Chapter Text
Dancers must overcome many things; gravity is only one of them.
The moon is nearly full above him as Hannibal unlocks the side door to the Paris Opera Ballet studios. Sleep was far away from him despite the late hour, his brain ruminating over his technique; somewhere between the thirty and thirty first bar of the balcony scene from Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet, he was missing a beat. It simply wouldn’t do.
In a few weeks, the company would be performing this ballet for the first time in ten years, and Hannibal himself was chosen as the leading male. He was far from the young, doe-eyed protagonist, but he was an étoile, and the longest standing premier danseur celebrating his 20th year with the theatre—and some sentiments of decorum were still respected here. Age was hardly a career killer for men in this industry, but he was nearing the POB’s mandatory retirement of 42. He would gracefully leave the company after the next season as it were, and this was his swansong with the organization before his next adventure. Maybe he would open his own theatre back in Florence—money and artistry being the least of his concerns—but that plan was still a bit away from actualization.
He is not expecting to find the hallway lights on this Sunday night when he enters. His steps trace the quiet vibration of music and a deep, baritone voice thrumming from the wood floors until he reaches the grand ballroom studio, his original destination, now clearly already occupied. Through the window, he watches a young man (one of the corps, American, his mind supplies) performing a dance. He regales himself to observe, not rude enough to interrupt just yet despite the audacity of this man. Whether he is arrogant, naive or both, his movements are beautiful in their havoc.
The man is halfway through the song, Take Me to Church from Hozier, Hannibal recognizes when he approaches. His grand jeté soars through the air with barely enough space to cross from one corner of the room to the other. The nude colored t-shirt and tights cling to his body with sweat, revealing the lithe body made of strong and well-earned muscle carved beneath as he glides through his movements. The man holds nothing back. He turns in the air before spilling to the ground; it would look almost sloppy to the untrained eye, but Hannibal sees the intention. Controlled falling.
He extends his leg up and up, dragging his standing leg behind to skid into the opposite corner. Hannibal isn’t easily impressed but let’s himself admire the formidable elevation as the man spins to the center and completes a breathless tour jeté, performing a perfect split like he is overcoming gravity and floating mid-air. He knows that he can’t reach that height in his own scene he came here to practice.
It’s a bit too contemporary for his tastes, especially as the man rolls and writhes and stretches on the ground. But whether or not Hannibal finds it tasteful, he witnesses genuine emotion in the gesticulations. The dance comes to an end as the man completes two barrel turns and then sinks to his knees a final time. His eyes stare ahead but Hannibal can see even from this far in the mirror that his mind is lost, separated from his body. He wonders briefly if the boy realizes how deep he has sunk in this room by himself, without anyone to pull him back to the surface.
His thighs are still trembling against the ground when Hannibal enters the room, making no attempt to deaden the slam of doors. The stranger’s head turns so fast it might break, muscles flexing as he unceremoniously straightens up into a defensive position. Coherency bubbles up as awakened emotions dance across his face like a film: shock, surprise, recognition, embarrassment. Interesting, Hannibal thinks.
Will realizes he had lost himself in the music. Or maybe, in between the notes was when he was lost in reality. Whatever the truth, the room came crashing back around him with the closing of a door and an unimpressed look across the face of the one and only Hannibal Lecter. He’d heard the rumors that this was his preferred studio; it might have been the reason he chose it to practice (he really didn’t find him interesting, he swore he didn’t), but he still wasn’t expecting him here, tonight.
“I’m sorry, I—” he starts to make up some excuse, his mind desperately insisting he needed one despite the studios open for all dancers in their free time, but he’s cut off with his music starting from the beginning again. Will scrambles to the front of the room to unplug his phone from the stereo system. Hannibal stands still as a statue, not sure what metaphorical dance he wants to partake in with the boy just yet.
“I think you’re in my studio,” he says, sharp and chiding.
“I’m, ah, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think anyone would be in here tonight,” Will says, still catching his breath. “I figured, I’ll never perform solo on it during the day, and the other rooms were a bit too small for what I was feeling.”
“It was quite a performance. Did you choreograph it yourself?”
Red rises to already flushed cheeks at the compliment.
