky,
And as the clouds roll by,
We'll sing the song of the sea,
Grá go deo.

"The Song of the Sea", Nolwenn Leroy

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Will is still dressed in his funeral attire when he pushes the bow of the boat into the water.

The waves roil and slap against the hollow sides as he works to cast the vessel out into the angry froth. Squinting his eyes against the sting of the salty spray he braces his shoulder against the stern and pushes so hard his soles plow through the fine pebbles of the storm beach.

He pushes until his knee nearly kisses the ground and the boat lurches forward, finally freed from its gravely prison, Will collapses palms first, half curled there among the din of the waves. So close.

Will looks over his shoulder, cold water tugging at rolled cuffs and numb feet, his shoes lie somewhere further up the bank, his hopes cast even higher, discarded in the walls of some stuffy church and the soft cries of the mourning few among sorely empty pews.

Swiping an arm across his nose he gives a hard sniffle, watches the approaching silhouette of a bleak future on too red lips, too clean hair, perfect hands and proper dress, love an absent and harsh note in the heart of some aunt he never knew.

"William!"

On his feet, he runs into the lapping embrace of the sea until it tangles with the third button of his white shirt, the end of his tie floats in the current, held fast only by the teeth of a clip. He watches it for a moment, dancing almost like the whip of some dark seagrass before he wrenches it off, a too long tie for a too short frame. Will lets the eager waves have it, ripping it from his collar with a sharp snap.

Watching it bob up and down, he thinks that his dad would've taught him to tie a real one.

He turns his back on it with bared teeth and a breaking childish cry, he shoves the boat as hard as he can, offering it to the waves with all he can muster, before scrambling onboard with a mighty leap.

His feet smack the bottom, fierce and thunderous, the vessel rocks violently, fishing poles bumping around the bottom and two life jackets cast under the seat slide against each other with a slippery sound, he doesn't need them.

Not where he's going.

He hears his name again, closer.

Grabbing for the oars, he fumbles to catch them in the rings, each throw of the next wave threatens to send him off balance, offer one of the oars spiraling into the dark water.

By some miracle it never happens, and Will manages to keep himself in the middle of the seat, his feet work frictionless against wet wood and naked heels scrape up every splinter from the slats beneath them.

Arms frustratingly short, Will sits too awkward, shoulders too tense and elbows too high, hardly bent at all with how far he has to reach. He faces the shore, and for a moment he grips the handles keeping the blades above the water, the wood threatens to slip from his hands. Handles worn and old, they are well loved by different hands, bigger and stronger than his own.

His aunt steps after him, one arm raised to her face, the other clutched over her heart. She doesn't try to follow any further, her care extends as far as the water threatening to lap at her suede heels and she makes no hesitation to scramble back.

Concern shining brighter for her shoes than it ever did for her brother and his ailing marriage, a child caught in the middle who knew the world only in the yawning stretch of time between his father coming home and then leaving for the sea.

Will rows and rows.

He rows until the shore becomes a thin razor against the stormy horizon. He rows further than his dad ever took him, he rows until the angry sea grows seething, and he rows until he forgets why.

Shallow waves become choppier, his knuckles quake, pale against the dark grain of the oars, he breathes and sputters, harsh against the whip of water across his cheeks until they're dusted rosy and bright. Hair clings to his scalp, soaked and heavy it threatens his vision and tickles the edge of his eyes.

The wind seems to whip harder, the waves leap taller, the boat creaks and groans, protests like the crescendo of Will's heart in his chest. It leaps and bounds, so hard and fast it's all he hears.

On the winding scrape of each inhale, faster and faster, Will finds each swallow is harder, gulping down saltwater on a cotton tongue as his shoulders heave with more than just the effort taken to plunge the paddles beneath the surface.

Every limb shakes, his teeth chatter and his fingers refuse their orders, unfurling until the handles slip from them.

Eyes wide, Will lurches forward, a shout on his lips.

Numb knees smack the bottom of the boat loud and sharp, a clap of thunder to the droning din, the waves throw the vessel up, tossing it like a tiny marble in a giant's palm.

Will looks up just in time to catch an oar handle to the face.

The crunch is deafening, the shock of pain worse.

He flings himself away, spine connecting against the bench with a responding thwack. Will curls on his side and cradles his face with a long whine between clenched teeth, soaked red and watery with fresh blood.

His ears ring, he watches one of the oars slip further and further down, until the ring that holds it is nothing more than decoration. Cursing, he throws his torso over the side, ribs crushed bruisingly where he reaches forward.

Fingertips grace the tip of the handle, they close around nothing.

Open mouth pants send drops of hot blood splashing into the waves, framing pink lips like poorly drawn lipstick he stares after the paddle, out to the watery dunes of a liquid desert.

Frustration chases a shout from him, wordless and lost, it tosses more blood to the hungry sea as he spits and curses.

It's what he wanted.

He hates that it makes him so goddamn angry, so scared, helpless.

Just a stupid kid, with a stupid plan and a thousand impulses that existed without inhibition.

A fishing pole bumps against his calf. Will looks down, and something roils in his stomach, acidic and mounting, boundless in its desire to eat up every inch of him.

It burns, his throat constricts until he's gulping on air, chin tilted skyward, he clenches his eyes and grips the side of the boat harder.

Blood gathers on his chin, slithers down the expanse of his neck and that hot prick of frustration at the corner of burning eyes breaks until it fills not just his lungs but his heart and his head; he cries.

He cries so hard that within seconds his ribs protest the heaving, his head screams from the skyrocketing pressure, blood and spittle hit the water as he leans further over the side, sobs lost to the waves that threaten to swallow him whole.

He waits for the one that will, anticipates it in each harsh, ripping shout that stutters from a shaking chest, craves it with each incessant pound of his head, nose a sharp aching note to his breaking despair.

It never comes…

And time is lost to the spin and toss of the boat beneath him.

Limp and boneless, Will's arm dangles in the water, fingertips kissing the supernaturally still surface. Cheek dug into the wood, eyes closed, he breathes deep and even as if he's asleep, the quiet slosh of liquid like a lullaby to his ears.

The blood on his lips is beyond dry, his teeth stained, the bruise across the bridge of his nose broadcasts an ugly purple, curving up his cheek and across his brow in a palatte of grotesque yellows.

Will blinks, lashes fluttering rapidly, he raises a hand to weakly rub at dry eyes and his tongue pokes out to lick his chapped lips with a quiet smack. They taste firmly of blood, metallic and cloying to the taste buds. Pulling a tight grimace he groans through clenched teeth, fingers press at bruises, confirming they're the source of pain, as if it could be anything else.

He winces at the notes of pain, tugging up his lip in an awful scoff, one hand works to massage out a crick in his neck as he wobbles his head from side to side for good measure.

A splash rings out.

His eyes snap open and for the first time Will takes in the ring of fog the boat floats in. Sequestered in some liminal space, another world, entirely separate from the one he'd run from.

It's so thick, so quiet, he can almost believe there's nothing else beyond it. For a quiet moment, he thinks that he's dead.

But no, his heart; it moves and beats, thrumming firmly in his chest. He twists the salt stiff fabric over it in his fingers, crinkling softly, a palm pressed against his sternum.

There's a tug at it , and he's never wanted something so much, reached for something so hard, hoped for something so desperately and still fallen so short.

