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“I am beginning to regret not simply casting that Froideveaux boy.”
Will let out a bark of laughter as Hannibal rolled up his sleeves and removed a pair of Tupperware containers from the microwave. “Oh? The great Director Lecter is finally ready to compromise his grand artistic vision?”
“Franklyn has neither the vocal nor emotional range needed for a work as complex as Godspell. That is an objective fact.” Hannibal scowled softly as he pulled a chair up to join Will at his crowded desk, gently pushing aside a pile of graded scantron sheets and a box of laboratory goggles to set down their lunch. Their knees lightly brushed in the small space. “However, I may have...miscalculated when I allowed him to serve as assistant stage manager for the production instead. He is far too enthusiastic now about discussing sound cues with me directly, even outside of rehearsal.”
Will accepted a fork with a quick nod of gratitude, sneaking an eager first bite of roasted game hen and farro (decadent and perfectly cooked as usual, even reheated) and then gesturing with the utensil as he spoke. “You know I could point out again that no one asked you to swoop in and singlehandedly save the fall musical after we lost a drama teacher to budget cuts, but we both know how that conversation goes. Is that why you decided to ambush me in the science wing today? Hiding from an overly enthusiastic student?”
“Yes, to be perfectly honest. Franklyn has a habit of not respecting that my open door policy is only in effect when the door is actually open.”
They ate in earnest for a moment, Will a bit more so as he realized he hadn’t eaten all day, before Hannibal broke the companionable silence. “But perhaps I also wanted to avoid being stood up again, hmm?”
Will rolled his eyes and swallowed a comment about leaving the teasing to the teenagers. The light flush he could feel warming his cheeks would have inevitably led to a retort about him not seeming to mind the teasing, and they didn’t need to examine that too hard right now. “I’m not apologizing for Tuesday. We were doing titrations in my AP classes and some of us actually use our prep period, you know? I can’t just show up every day and make kids verbally torture each other into learning like you do.”
Hannibal sniffed, resealing his now empty container with a dramatic click. “The Socratic Method has a long and proven pedagogical history, Will. I find the deliberate unease it elicits to be especially suited to encouraging critical thinking in my advanced students, and I assure you the facilitation of such dialogues requires a fair deal of preparation.”
“Oh bullshit!” Will playfully (or petulantly, depending on who you asked) shoved his own container back at Hannibal. “You going into your European history mind palace for a few minutes and reappearing with disturbing Renaissance facts doesn’t count. And before you pout at me again—yes, obviously whatever it is that you’re doing is working and yes, obviously I am selfishly grateful for your frankly inhuman amount of free time because we both know I would never eat at work otherwise.”
That earned him a genuine smile. Hannibal marveled at how freely Will spoke to him these days, at least in private. It was difficult to believe that little more than one year ago, he had greeted Baltimore School House for College Instruction’s newest employee in the teacher’s lounge only to be summarily dismissed from the conversation with an I don’t find you that interesting. Hannibal admitted quietly to himself that it was becoming even more difficult to imagine his life without the rumpled (perfect) vision of dog hair-covered tweed in front of him.
“Thank you, Will. For allowing me to ensure that the BSHCI intercoms will never have to announce a code blue because you fainted mid-instruction, and for sparing us yet another fruitless debate about the efficacy of our respective teaching styles. I will in turn refrain from reminding you that my Advanced Placement periods produced nearly as many 4’s and 5’s as yours last year and—“
“—And that the difference can easily be explained by the fact that AP European History is made available to sophomores and juniors while AP Chemistry is a course only intended for the latter, with young Abigail Hobbs this year being the exception, and rather exceptional.”
“Well then.” Hannibal blinked, slightly taken aback by the younger man’s near-perfect impersonation of him down to an inflection of his words with a soft accent. “It appears I should apologize to you for having become such a predictable lunch companion.”
“Oh, I don’t think I could ever fully predict you, Hannibal. But you’re right, maybe we have fallen into a bit of a routine lately. What’s to be done about that?” Will leaned back in his seat, grinning conspiratorially as he cocked his head and widened his stance invitingly. Hannibal quickly leaned forward to fill the newfound space between his legs, hovering his own mouth above that devious grin.
“What indeed?”
They breathed together for a beat, the atmosphere in the cramped office suddenly charged and impossibly warm, before Will closed the distance between them. Hannibal carded a hand through Will’s dark curls before giving a light but possessive tug to deepen the kiss. Will’s hand on his thigh twitched, threatening to send them both careening over the line of what Principal Crawford could turn a blind eye to if he ever found out. Neither teacher noticed the freshman approaching the office door until it opened and a high pitched oh god! interrupted them.
“Sorry Mr. Graham! I wanted to ask you about the quiz, but uhh, never mind!”
Will froze at sight of Elise Nichols’ rapidly retreating form, utterly mortified. As the door slammed closed, he pulled away from Hannibal and groaned.
“We’re going back to your classroom tomorrow. Open or not, at least your office door locks.”
“Oh my god, Elise! Are you fucking with us???” Cassie howled with laughter, drawing the attention of students around them in the cafeteria—including her brother Nick who shot her an annoyed this is my senior year, stop embarrassing me! look. She flipped him off as Elise continued, wailing.
“I’m serious! Mr. Lecter was practically in his lap! How am I supposed to walk into fifth period and give a presentation on Rousseau after seeing that?”
Abigail patted Elise on the shoulder, trying to console her friend but spoiling it with an unstoppable stream of giggles. “See? This is what I’ve been trying to tell you guys all semester! They are soooo obvious about it!”
Marissa shook her head. “Fuck, Abby, you can’t blame us for not believing you! Mr. Graham has only been here for a year and he barely says anything besides class stuff. Plus everyone already assumed Mr. Lecter and Ms. Bloom were a thing before that. Honestly I figured that was just you projecting your weird daddy issues onto your two favorite teachers.”
The conversation halted abruptly at Marissa bringing up Abigail’s dead father unprompted...again. Cassie and Elise, who had picked up on strange history between their new friends but still didn’t understand why that led to such casual cruelty from the older sophomore, exchanged a series of anxious teen glances that roughly translated to “oh shit what do we do???” “Idk I told you we should have stuck with the other freshmen!”
Abigail clenched her fists beneath the table and took a breath, eyes blank and faraway for a moment. And then she swallowed and looked directly into Cassie’s eyes before launching into a near-perfect impersonation of their Honors English teacher.
“ Rude, Ms. Schurr. Shockingly rude! ”
It broke the tension immediately, another wave of uproarious laughter erupting from the table. By now the entire school knew about Ms. Bloom’s uncharacteristically vicious outburst after Marissa interrupted a popcorn reading of Hamlet last week to call Gertrude a dumb bitch just like my mom.
Marissa blushed furiously but eventually joined in on the joke, resigned. “Fuck you guys! Fine whatever, so Abby was right about her weird teacher husbands dad ship. This just opens my theory back up about that time I totally saw Ms. Bloom checking out Ms. Katz when she walked past our PE class!”
Abigail threw a French fry at her. “Wow, Marissa. Now look who’s projecting!”