“Yeah. That song has haunted me, my thoughts…,” he glances at the other man. “For the last few months,” his voice trails away. He wipes the sweat off his forehead, taming the curls with the back of his hand. “I needed a little improv to help get it out of my head. Hopefully it stays here.”
Hannibal holds in his amazement with the man at the revelation that what he witnessed was not refining but drafting. These kids are powerhouses nowadays, unbridled with certain pressures and freer than he was let to be in his youth. He knows he will dream about this man’s potential.
“I have a few pieces to practice, if you don’t mind,” He says instead.
Will nods, knows better than to debate the subject and rushes to gather his things. He’s already embarrassed, unsure of why he told the man so much or why the words came so easily.
Hannibal wasn’t planning for an audience, but there is something about the dispirited look upon the man’s face that moves him. He surprises himself when he adds, “You may stay and watch, if you wish.”
Will’s eyes brighten as he looks back up at the man and makes proper eye contact for the first time that evening. Neither comment on the immediate pull between them. It stills everything else in the room.
“Please. It would be an honor,” he replies, genuine and grateful. Even if it wasn’t Hannibal Lecter, he was a danseur etoile, and American or not, Will knew that distinction was admirable and that it would be an invaluable experience to watch his private practice.
Hannibal goes to the stereo and inserts a disk with the accompanying track. He is without a partner, but he came to practice his solo from the balcony pas de deux. Will travels to the back wall and slides down to sit beneath the barre to watch, trying to stay out of the way and be as little a distraction for the other man.
His heart bursts at the first few notes of the song that Hannibal has chosen—the balcony. Unbeknownst to Hannibal, this is his favorite dance from the ballet, his favorite scene from the play. Ingrained in his bones are Juliet’s dance moves. But soft, what light through yonder breaks sits unspoken on his tongue. Before he has a moment to watch Hannibal do anything, he’s breathing her to life inside his head. Hannibal doesn’t miss this display of rudeness, but is taken aback from how enthralled the boy is, eyes closed and hands moving in miniature versions of Juliet’s steps like a puppet master. Fingers glide through the air following her hand on the balcony rail; a hand sweeps in a semi-circle to mimic a pointed rond de jambe.
Hannibal doesn’t bother to dance, not that Will would have noticed, and goes to stereo again to pause the music. Will opens his eyes, guilt evident in his furrowed brow.
“I can see you marking the steps. Do you know it?”
“I’m not as elegant as Bedelia—” the dancer portraying the latter half of the play’s namesake aside Hannibal, ”—but yes, I know the steps.”
Hannibal doesn’t let a heavy silence fill the room, asking instead without hesitation.
“Will you join me then?”
Will pauses, feeling a flurry of butterflies swarm his stomach. He knows he knows the steps. He’s not sure if the proximity to the other man will make him forget though. He swears again, I’m not obsessed with the man.
“Ah, yes. Sure.” He stands, rolls his shoulders a few times before walking off to the side; though unnecessary, he stands en croisé and prepares his arms into second position. Hannibal hums in approval before skipping ahead a few measures, pressing play and returning to center.
As the music starts, Will doesn’t need a cue, but Hannibal announces the measure they’re starting at anyway, immediately after the lovers have parted. Hannibal falls right into his attitude en dehors, three perfect in a row, turning with his leg angled behind him. He performs his solo steps once to the right, then to the left, and then it’s time for Will to come in.
In this scene, Juliet smiles like a schoolgirl, and it's not hard for Will to complete the motions, reaching out in longing as they rush toward one another. Whatever disdain that was befitted on Hannibal’s face from earlier has also melted away, only pure and playful love to be found now. They touch for the first time. Will feels something shatter inside him, spilling warmth through his body when he cradles Hannibal’s arm against his cheek before he breaks away. He holds the forgotten afterimage, still touching his face like his skin is burning. (It is). Hannibal is equally as affected, but has the benefit of his face hidden as he runs upstage. This boy is otherworldly.
They only have a few moments before they’re moving back into each other’s arms, Will meeting him with a series of quick and smooth pirouettes. Hannibal feels him turn with ease underneath his hands at his waist. He is taller than most of Hannibal’s usual partners, but not en pointe so the position comes naturally. They move together like oil on fire, bright and hot and instantaneous like they could outburn the sun. Will doesn’t panic or hesitate as Hannibal lets him fall into easy sous-sus’ toward the ground; he is only confident and pliant against him.