He'd run, he'd run the moment that he saw the closed casket at the altar because all he ever wanted was for his dad to stay. Wishing for it on every breath, every smile and every time a hand ruffled his hair, every time he batted it away with a laugh. Every time his dad crouched down with sullen words and explanations, some estimate of when he'd return that never came true. Days stretching to weeks, weeks into months and he'd hear his voice pass the threshold and he would always hide away.

Face buried in the crook of his arms, surrounded by the echoing silence of a small closet, Will would sit with the naive thought that it would hurt less if he just stayed there, it was easier to pretend in the dark but his dad would always find him. He would open the door with soft words and softer apologies, gather Will up in strong arms and surround his senses with the salty tang of the sea, the gentle roughness of a worn voice that sang him old lullabies, told him tales of women who wore the skin of seals, of great serpents and phantom ships that foretold misfortune.

Despite every story, every time he begged his dad to take him down to the beach and play among the seals, splash in the tidepools and jump in the waves, for every moment he was there, all Will ever wanted was for him to stay on that tiny island...forever.

He hates that he got his wish.

The splash comes again, shattering his thoughts on the downward strike of a pickaxe to spring ice.

Will glances up, eyes zeroing in on where the sound is, but traitorous tears gather at the corner of his eyes, crippling his field of vision, he swipes them away with a loud sniff and blinks away the lingering fogginess. There's nothing but ripples.

Folding a pinched brow further, he sits up taller, peers further out across the water. The boat rocks ominously with the shifting weight.

Eyes scan the water over and over, yet the same dark murkiness remains no matter how hard he looks, his reflection peers back up at him in the undisturbed sea. All fleeting blue irises and a bruised face.

With a sigh, Will collapses back on his haunches, one arm hangs back over the side as the other forms a cushion between his forehead and the unforgiving wood.

Thoughts fuzzy with the tantalizing allure of sleep, something nudges his fingers, moist and hot, he rips it away from the sensation on a startled shout.

Hand clutched in hand, Will peers frightfully out at the sudden threat only to see a seal's head bobbing out of the water. It looks younger, smaller than a full grown seal and its coat shines a beautiful blonde even through the fog's haze.

Will blinks, the seal follows suit with a small tilt of its head. Its nostrils flare and a chuffing sound follows behind some close mouthed bark as it tilts its nose up and then back down again, chin almost slapping the water, those round black eyes perceive the world in a way that feels too keen.

It's Will's turn to tilt his head, he sits up a bit taller, gripping the edge of the boat with words swimming on his tongue, lips parting around quiet, chapped syllables, "what're you doing so far from shore?"

The seal seems to quirk a brow, or at least that's all Will can surmise from the strange expression.

"Right…" Will rubs the back of his neck, sheepish blood stained smile hitting the air, "bit of a stupid question."

It swims closer, Will finds himself dipping his face down closer, spine curved and elbows like points in the air he peers over the side as far as he can muster without tipping.

There's some sort of gravity in the seal's dark gaze, a captivating aura that threatens to tug him overboard any second. He can't look away.

The seal snuffles quietly, a quiet whine on the notes of watery vocalizations as it watches him, inches from his face.

It nuzzles him without warning, nose to nose, and Will rears back a hand brought up to shield the wound from the world, as if he's afraid the seal might suddenly do it again.

He expects it to hurt, by all means it should, but all that permeates skin is a numb warmth, spreading slow and seeping through damaged nerves, raw skin and bruises until he hardly feels them at all.

Letting his hand drop with a slow and measured grace, Will's features crumple into a swift confusion before he scrambles to peer over the side of the boat once more. The seal is already gone.

There is no shaking the feeling of some latent discomfort, it prickles like the echoes of static electricity and every hair stands on end. His eyes set to track every tiny ripple until he yearns for an answer in each one.

So busy searching, Will doesn't see the hand that breaches the surface, curling slowly, finger by finger, around the edge of the boat. Sharp nails curve into the wood with a rasping scrape and Will snaps his gaze towards it.

Pupils blow wide in the same moment that an impossibly sharp breath is sucked in, his stomach drops as he watches the sea rise up to greet him. Palms thrown out in a desperate ploy, they slice straight through the cold surface, plunging him head over heels into the water's embrace.

The boat capsizes above him, smacking the water with a drone like thunder, it slaps his ear drums with a percussive force that forces him away, twisting and kicking down, his eyes stay clenched shut and he struggles to know the proper way back to the surface.

Every inch of clothing threatens to drag him down, pulling like a hundred hands, fingers gripped into flesh, muscles, each kick is an ache, it becomes the ticking of a cosmic timer, every reach and pull of his palms through nothing is weaker than the last.

It's too cold.

Will breaks the surface, a great heaving gulp of air hitches on the tail of a sputtering gasp. He barely blinks his eyes open before a wave towers over him, so high he can only crane his neck as it approaches. It throws him back under, the sea is angry, roiling as if it never stopped, waves colliding a the quaking bowl, the great basin shook by the furious winds and the relentless currents.

He claws at that nothing once more, eyes held tightly shut, they spring open when something clamps around his ankle.

Bubbles flee him, racing to the receding surface. Will watches the fractured light of the upper world disappear. Panicked and desperate, he kicks and flails against the furious grip, so powerful it doesn't break even when the bone of his heel connects with brushing foce. His head feels like a tin can under a hydraulic press. It'll pop from the pressure alone, and his ears ring, his heart thuds, his diaphragm jumps and seizes seeking something that doesn't exist where he's headed.

A breath of air is all he needs. A single, tiny breath.

It's a thought that starts small, wonderfully innocent until it screeches louder and louder, he clamps his jaw against it, scrabbles nails against the naked surface of his throat, only ever more distraught when he finds nothing.

The thought grows hungrier, merciless.

His ankle is freed and all that's left to do is float weightless, suspended in the too gentle arms of the salty brine, a deadly caressm. Everything starts to fade around shaking vision, greying soothingly at the edges where black chases and eats up the static.

A shadow crosses dim vision, he reaches for it. Distant and detached, desperate Will feels fingertips touch his own, slipping between them a moment later to slot palm against palm, grip firm where limp fingers can hardly curl at all.

