Work Text:
Hannibal Lecter is by no means uncomfortable with the human figure. In fact, he believes that he honors it in many ways. After all, he does not just make his finest prosciutto sauce to pour over ANY meat. It is reserved for a very particular and respectable prey.
Hannibal’s comfortability with the human form extends to observing it. Whether in the context of admiring a romantic partner or unwrapping a victim in order to properly prepare them for a fine meal, Hannibal does not find the concept of a nude human body off-putting, as society so often pressures and trains us to feel when faced with one. Maybe this is because Hannibal does not subscribe to many societal teachings, or maybe it is because he sees the concept of societal shame against nudity as part of the human need to place ourselves in a place of superiority over animals, who do not in fact go about wearing clothes of their own accord. Or maybe it is simply the fact that as a former surgeon, Hannibal knows that lingering on any uncomfortability caused by seeing another person’s nude body could be costly.
Whatever it may be, Hannibal is not perturbed when faced with the human body in its natural state. This is why he takes up the advice of his fellow artist friend, Alana Bloom, when she encourages him to try live modeling illustration. When he agrees, Alana provides him with the information for an art studio in Baltimore that she has taken classes with before. They offer nude modeling sessions for beginner to mid-level artists looking to improve their anatomy and proportion skills by studying a living model. Hannibal finds the concept of improving his artistic abilities in this way fascinating, and he decides to attend the studio’s next session.
Hannibal reaches the art studio, a small two-story brick building squished in between a pharmacy and yoga studio. As he walks in, Hannibal feels immediately welcomed by soft classical music playing over the studio’s speakers. He makes his way upstairs, where he was told the sessions are held. A few other artists are already seated in a semi-circle with easels and drawing pads or canvases set out before them. Hannibal takes a seat on the right side of the semi-circle, placing his own sketchpad on the easel in front of him.
Hannibal observes the faces of the other artists with some curiosity. One or two look anxious- their eyes dart between their sketch pad and the place where the nude model will soon stand, as if practicing not to stare anywhere for too long. Others have stoic expressions, serious artists who have likely done this a time or two.
The other seats fill, and Hannibal wonders where the man currently placing his tote bag on the floor will sit. He is dressed in a ragged flannel, slightly too-big jeans, and brown work boots, and he is visibly covered in dog hair even from Hannibal’s view eight feet away.
It is not until the man stands from his tote bag and begins to unbutton his flannel that Hannibal realizes that their live model has arrived.
Hannibal does not take the time to question why the man dressed in such clunky work clothes when a robe surely would’ve made undressing far more comfortable, and instead opens his sketchpad and retrieves his pencils. The man has already taken his position when Hannibal looks back up. Alana did not mention if there was any sort of introduction to a nude modeling session, but the immediate sound of pencil scratching from the serious artists tells Hannibal that this precession of events is likely common.
Hannibal takes his lightest weight pencil and begins to sketch large shapes- a square to place the torso, an oval and two lines for the head and neck. He scratches out quick, harsh lines where he will later define the limbs- one of the model’s arms rests across his chest, his hand gripping the opposite shoulder, while the other reaches behind his back. It makes for what Hannibal predicts to be a difficult angle to draw.
The legs are easier, with one slightly bent at the knee and the other completely straight. As he observes the angles of the legs, Hannibal notices that the man must either be tucking, which would have been difficult not to notice, or does not have the anatomy typically associated with a cis man. When Hannibal gazes back up to the man’s chest and notices thin, pale scars below the nipples, he can come to a conclusion.
Hannibal then takes a slightly heavier graphite and begins to define the facial features. The man’s face intrigues Hannibal- it remains completely still, despite the scrutiny of ten eager artists. It is entirely unreadable- not something Hannibal is accustomed to. He faces the left side of the semi-circle, staring at a point above the leftmost person’s shoulder. This offers Hannibal a side profile view of his face, slightly obscured by unruly dark brown curls.