It’s a second thought for both of them, the why didn’t we practice the lifts beforehand? It’s redundant anyway. They grasp their hands and the next thing they know, Will is laid across Hannibal’s shoulders like it's the only place he is meant to be. Will is no lady, but Hannibal is a strong man. Will can feel the expanse of muscle underneath him as he glides below, not strained in the slightest. He draws his leg up and developpés into lounging splits in the air once again, extending away.
Hannibal does little to mask how content he is with this pairing. It had been a reckless request. He won’t admit now that he wanted to see Will fail or at least falter after his faultless performance before. But now he is utterly bemused at how each move comes so effortlessly between them, then enthralled at the beauty above him as Will opens up smooth and eager.
“Lovely extension,” he breathes out, not sure or caring if the other man hears him.
Will is returned to the ground and the pair wade through the moves like water, Will’s shirt flowing as they spin and spin and spin. Hannibal grips the other man’s waist tightly as he lifts him up in a turn, higher than necessary to ghost the tips of his toes against the floor in faux pointe. They chasse, skipping in tandem, and Will lifts his leg again, toe touching his hand in a full extension while standing before they gain momentum to prepare for the most difficult and complex lift.
At this point, any semblance of reluctance is gone; neither think to pause, to feel nervous. It’s like they’re doing this for the hundredth time together. They move, Will rises and suddenly he is inverted, wrists crossed and gripping Hannibal’s thick thigh, while the other man holds him steady, one arm pulling the small of his back down while the other holds his knee. They both still, frozen in the pose like it takes no strength at all. They feel each other's breath before the music cues the next movement, rolling Will down into Hannibal’s embrace like lover’s crossing the threshold to consummate a marriage. They’re able to fully look at one another now, nose-to-nose, Will bringing his hand to caress Hannibal’s face. They’re mirrored awestruck.
Hannibal releases him and kneels. He clutches the fabric of Will's blouse, inhaling the scent for a beat longer than he should, sweaty but authentically him . Will won’t call him out on the error. The line between Will and Juliet’s emotion is blurred to the point of nonexistence. It’s always so easy for him to play these characters. More often than not after a show, he waits backstage before greeting the audience, tears flowing as he rains out the character, overwhelmed. This is something profusely distinct. Real.
The dance is almost over as Hannibal chases after his running maiden. He lifts him for the last time in this sequence, Will’s arm reaching up into oblivion before he’s lowered slowly back down. His body falls down upon him like a cocoon.
They turn and reunite, Will clasping their hands together and leaning back from Hannibal kneeling before him again. Hannibal grips his waist, ever so dramatic with no acting at all. The music keeps playing, but they stop here. Will feels Hannibal’s heavy breaths against his panting chest. They’re alone in the room but they feel the phantom applause, building into a deafening and all-encompassing uproar that matches their feelings inside.
“I’m not often surprised,” Hannibal speaks, a little muffled into the fabric of Will’s shirt. His hands tremble into the cotton.
Will is quiet for a moment before Hannibal hears sniffling, and looks up to see tears in Will’s eyes.
“I’m sorry, ah—” he releases Hannibal's hand to wipe his eyes, and it joins his unrelenting grip on Will’s waist. “I get overwhelmed from it all sometimes,” he gestures to the room as if that would explain it to the other man. “This is decidedly worse than usual though.”
Hannibal nods, rubbing small circles into his back before slowly, regretfully, releasing him.
“It’s beautiful.” he simply says.
“Yes, yes it is. It’s my favorite combination. I’m happy with the variation Crawford has gone with for this production. It reminds me of the Royal Opera House in 1966.”
“That too, my dear, but I was speaking about you.” The endearment comes from him without thought or consequence. It won’t be the last. Hannibal stands and takes the other man’s hands in his own.
“It seems we are a bit out of step as it were. I’m Hannibal Lecter,” he says, eyes full of ever-growing fondness.
Will laughs, as if he doesn’t know him. “Will. Will Graham.”
“Well, Will Graham, perhaps you know the bedroom pas de deux as well?”
Both men smile as Will nods bashfully.