Will's diaphragm gives one last heave, ribs constricing alongside the part of his lips, all sight shutters to black when he allows his eyes to close. Finally, he takes a deep breath.

~~~

23 Years Later

Will stands at the edge of the town market. All manner of weather bitten shops and sagging booths line the street on either side, the squiggle of the coast is framed in the distance between them. Even this far away, the sight of the white caps stirs up a quiet, nervous energy, but it's hard to escape the ocean when you're surrounded by it.

Hell, he still lived by the beach, in some cruel shitty mind game with himself, he woke up every morning to stand on the porch, chipped tea cup in hand, he'd stare out at the seals lounging and trundling about. Watch the boats bob up and down on the water, think about how he tried to be one of them in every way that mattered without ever touching the water, poles and books and even a boat to his name, the know-how and the skill stored somewhere in the old foundations of his childish dreams.

How it wasn't enough to yearn for some freedom he couldn't have, and he'd sip away to the droning din of the waves, the edge of the sea practically caught in his backyard. It seemed to lap higher and higher every year.

And moving? Well that seemed like too much of a hassle, at least that's what he tells himself and that's what he tells everyone who's ever asked and will ask. Always contentiously nosy.

It was actually really goddamn easy to leave, fortunate for the miserable, realtors chomping at the bit to sell every square inch of dry land.

No, he'd sigh and tell himself it's easier to stay, familiar, whole, even when some part of him begged to differ and he spends far too long with toes curled into dry sand, lip caught between blunt teeth, fists curled too tight at stiff sides while he fought some awful invisible force to just step forward.

He feels that same trepidation now, but far gentler, able to be coaxed into some false sense of security, like walking a skeptical horse to water, after all it's easier to rationalize the next step onto worn pavement when the world stays consistently solid underheel.

Still, it's always a bit intimidating, entering that hustle and bustle, it never felt more unappealing than today.

Weddings were an occasion he felt distinctly apart from, gift giving even more so, but here he was under the demanding hand of both. Running a hand down the side of a stubbled cheek, Will sighs heavily and easily transitions to massaging out some invisible knot at the base of his neck.

He thinks maybe if he spins it right, Alana will forgive him for bailing entirely.

God, no, Margot would never let that go and the sheer thought of facing down his sister's fiancée is not a fond thing, it's tinged with fear and the memory of her showing up in all her sharp, cutting glory on his doorstep after he'd abruptly cancelled plans to visit them on the mainland… for the eighth time in a row.

Her words sliced a hundred times deeper than Alana's ever could over the phone, because Margot only ever went for the throat where her partner wouldn't. She never softened a single blow where he was concerned, she didn't coddle him like Alana tended to up until the very point she broke from the overwhelming frustration of it all, and Will could see why the two gravitated towards each other so readily.

They were each other's pillars, bedrock amongst a host of shifting sands and sweeping tides, of contentious relationships and betrayals.

Will was just one of the wayward gulls in the wind, refusing to land.

So, skipping out on such an important moment would be cruel, altogether selfish and he'd lived too long only for himself and his irrational concerns. It was out of the question because he doesn't blame Alana for skipping town, a small part of him is just envious that she wasn't stuck here, grafted to the pebbles of the beach, but unable to taste the water.

The ferry ride to the mainland would just be some bridge to cross later, probably with a lot of diphenhydramine.

Shoving hands deep into his coat pockets, he weaves in and around the people lingering in the narrow space of the sidewalks. Occasionally a car rumbles past, kicking up water from the constant puddles but it's far and few between, most people owned boats anyways, much more practical.

Not sure where to even begin looking, he finds all progress stalled by a few of his students, asking him eagerly if the essay was really due in a week and not on Monday. He confirms it and they glance at each other with wide grins, thank you's on their lips, they herd each other away and continue to make plans for the weekend while they window shop.

A fond hint of a smile graces his lips, he can only hope the extra week is worth it. Grading awful essay after awful essay always gave him the worst migraines. To be frank, he was doing this more for his own sake than theirs, but he supposes it didn't much matter to them.

Something bright catches his eye, he stops in front of an old antique store, a long seal fur coat hangs in the window, pristine and gleaming, it glows in the orange of the sodium lights within.

He walks to the glass, brows drawn slightly together, he reaches a hand up and lets his fingertips fan out across the condensation slick surface. Breath mingles there and his own blue eyes stand reflected in the glass, projected on the white fur, a mirage, and the closer he looks the more flecks of golden blonde seem to appear throughout.

It's familiar, on the tip of his tongue, it convalesces like some frail creature in his mind's eye, gathering strength the longer he looks.

He tastes salt, feels water press against ear drums, the world grows muffled and an endless buffet of waves seems to roil through him without ever touching him at all.

A bell chimes, bright and cheery, the door to the shop swings open and a man walks out, a single paper bag tucked under his arm. Thrust back into reality, Will ducks into the shop before the door has a chance to close.

It smells old, but not unpleasant, and the clutter is somehow cozy without being overwhelming. Within seconds, he finds the tense line of his shoulders bleeding into something of a more comfortable curve. Of all things, he finds an easy smile ticking up the corner of his lips.

"Thought you'd spend all day staring through the window, dear." The tremulous voice of an older woman fills the air.

A blush dusts Will's cheeks, "sorry about that, I just thought…"

"You'd seen it somewhere before?" She finishes the thought for him. "Happens all the time, every fisherman tells me the same thing."

Will blinks, turning towards the voice, his words fall in an awkward jumble, "I'm not--" he pauses and waves a hand through the air, "a fisherman that is uh, well I wanted to be, my dad was, it's... complicated."

He walks closer to the counter, she continues rearranging some shelves before turning to face him.

She is a stout and short individual, silver hair done in fine braids that frame either side of her ears, metal clasps with intricate knots keep the ends in place. Her clothes seem old, traditional, a hood on the back and an old cloak ring in the front, she peers up at him with eyes that are a surprising shade of dark blue, otherworldly.

She hums, sweeping his frame with a certain scrutiny, a knuckle tapping against her chin, "well you're a fisher at heart, only explanation for being drawn to that coat."

The woman moves off then, a condensed whirlwind of agile movement in a store that is far vaster on the inside than the outside suggests.

It's dismissive, Will knows it is but he can't help but feel that this is something he's meant to do. Like he's walking some old forest road, a thousand footsteps flattening the grass, the ground worn into grooves, his soles filling them just right. It calls to him like the constant breaking of the waves.

"Hey, wait..." Will steps after her, she whips around and he retreats a beat, eyes skittering somewhere off to the side, "I'd like to buy it."

He fishes for his wallet, not exactly in possession of that kind of money, but he'll scrounge something together.

The woman folds her arms, nodding her head towards the window display and more importantly the coat in question, "it's not for sale."

Freezing as if he's been struck, Will flounders for some retort.

She sighs, shaking her head on some unknown words mutterted between bright teeth, she grabs the coat. Lifting it off the hanger, she drapes it over one arm and dusts her hand through its plush surface.

Will watches, mesmerized, hand itching to reach out and run along the surface, watch the fur bend and sway under each finger. The desire thrums like the song of the sea, and just the same he doesn't answer, staying his hand by shoving it deeper in a pocket.

He watches her gaze down at it with a careful sort of fondness, blue eyes distant, Will feels in some way that he's intruded on a private moment.

"Do you know what this is?"

"It's…" Will starts, one eyebrow arched slightly, "it's seal fur, a young one judging by the color."

The old woman gives a light laugh, quick and cutting, she steps forward, right into Will's space, altogether close enough to share some secret among friends.

She presses it into his chest and on instinct Will grabs for it.

He stares down at it, comprehension stuttering a bit as his brain lapses in its ability to connect with his fingers, with what he's holding as if he's never held something like it before. This feels different, and he runs his thumb in a small circle, watching the individual strands dance in the light, impossibly soft.

It sings against the pads of his fingers, hugs his palms and chases a warmth up his arm, supernatural and graceful it fills his chest to the brim and overflows with each slow thud of his heart. Nothing has ever felt so close to that calm joy of the open water. It feels right to have that again after so long without it.

"This coat has been in my shop for quite some time now," she explains, "many a man has tried to purchase it, but the lady who gave it to me had one request."

Will looks up, fingers hooking into the coat with a desperate hold. Hanging on to her next words, he doesn't think he can convince his hands to let go.

"She asked that I never sell it so long as she lives."

Disappointment latches on to Will's brain with a fierce hunger, it chases an obvious frown on to his lips until all he can muster is a small, "oh."

The woman crosses her arms, some omniscient smile spreading across her features, she tilts her chin up, "funnily enough, she died this morning."

He finds himself blinking hard at that statement, eyes locking with hers, he rears his head back and crumples his brow on some confused half smirk, "you... don't sound very upset by that."

"Heavens, no," the old woman crosses an arm under her chest, one hand waving flippantly in the air, "she was a long-toothed bitch who hated everyone and everything, even her own children. Good riddance, I say."

The hard blinks that follow her words are all Will can muster, his teeth part and then click together, again and again, trying to find the proper response to that. Luckily enough, he doesn't need one.

"It's on the house, dear. I'm tired of the old thing gathering dust, it deserves a good home after all these years," the old woman cups a hand against his forearm, giving a gentle pat to ease Will's discomfort.

He musters a smile in return, feeling altogether out of his depth, he looks around himself, trying to decipher some sort of familiarity among the antique littered shelves.

On the way out of the shop, she calls after him, words about some big, bad storm beat against his ear drums like the silent whip of a butterfly's wings.

The moment Will gets home, he wraps the coat in thick brown paper. Burying that dangerous allure under something neutral, safe, he ties it off with a simple red string and tucks it up on the third shelf of the hallway closet.

Despite its siren song, it remains nothing more than a gift, a reminder of the stomach churning future and Will promptly runs with the out of sight out of mind mentality.

The less he has to look at it the less he has to think about sailing across the bubbly waves on some old rickety ferry packed with twenty other people. The less he has to feel the incessant tug of some phantom riptide threatening to sweep him out to sea.

And that night, he sleeps sound and deep, his alarm set for never because he didn't have to work in the morning.

Of all things, he dreams of dark water and buffeting waves, caught in the thankless cradle of the ocean's palms he stays suspended, weightless, staring up at the dark splotch of a capsized boat. Air fills his lungs with each gulp of water, impossibly alive, he sinks further until the light itself disappears and he's left with only the thud of his heart, the sensation of someone's hand wrapped around his own.

So deep, he slumbers right through the storm that rattles the roof and shakes the very walls, threatening to bring them down right atop his head.

His little house by the shore remains as resolute as it always has.