Hannibal draws the angular profile of the man’s face, copying facial details like a student taking notes. He shades in the man’s dark eyebrows, takes mental note of his flared nostrils and sharp jawline, visible even through scruffy facial hair. The man’s eyes are a bright blue-green, something that Hannibal notes even though it will not be relevant to his graphite sketch.
Hannibal pauses when he leans back to examine his sketch. He was so focused on duplicating the man’s face down to its finest detail that he had honestly forget there was still a body to sketch. His current drawing is rather amusing; a detailed, fully realized head atop a body of rough shapes and harsh lines.
Hannibal decides to start defining from the neck down, but when he looks back up at the model, he is met with a piercing green-blue gaze. Hannibal looks back down at his paper before glancing at the other artists; no one seems to notice that the model is now looking in a different direction. The rest of his body remains alligned in exactly the same way as before.
Starting to feel wary, Hannibal continues his sketch without looking up to the model for a few minutes. This was strange- sure, part of the appeal of live model illustration is its unpredictability. But Hannibal is quite certain that models, as a general rule, are not supposed to completely change the direction they face in the middle of a session. Staring is rude. Hannibal ought to say something. Hannibal ought to DO something about it.
The other artists seem to catch on. A few erase the top parts of their illustrations and start over, new guidelines and all. Hannibal, however, does not need to. It is almost as if the man waited right until Hannibal had finished drawing the head to swivel his gaze. The thought is unnerving and festers Hannibal’s growing anger- could this model be observing Hannibal just as closely as Hannibal observes him?
Hannibal wonders what need a person whose entire job entails being observed and not spoken to has for observational skills. His career is not a two-way street- he is paid to stand, and to stand still. Could it be, perhaps, that this man’s instincts are so sharp that he can sense the ill intent wafting from Hannibal’s direction? Why, Hannibal wonders, would the man need to develop these sharp instincts in the first place?
Hannibal finally looks back up. The man stares back. His gaze has darkened. He is no longer the stoic statue meant for artists to copy. There is real, tangible emotion behind his eyes. He knows.
How could he know? Had Hannibal walked into the studio with a neon sign that screamed “LOOKING FOR POTENTIAL MURDER VICTIMS”? Because otherwise, Hannibal assured himself, there was no possible way for him to know.
Hannibal continues working his way down the sketch, defining broad shoulders, curved hips, muscular thighs. The serious artists seem to be wrapping up. The man’s gaze has not wavered.
Hannibal comes to a point where he is satisfied with his finished product. Other artists begin to pack up as they approach the end of the hour-long session. Hannibal closes his sketchpad, but he does not get up to leave. Instead, he folds his arms in his lap, leans back in his chair, and stares back, over his easel. It is warning. The model would be wise to take it.
The other artists take their leave. With them gone and Hannibal finished with his sketch, there is no reason for the model to remain in his pose. He must be tired, after an hour of reaching behind his back and keeping most of his weight on one foot. But nothing about his gaze portrays tiredness- his eyes are an angry, green-blue sea, waves endlessly crashing upon each other. There is rage- but there is a yearning, as well. An all too familiar hunger that Hannibal has fallen prey to one too many times. Whatever this man believes Hannibal has planned for him, he wants in.
It takes all of Hannibal’s mental fortitude to tear his gaze away. He lets his anger at the man’s blatant rudeness drift away like a breeze on the ocean before he makes any moves.
Hannibal places his sketch pad and pencil set back into his bag. He stands from his chair, slings the bag across one shoulder, and slowly makes his way over to the model. Polished shoes clicking across the studio’s tiles make up the only sound in the room. Stopping just before him, Hannibal places his hand over the model’s left hand, still resting on his right shoulder. He smells of sawdust and dogs.
“If you wanted to come over for dinner, you could’ve just said so.”
Finally, the model tears his gaze from the spot Hannibal had just occupied, and instead looks over to a spot above Hannibal’s left ear. He swallows hard. The storm leaves his eyes all at once. The tension Hannibal could feel under his hand alleviates. The man licks his lips and waits a beat before he speaks.
“…what are we having?”