~~~

The tickling warmth of and early morning sun creeps through the window and wakes him, gentle and soothing. Scrunching his nose, he lets out a long huffing sigh, swiping a hand across his eyes.

He opens them and sees another pair staring right back.

Will scrambles backwards on an animal instinct. Shocked, afraid, vulnerable, caught out in the open and unawares except this is his own home. The thought of safety doesn't stick.

Promptly falling off the side of the bed, his skull connects with the wall in a great rattling thud. Now srawled out on the ground, limbs askew, he rubs at the forming bruise with a groan, forced blink away the little stars that chase each other around his vision.

He shakes his head, looking like some wet dog shaking out its fur, he tries to clear the confusion before he looks back across the room and-

The man is still there. Still very naked.

Trying to get back to his feet, Will uses the bed sheets as leverage, this of course is a boldly stupid idea and he ends up back on his ass the moment the fleeting tension gives.

The naked man watches, tilting his head a tick to the right, those impossibly handsome features remain neutral, but there is a distinct twinkle in merlot eyes.

Will blushes, clearing his throat, he raises a shaky hand and gestures to all of the man, having momentarily given up on the endeavor to stand, "not that I don't appreciate the uh--"

He pauses, throat working around a clicking swallow, "the view could you put something on maybe..." his eyes try skittering down the naked man's form but he wrenches them back up, tight smile in place as he gestures to some robes hanging on the back of the door.

Hell, even the bed sheets would do. Anything really to keep that red hot creep of color from tainting his whole face.

There's the small chiming thought that resounds in the not so subtle panic of Will's mind that maybe he should be a bit more concerned about how long some naked man has been watching him sleep, and maybe smaller than that there's the thought that his presence shouldn't be as non-threatening as it is. Familiar even.

The man moves then, feral but graceful, far too elegant, and with no understanding of personal space or boundaries.

Will inches up the wall, cowering slightly as he's caged in. He draws his limbs closer to himself and cranes his face up, away from that threat of touch, eyes cast to the corners when the man leans down, nearly nose to nose.

Breaths flowing in small, startled pants Will's pupils practically shake in their sockets, flickering so fast over every detail of the man's sharp cheekbones, angular jaw, eyes that he feels would swallow him up if he stared long enough. It's all a bit overwhelming to say the least.

The man grabs Will's face, the fingers electric against unsuspecting skin. He almost examines Will, turning his chin side to side, a thumb getting way too close to an eye and then curious fingers try to pry open slack lips, ghosting over tooth and gum.

That's when Will's indignation catches up with the dumbstruck idiot portion.

He smacks the hand away and shoots to his feet, nearly knocking skulls, but the man's reflexes prove to be wickedly sharp as he steps aside easily.

Spitting at the sheer taste of sea water, salt and brine, Will scrubs the back of his hand across a slack mouth, glaring sidelong at the handsy man. It tastes like having a fish rubbed against his gums, and he smacks his lips loudly with a sharp grimace, distaste on display.

A bit of righteous anger bubbles up the length of his spine when the man just stands there, staring. It chases out the embarrassment and Will's brow folds harder, crumpling until it darkens his eyes and his words fall along a curving tightness, "who the hell are you?"

The man doesn't answer.

Rubbing an absent hand against the sensation of strong fingers drove into cheek muscles, Will stands there trying to scrub out that shallow warmth, that powerful touch all while the perpetrator says nothing.

There is a point where he can't help the way his lip curls back, flashing ivory in some latent defense. He's surprised when the man mimics him, baring a mouthful of teeth that appear blunt but the longer Will looks the sharper they get, human in the most obvious sense but the further from the incisors the sharper they become, conical, long at the canines.

Somehow perfect, beautiful despite the concealed grotesqueness. A predator, his instincts cry, but against that initial judgement Will's brain reasons that it's just some dental disorder. Perfectly human.

The journey to getting the man into some clothes is not an easy one, every time he tries to hand him a flannel, some pants, anything, Will receives an upturned nose and crossed arms in exchange. Petulant, disapproving of his proffered wardrobe, as if somehow worn button ups and slacks were offensive, sacrilegious, not worthy of touching that perfect tan skin.

Grumbling curses under tired breath, Will's patience bends until it snaps and he throws his hands in the air, defeated by a mute man and his picky fashion sense.

He stomps down to the kitchen, shaking his head the whole way, not caring care how loud he is when he slams around pots and pans, old glass tupperware of dubious leftovers. If the man didn't like his cooking either, well tough shit.

Doling out fluffy eggs onto two plates Will mutters to himself, "why the hell am I indulging this--" the pan rests in the sink and he braces a hand against the counters leaning forward as the other scrapes fingers along his scalp, he catches his reflection in sudsy stainless steel, "he's not real."

The scrape of a chair surprises him more than it should. He jumps, whipping around to see the man sitting innocently at the dining table behind him, finally dressed in something decent. A nice red sweater, albiet a bit too small, but it does the job just the same. It makes those red eyes brighter, a bit more haunting.

Will sits across from him, at some point all of this might as well happen and he rolls with the punches lest he end up thinking about them too much. Picking up a fork, he notices absently that the man copies him and they both take a bite of the meager meal at the same time.

"You could at least give me a name," Will starts, propping his elbow up on the table he waggles the fork in the air between them, "'cause you're not gonna like the one I'll give you."

The man quirks a brow, and for a moment Will thinks that's all he'll get.

Those lips part, the man sets his fork down, perfectly perpendicular to the plate mind you, and he manages to hold Will's consistently fleeting gaze.

"Hannibal."

Will nearly drops his fork, Hannibal watches him fumble, mouth stoically sealed.

"A-alright," Will stutters, eyes wide, he looks from his plate to a merlot gaze, and then back again, reaching for some answer he can't find implied there, "so you're real then. Great, good, fantastic."

"Is something the matter?" Hannibal asks, accent curling like smoke along the syllables.

A curt laugh tumbles through the air, Will shakes his head and sets his fork down with a clumsy fall, fingers working to massage his temples in the next instant, "no, no… just uh, not used to this."

Merlot eyes narrow and Hannibal folds his hands on the table, respectful and attentive, "you live alone, then."

"Oh, and what gave you that impression?" Will bites off the question with the sweet poison of an aging wound, hating in the same instant how easy it is to be defensive.

Will gathers the dishes, standing and avoidant before Hannibal can answer, food hardly finished but his brain doesn't care for that, it knows routine and relishes in it, and so if he sets them in the basin with a bit much force it's completely overlooked.

The foggy window above the sink catches his eye, the ocean kisses the shore with a dull roar and Will shutters his eyes from the sight. He turns around, back to that perfect expanse of water he'd ostracized in his memory, bracing his backside against the counter as he crosses his arms.

"I'll take you down to the station," Will doesn't leave room for argument, forcing himself into motion, he heads for the door to grab a coat and shoes.

Because for some reason, his brain has arrived to the logical conclusion that this must be some sorry sap, some confused and lost sailor, a passenger maybe, a case of amnesia after being cast overboard. It wouldn't be the first person who'd washed up on shore, miraculously alive but… not the same.

Will understands that daunting reality far too intimately.

Hannibal doesn't protest, he adds nothing more to the constructed narrative, offers none of those accented words, slick with honey, rolling and powerful in their careful timbre, natural and absolute like each breaking wave.

About mid way through a rather amicable walk, Will starts to miss them.

All too soon, they arrive at the local station, the only one of its kind on the entire island. It is a short staffed thing, undermanaged and often ill-equipped, but not a lot happened in a town like this, people disappeared and others seemed to appear out of thin air, all strangers in their own way. Missing person cases were just as common as the ones where people wound up in the town not knowing how they got there.

An entire board outside of the station stands dedicated to it. Laminated pictures plaster every inch, some clearly older than others, some buried almost entirely under the newer faces, as if they'd slowly been forgotten. Will gives it a cursory glance, studying every face briefly but none of them leap out as familiar, none of them look like Hannibal.

He twists his heel against the slick pavement, teeth grinding gently, he remembers doing the same thing as a kid, always terrified that one day he'd find his dad's face among the many.

Head hung, Will lets a sigh split the humid air, the clouds sit thick and dreary above the world, he casts a critical eye up at them. Leftovers from last night's storm.

He pushes open the door to the station, bell clangong loud and obnoxious, it stops short a second later. Will glances back, spots Hannibal gripping it, keeping it from chiming as he slips over the threshold and politely shuts the door behind them both.

A small sigh slips through Will's lips, a tiny thing curving up the corners of his mouth, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his canvas coat.

"Who's your friend?" Beverly calls from the break room, really it's just a coffee machine sitting on one of the cramped desks near the back of the building.

"Think he might be one of those sailors that went missing, maybe someone else of interest, I'm not entirely sure," Will explains, soft and quiet with a certain exasperation dipping the vowels. Beverly and him stand shoulder to shoulder, arms crossed like mirrors of each other as they both watch Hannibal, studying the man as he moves about the station, touching and adjusting every object deemed out of place, slightly too crooked to a perfect taste.

They stand there leaned against the desk like old friends, and Will tucks his chin towards his chest, eyes tracing the linoleum floor, "said his name was Hannibal."

"Uh-huh." Beverly looks Hannibal up and down, a very obvious smirk ticking up the length of her face before she glances side long at Will, sipping her coffee obnoxiously, "why's he wearing your clothes?"

Will has no hope hiding his blush, the palm he shields his face with does nothing but make him look more guilty. His voice is muffled and clipped as it flees him, "when's Jack get back?"

Bev checks her watch, "not for another hour."

He scrubs the hand down his face, "can you run a missing person's check for me?"

"Mm," Beverly raises her cup with a hum of mixed agreement, taking a small sip, "that storm took out the servers, we've been flying blind since early this morning."

Will doesn't disguise his frown.

"I can write it down for when it gets back up."

"Fine."

She elbows him in the side, gentle and reassuring, the smile that spreads across his face is genuine.

Sitting in front of Beverly, his head nearly touches the top of hers, and they hunch over what tiny evidence they have. It's all written neatly and devastatingly short on a legal pad, mostly consisting of Hannibal's name, general appearance, height and where he was found.

Something clatters on the floor.

Both of them turn to see Hannibal standing there, hands clasped behind his back, a whole shelf of case files upended on the floor, papers scattered everywhere.

Beverly shoots to her feet, accidentally bumping the mug on her way, sloshing liquid out of it, "damnit--"

Will moves to help, apologies spilling like a leaky faucet from loose lips, easy and automatic. He paws at the paper, gathering it up into piles and Hannibal kneels too close beside him, mimicking.

Beverly bats Will's hands away, "listen I say this in the nicest way possible, but can you maybe take your boyfriend somewhere else?"

"I'm-he's not… we--,"Will stutters to defend himself, he can feel Hannibal's smirk and it only burns his ears hotter.

"Just for a bit, Will." Beverly looks from him to Hannibal, a too soft grin on her face, "I'll call you when I find something--" she continues, a firm hand planted on Will's shoulder when she ducks to look him in the eyes, "I promise, but Jack's gonna kill me if he ruins anything else."

They leave, Hannibal on Will's heels looking far too triumphant.

"You did that on purpose," he cuts Hannibal off in the street, standing right in his path. Will confronts the taller man with curled fists and a biting bark, the edge not exactly honed. But the man simply walks around him, eyes cast over his shoulder, those lips pursed and the corner tilted up, he says nothing.

A small, grinding sound of indignation claws its way from Will's mouth.

He's left to follow on the man's heels, occasionally having to jog just to catch up and Hannibal seems to know exactly where he's going. That in itself is more suspicious than anything.

They walk until the land slopes further, the buildings thining out as they approach the quay. It's a well walked path of his childhood.

Will's feet snag on the gravel of the old pavement, breath snags in his throat and the comfort of land trades for the uncertainty of water, it fills his field of vision. Boats dot the surface and the grey wood of a long dock frames it all.

Hesitation cannot last long, it's a flawed thing, born of some festering wound that holds no regard for the real world. Reality dictates that he keep moving, because Hannibal is already yards ahead of him, bound to get into some sort of trouble at this rate.

Feet eating up the ground, Will steps in time with the quick beat required to outrun childish fears. He catches up with Hannibal easily enough, practically running up to the man's side, eyes kept distinctly distant from the ocean now within leaping distance.

Grabbing Hannibal's elbow, Will tugs at it with quite some force, the man doesn't budge.

Desperate and a bit pissed off by the stark refusal, Will speaks words that remain breathless and almost pleading, "come on, we shouldn't be here."

I shouldn't be here.

Something past Hannibal's form catches Will's eye, and instinctively he steps forward, vying to get a closer look, sliding his hand up the man's bicep, comforting and firm under restless fingers. The man doesn't shake him off.

And Will stares down at what's caught Hannibal's attention. His stomach drops to his feet, an awful churning burns behind restless eyes, his mouth smoothing into a terse line.

Three small seal corpses lay out on the metal of a dockside cleaning station. Soft, sparkling white, so innocent against the clinical coldness of stainless steel. Their skulls are slightly disfigured, eyes black and blank, Will searches Hannibal's face and he sees something unexpected blaze there, stirred by the kindlings of some profound injustice.

Hannibal reaches for them, something bursts across his stoic cheeks, pushing through that animal numbness, acrid and permeating, it speaks of grief, old hate, hot anger. Will's fingers curve harder into Hannibal's flesh.

It doesn't stop him, and Hannibal's fingertips brush through the middle seal's fur, a gentle caress to the forehead, knowing and loving.

A thick fingered hand wraps around Hannibal's wrist, twisting it away with an unkind toss. Red splotches are left behind in the shape of callous fingers and that alone sets Will's blood to boil before he ever looks the fisherman in the face.

"If ya ain't gonna buy, don't touch."

It's not the seal hunting that irks him, no, he understands that it's a way of life no matter how unglamorous. It's the disregard, the rudeness, the way that looking the ginger haired fisherman in the eyes feels like plunging his hand into an oil slick. Wrong, dangerous, dirty. The fact those venomous fingers touched Hannibal is enough to make Will bare his teeth and stand guarded.

Hannibal doesn't seem to get the memo, red eyes darkening, he disregards the fisherman entirely, a measly ant under a boot. He moves this time as if to cradle the bodies in his arms, tugging right out of Will's grip with incredible ease.

"Hannibal--" Will jumps forward, pulling the man back as far as his strength will allow just as the disgruntled fisherman whirls on them, skinning knife brandished.

"What'd I jus' fuckin' say?!"

Pushing Hannibal behind him, Will raises empty palms, placating as the fisherman fumes, ranting and raving, all manner of curses dripping slovenly from salt chapped lips.

"Hey, hey," Will steps back a beat when the man rounds the edge of the station, knife flashing silver in a warning, "we didn't mean any trouble, he's just a bit confused."

The fisherman's temple jumps, eyes blazing with an extraordinary distaste. He turns his head and spits, wicked sneer scorching the air.

Hannibal remains at his back, some silent guardian, he doesn't have to look to know the man's eyes are locked on those corpses still. Unrelenting, unwilling to give something up, as if they were the result of some unjust calamity, victims and not prey.

He tried picking them up almost as if they were bodies. Reverent, respectful… mourning.

Will blinks when the realization hits him, dawning with a grace only afforded to the rising sun; Hannibal wanted to bury them.

Looking up into the sharp eyes of the fisherman, Will steels his jaw, back straightening tersely, he steps forward and reaches for his wallet, "I'll buy 'em off you, how much?"

The fisherman laughs. It is a nasty and ugly thing, coupled with great guffaws that must be half pretend as one hand clutches over his stomach and the other wipes away a sarcastic tear, "nuh uh, pretty boy, don't sell to folks like you."

Frame tenses under the rapid draw of a bow, a hot iron stake driven through his stomach, blindsided by the reality of it. He blinks hard, voice diping and drawling, "excuse me?"

"You heard me," The fisherman doesn't look at them, returning to his business he drags one of the seals over, knife ready to slip under the fur. He speaks with a voice like sandpaper, "now take your mute cocksleeve and git."

Hannibal for all that coiled feral-ness isn't the one who goes off, no, he watches calmly, encouraging even as Will stalks forward. In one movement, he grabs the fisherman by the shoulder, lets him spin around with some half formed insult on that slimy tongue before he clocks him straight in the teeth.

It's not just some burning, crippling anger for himself finally let loose, some long seething rage built up over the years. If not just for that scared, awkward kid who never left his hometown, never left his childhood home, each punch is for his sister, her wife, for every time he ever felt wrong, sick and twisted for simply holding hands on the street. For every time he stood by the water's edge and mourned the profound loss of something he didn't understand was only ever supposed to be as easy as breathing.

Will straddles the man's chest, punch after punch, he feels his own skin break under the fisherman's cheekbones, pale flesh turning red, purple, broken under intolerant knuckles. Still that nasty gurgling laugh fills Will's ears.

Not red enough, his thoughts swim with it, ribs burning on each shallow breath, the sea bleeds righteous with it, justly proud in the pure vengeance.

No one jumps in to stop it, all of them more mildly amused than anything and all the while he feels eyes slant against the back of his neck. Hannibal's pride is a warm thing, smouldering and dark, it's caught fast in every beat of silence between landing blows.

There is a point where the fisherman falls unconscious and still something keeps him going even as Will's limbs start to tremble from overexertion.

An absent, dwindling and weak thought proclaims that he might very well kill the man beneath him.

Hannibal staunches the damage, pulling Will off with firm and guiding hands, but there's a promise in his red eyes a virtue on his tongue. He has a distinct feeling that the next seal hunt, this fisherman will disappear. As unremembered and unremarkable as he ever occupied the land.

Filling some creature's belly will be the most useful thing he'd ever do.

The thought scares Will, and he stumbles along at Hannibal's side, practically enveloped in the man's arms all the way back home, grafted to him. Will tucks his split knuckles against the safety of his own sternum.

Even when Hannibal prompts him to sit on one of the boulders that border the beach, Will only nods, mumbling sparse nonsense. Hannibal disappears and for a moment Will is lost at sea all over again, waiting to be carted back to shore by some unknown force.

He returns and seeing that red sweater cross his vision in brilliant fashion is like gasping for air the first time. Will fists sore fingers against hard shins, cradling his chin atop his knees as he bares silent witness.

Hannibal arranges each body, one by one with the utmost care, offering them to the encroaching waves. An unknown tongue dances in Will's ears, beautiful and soft, it continues even as the man climbs the embankment to gather wildflowers, strong and beautiful.

Hannibal lays them over each pair of glazed eyes, echoes of death buried beneath brilliant blue petals.

It is a funeral and Will pays his respect to the dead through throbbing knuckles and moist eyes, caught in a limbo of comprehension. He's never mourned for something so completely, wholly present when his feet itch to flee. He thinks in some cosmic way, he wouldn't even attend his own funeral but here he is, presiding over the wake of three little seals.

The tide climbs higher, eventually sweeping around the three bodies, it spins and swirls, filling the storm beach high enough to curl around Will's perch.

Eventually the water hugs Hannibal's calves, soaking through dark slacks and filling his shoes. The man stands there, staring down at it as if it's always been that easy.

Water laps over the edge of the boulder and Will backs away, scooting higher up the rock face. His palm slips off the back edge and an embarrassing yelp leaps from a tense diaphragm. Skin tastes bone chilling liquid in an instant.

The sea swallows his arm up to the elbow before he wrenches it out, gripping it as if burned he curls onto himself. Back bowed and chin tucked tight, Will hunches there with harsh pants barreling past parted lips, heart thudding in his mouth.

He draws his heels closer to himself, there's nowhere to back away to, no higher ground. Will casts his gaze out to where Hannibal stands, the man's back is to him, bright red sweater against a grey sky, blonde hair whipping gently in the wind as he stares out to sea.

There is a tenseness to his figure, fingers curved almost like claws at his side, empty and yearning, it draws Will forward.

For once, he finds himself not desperate to hug the dryness of the welcoming shore, not caught between two pulls of fear on his flesh, one always stronger than the other. This draw is similar, gripping him the same, it is pure and powerful, coaxing him to dip one foot beneath the waves.

Panicked, Will draws it back and ducks his head. Eyes shut he angles away from the awful sight, weakness trembles at his fingertips and his heart sings a thankless staccato. Breath held, he keeps his chin firmly up, his gaze caught on the back of Hannibal's head. Will holds it there and doesn't let go.

Sliding into the icy embrace of frothing water, Will stands, hands held out for balance, sharp gasps punctuating each brief note of regret, it's a mistake, a farce, any moment round pebbles will give way to nothing. He licks his lips like a nervous dog and awaits the inevitable.

It never comes, the ground only ever stays as firm as a million tiny rocks can.

Each step forward through the sluice sheds something deep in the hardened parts of his heart's refusal.

He stands alongside Hannibal. Nothing more to distract him from the open horizon, the way the sky kisses the sea with no interuptions.

Will slips his hand into Hannibal's own, feels the way the fingers formed like claws instantly flatten, blazing warmth curving between the spaces of his fingers.

It feels like home.

~~~

That night, he dreams he's standing knee deep in a swift stream, fly fishing pole in hand as he gathers more and more line with each tug.

He's alone and the water is cold, shockingly so even through the rubber of his waders.

A shadow moves, zipping through the current. Will tracks it, unafraid, a familiar shape as it cuts through the water.

He's not scared, he can't be, and a seal's head pops out of the dark water, bobbing there. Fur shimmering a golden blonde, dark eyes caught between dull animal and sapience.

Will blinks, slow and measured. Hannibal is standing there, dressed only in a long coat of pristine fur, untouched by the water.

The river rises higher and he finds himself swept into the current, tumbling downstream, down, down towards Hannibal.

Fingers catch his own, anchor him as water fills his nose and mouth.

He wakes up.

~~~

Will finds Hannibal in his kitchen, cooking of all things.

Moving about the small space with a half apron on and a towel draped over his shoulder, Hannibal wears that same red sweater as if he hadn't bothered changing at all.

Most importantly, this isn't the same man from yesterday, or perhaps he'd simply shed that deceiving wool coat, no longer does he pretend to be that clueless, confused, and overly curious figure from the day before.

A man in his element, it's clear he's done this a thousand times before, as if he knows Will's kitchen just as he knows the back of his hand.

The landline interrupts Will's staring. He picks it up, keeping one eye on Hannibal as the man does some fancy maneuver on the stove. God, he really hopes that he doesn't burn down the damn house thinking his shitty range is able to handle the cockiness of someone who believes they're a professional chef.

"Sorry I didn't get back to you sooner--"

"It's fine, Bev." Will keeps his voice quiet, angling slightly away from Hannibal.

"Mystery man still there?"

Will pinches the bridge of his nose, "yeah, yes, he spent the night--"

"Oh-"

"Not like that," Will cuts her off, knowing exactly where that train of thought is headed, "didn't have a chance to book him a hotel. We were out in the water 'til pretty late."

There's silence.

"Bev?"

"Sorry I'm just…" she trails off, at a loss for words, "the William Horace Graham stepped foot in the ocean? Nah, you'd have to pay me to believe that."

Will half rolls his eyes, rapping his knuckles against the countertops, "we live on an island, is it that hard to believe?"

"Yes, it is," her voice holds no room for teasing, "you made a very deliberate point of avoiding even the chance of ending up out there again."

He grimaces quietly at the notion.

Beverly continues, "you dropped out of training when you realized you had to get on a boat to pass."

"Alright, alright that was…" Will hesitates, looking over at Hannibal, "before."

Beverly's knowing smile is palpable through the phone line.

"Can you just tell me what you found?" Will switches the phone to his other hand, rummaging in the drawers for a pen and paper.

"Right," she's all business again, "so we found a match on your guy but it's… strange."

Will arches a brow, "how strange?"

"Well," the sound of shuffling papers echoes through the phone a moment, "Hannibal is actually one Dr. Hannibal Lecter, husband to the late Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier." There's a pause, the sound of a soft thud as something is set down, "you might know her as the old woman who lived on the bluff. Big mansion? Shiny cars? Crap ton of kids?"

Will remembers the old shopkeep, the coat in his closet. That was nothing to gawk over, all just quite the coincidence but out of the ordinary? Not particularly.

"And...what's the weird part?"

Beverly sucks on her teeth a moment, the squeak of it filtering tinny and sharp, "well, he's dead. In fact he's been dead for years. And I looked into it some more and it's almost like he never really lived either. No records, no birth certificate, nothing, even his medical license and schooling isn't real. Like he--"

"--appeared out of thin air." Will finishes for her, Hannibal's eyes meeting his own.

"Listen, Du Maurier died yesterday and I just… we think it's awfully convenient the doppelganger of her husband stumbles right into your lap."

"Lemme guess, Jack wants me to bring him back by the station?"

"Something like that."

"He hear about the, um…" Will looks down at his bandaged knuckles, perfectly wrapped in light gauze, he wouldn't have taken such care of his own wounds.

"The docks? Yeah, and he wasn't exactly leaping for joy." Her honesty is fitting, a relief almost, "he's not gonna book you for the night, figured it'd be a waste of a jail cell. But Emerson is in the ICU, if that means anything to you."

Will offers a hum, contemplative but sounding no where near upset.

"Not gonna lie, I was kind of impressed. Didn't think you could pack a punch in that scrawny frame." Beverly's words are punctuated by an easy laugh, "remind me not to get on your bad side."

Jack's voice filters through the line, there's a few quiet crunches as Beverly covers the mouth piece and shouts something back.

Will winces, sympathetic curve ghosting his lips, "thanks again, for everything."

"Not a problem," there's a slight pause between her next words, "I'll see you later today then? Don't forget or it's my ass that gets got."

"It's a date," he smiles but it doesn't quite reach his eyes, something about it mimics a last farewell. The line goes dead.

Hannibal tracks his movements with a predatory grace and Will sets the phone on the counter, soft and measured before moving towards the table.

It is set for a lovely breakfast, ingredients gracing plates that have never touched the shelves of Will's fridge or pantry. He doesn't even want to know how much it all cost, or how Hannibal managed to get his hands on half of it.

The strangest component is the meat, it's hard to come by much of anything except for what comes from the sea, pork and beef were expensive because of shipping and other extraneous costs. And the protein in that delicate egg scramble was certainly not some easy to acquire shellfish.

Will grips the back of the chair, knuckles smarting where they bend beneath the wounded skin. Hannibal sits and Will follows suit only after the man is comfortably situated.

He hates that the food tastes amazing, that the silence between them falls closer to amicable than tense, that he doesn't really care for the implications of Hannibal's moral character. He's just glad the man is still here. It feels complete, whole, where once ghosts of a contentious past swarmed every sagging floorboard, now it feels liminal, devine, a timeless thing separate from the version of reality he once marched through.

"You have my pelt."

"Your… pelt?" Will parrots the word, a fumbling edge of confusion brought on by the sudden statement. The cogs of his mind turn, click, click, clicking without catching until-

Will shoves himself back from the table, moving briskly as he talks, "it was going to be a wedding gift."

Setting the brown paper bundle on the table, Will sits at the edge of his seat, expecting to bolt, he feels it like an awful familiar energy thrumming against the soles of his feet. There wasn't a problem he didn't find a way to run from.

Red eyes appraise it, but no move is made to touch it.

Unwrapping it with a certain sacred hand, Will removes it from the paper, hands smoothing through the fur a moment. He clutches it, pulls it towards himself an inch before he pushes it across the table with eyes closed and a long breath pushed from the depths of his unfair regret.

To his surprise, Hannibal draws his elbow back, scooting it right off the surface so that not even a single white strand of fur touches his skin. The man shies from it, a thousand microexpressions flitting over pronounced features. Confliction at its most prominent.

"Take it, it belongs to you," Will can feel his stomach churn with some wicked sadness, as if he's losing something all over again. His words reflect it in the way they dip and waver. Still, he steels them, curling his fingers around the hot porcelain of a steaming tea cup, if only to keep his own hand from seeking out something it shouldn't.

Hannibal doesn't budge.

Anger and indignation stir with a hot simmer above Will's stomach, knocking against the yawning cavity of his chest. He relents against it, reaching out against his better judgement, but only to push the coat right into Hannibal's lap.

His hand tingles like static where it departs the soft fur.

"Go on then."

Hannibal's eyes stay cast out to sea, longing and distant before they finally sweep back to Will. It's altogether a daunting thing when the longing remains just as firm, cast not at the blue of the ocean this time, but the blue of Will's eyes. The man's temple jumps once, his shoulder tensing as he removes the coat from his lap and lays it back upon the safety of the oak table.

"Hannibal," Will forces a smile on his face, gripping the hot porcelain in harsh fingers, he breaks that merlot gaze, words no louder than a thin whisper, "you need to go home."

He remembers the old tales, of women who wore the pelts of seals, of fishermen who stole them and forced them into marriage. He remembers the less popular one, told by his aunt during the brutal winters, of selkie men who could be summoned by seven tears cast into the ocean, how they gave children to barren women and made better husbands than any man could ever dream.

How both were products of obsession, a song of the sea that was beautiful and haunting, one that called to him without regard. A dream, coveted and entrancing, but only ever for one side of the story.

"Bedelia kept you there, your freedom?" Will puts a straining emphasis on the last two words, "she stripped that from you. It wasn't love… she didn't love you, she loved what you gave her."

Obsession isn't love, and that niggling little thought extended to his own hands, to the hollow pools of his eyes that threaten to eat up the feeling of desire, or coveting, of knowing he could keep Hannibal here if he wanted to. And a part of him wants to.

"I'm perfectly content here."

Hearing the man speak was as rare as water in a desert, an oasis to cracked palms and bleeding lips.

Will looks down at a ripping reflection, a tiny, broken bubbling sound chips off the surface of his heart, "it could be better than this."

He hates how it feels as if he's known Hannibal his whole life, as if they lived so close, so together, intertwined without reason but intangibly, like two parallel universes only separated by a thin space. Stretched to infinity and nothing at all.

Somehow, in some way, Will had caught himself a selkie the day he'd launched his boat out to sea, an angry kid with no intention of ever coming back. He'd woken up gasping and coughing up water on the shore, the impression of someone's hands on his forearm, made unintentionally as he was ferried all the way back to the shore.

How growing up in this little house by the sea, he'd sometimes wake and see a figure by his bedside, framed by the light of the moon.

A hand gripped in his own and between blinks they'd disappear. Will would turn on his side, register the water pooled like footprints on old wood boards only to feel an intense comfort wash over him as he'd slip right back into the unfettered embrace of sleep.

Each day when he stood at the beach and thought only of walking into the water, something drew him back to land. As if anything to be found in the draw of the tide was missing.

Hannibal was missing.

Will's nails scrape against frictionless porcelain, lips curled back in a display of frustration, helplessness, like a cornered rabbit. He looks across the table at Hannibal, mulling words on his tongue that he'd never say but he pinned them to his sleeve regardless with each display of some unacceptable grief.

Heat pricks at the corner of Will's eyes, threatening to mirror the pitter patter of rain against the kitchen window. He blinks it away, and between them Hannibal seems to disappear.

One hand slips forward, fingers splayed across the empty table, reaching for a fading warmth.

He clutches the porcelain tighter, fingernails scraping the grooved textures of solid oak where he draws his hand back, lip folding in a trembling betrayal as he tries to muster a smile to smother it. Happiness, gratitude, contentment is a game he's losing.

There's no escaping the stranglehold on nothing.

The rain starts to come down harder.

Will pushes the chair back, getting to numb feet, he doesn't care that his jerky, fast movements knock the tea cup aside, rolling it across the table until it falls. It shatters on the floor.

Racing out the door, he moves with the clumsiness of someone who can't quite make out the world beyond the impending haze of thick rain.

He collapses at the water's edge, hands braced in the surf he bows his head, colliding with two worlds so at odds with each other.

The rain soaks him through, and he fists the fine pebbles of the storm beach in aching palms. Water plasters hair to his head, threatens to twist dark locks into his eyes, it gathers under his chin and drips invisible into the ocean, joining a thousand droplets as it all comes down again to the sound of his own harsh breathing.

He cries, bending down so close to the ocean that he nearly laps up the saltwater with each harsh, jumping breath, the stuttered expanse of his ribs starts to ache in the biting cold.

There's the bark of a seal, Will curls tighter, palms gripping the fabric of his shirt in harsh fists.

"Will."

A hand caresses the side of his head, thumb tucked against the curve of his ear, smoothing soft circles there.

He looks up, lips parted, it allows the rain to slip past and chill his gums, tongue receiving the same cold treatment a heartbeat later.

Hannibal kneels in front of him and Will reaches out, fingers thrust into the fur of that coat, tugging himself forward as if he's some symbiotic creature, doing everything it can to latch on and survive.

Nose nuzzled into the side of Hannibal's neck, Will breathes in. Firm fingers fan out across the back of his neck and tug him ever closer.

All to soon, Will feels Hannibal pull away, and powerless like the shore to her receding waves, he lets him go. He gave him back that coat, knowing a selkie once given their pelt will always return to the sea, never to be captured again.

He can't take that from him. He won't, just as Hannibal had returned the sea to him, so to does Will thrust it back into the selkie's grasp. Why would he ever refuse it; how could he?

Letting his hands drop back beneath the waves, Will keeps his chin down, eyes pinned to the pattern of lapping water cupping pale forearms. The kiss of the water against his chilled skin is therapeutic, strong and constant, he flexes his fingers, feeling the waterlogged bandages start to unravel beneath the salty caress.

A hand dips into his vision, an offering.

Raising his in turn, Will finds the process slow and waterlogged, stiff from the creeping numbness. He hesitates, hovering there and Hannibal waits, patient and unmoving.

Their fingers slide across one another, finally Will slots his palm against Hannibal's. They share in the delight of each other's grasps for a heartbeat before they pull the other to their feet, equal and alike in that momentary degree.

There is no spoken question, no tangible words ever hit the air alongside the noisy rain.

Will looks back at his little house on the shore, coach lights glimmering through the deluge. Beckoning and quiet, a promise of security, of safety, something he only ever craved with each waking breath at dawn.

He can't stop the set of his brow at seeing it, the hardline dip of his lips into something fleeting and jumpy, like a cricket in long grass as the birds chirp overhead. The feeling of home it radiates is falsely effervescent.

It's not the normalcy he wants.

Hannibal's hand slackens in his own, threatening to draw away entirely until Will squeezes harder. It's a silent reassurance to soothe the selkie's worries.

Will parts his gaze from that false pyre, feeling the remainder of his life crash behind him on the sound of the breaking waves. He smiles, real and bright, eyes alight with the prospect of something new.

If he walks into the waves, hand in hand with a beautiful man dressed in nothing but a seal fur coat, there is no one there to witness it but the sky and her dark clouds, all weeping joyously for a demolished lie and an unconventional truth.