Work Text:
"Mary, carry your shame
Well past all those eyes across the avenue.
Fish heads running from rain,
You know I'll do anything you want me to.
Lamp oil lovers may say,
"Freedom hangs like heaven over everyone."
Ain't nobody knows what the newborn holds
But his papa's going to hide shaking gristle
And shaking like bone."
- Freedom Hangs Like Heaven, Iron and Wine
Matthew couldn't sleep.
The day had been a celebration of him and the flimsy piece of paper declaring his admission to Harvard University, the next stepping stone to medical school and surgery. The great Lecter home had been full of friends and Baltimore high society, spilling into the garden just blooming with the flush of spring. Dad had cried, while Father had looked like a preening peacock, as if he had gotten into Harvard himself.
Matthew was his usual charming self – he had grown as tall as Father, muscular and lean with a handsome, angular face. His dark hair had straightened somewhat, but it still had to be swept out of his dark eyes. Baltimore society called him Little Hannibal, as cunning and quick as his sire in conversation and in academia, but more tempered by the sweetness of his dam.
He should be exhausted. He tossed and turned in bed, restless and agitated. He tried to fall back into memories of their summer holiday to Italy, of the canals of Venice and the grandeur of the Sistine Chapel, but they did not soothe like they had before. Finally, unable to deny his longing, Matthew rose and walked to his desk. On it was the thorn that was keeping him up.
It was in a narrow wooden box, polished to the point Matthew could see his reflection. The workmanship of it was impeccable, and Matthew admired it before he opened it. Nestled inside was a chef's knife, cold and glowing in the night. It had been made custom, the handle fitting his palm perfectly. He lifted it, swallowing at the sheen of the sharp edge.
When it had been presented to him, everyone in the room took it as a thoughtful gesture from father to son – of course Hannibal, with his immense love of cooking, would get his son his very own chef's knife. Matthew knew its true meaning, though, exchanged over a long, hard gaze and a slow, wicked smile.
His hand trembled with the thought of his father's final lesson, and Matthew forced himself to put the knife back in the box. He placed in his desk drawer, before resting his hands on the smooth wood of the desk and taking a deep, rattling breath. The promise had sunk into his bones and flowed through his blood, as cold and clear as the basement when Father first handed him a scalpel.
The realization of this thing as much his birthright as the crumbling castle in Lithuania and the imperial might of the Baltimore house. It tasted like copper in the back of his mouth, looked like newspapers and books and research papers, the Chesapeake Ripper rising far above some common murderer and into a legend, an immortal being.
A title, as much as Count or Doctor. Matthew would have them all.
Looking at the knife had not made sleep come easier. He grabbed his robe off the hook by the door and quietly stepped into the hall, making his way downstairs and on to the back patio. Here was where Doctor Chilton had gruffly told him that his namesake would've loved him dearly, here was where some of the greatest doctors on the East Coast confessed their eagerness to have him as a peer.
"You're going to catch a cold out here."
Will's voice drifted over to him, causing Matthew to jump. He turned to see his dam standing in the doorway, brows knitted together in worry. Matthew made his way over to soothe the worry away.
"I was just thinking," he assured. Will tilted his head.
"You and your father," Will tutted, fluttering about with Matthew's hair. "Always thinking. Go to sleep, Harvard student. You have school tomorrow."
"Yes, Dad," Matthew murmured. He went up to his room, laid back down on his bed. He thought of the knife, the final lesson. The feast.
He pushed the thought into the bottom pits of his mind – the Paris Catacombs they had gone down into when he was thirteen. Normally his father would not be so gauche as to go on some American tour, but for this he made an exception. The bones had ignited something deep in his rolling gut.
Matthew still had his advanced courses and the shiny prize of valedictorian to win. Hannibal Lecter demanded nothing short of perfection from his heir, and he did not want to see what would happen to the knife if he failed.
He was a live wire in Literature, only the clenching of his jaw giving away his sparking thoughts. Beside him sat Luke Brandon, the prettiest of the two male omegas and the one who expected Matthew's courting gifts – the best alpha, for the best omega. His arrogance poisoned any loveliness there might've been.
"You seem tense," Luke cooed. Matthew gave him a wobbly smile.
"Didn't sleep well," he said. "My parents wanted to celebrate my acceptance as soon as possible."
"Harvard," Luke sighed, dreamy eyed with the idea of playing the host to Matthew's rockstar medical career, achieving sainthood by being the loyal lover who helped the second Doctor Lecter through internships and residencies. "That's a long ways away."
Matthew entertained the idea of drowning Luke in a bath full of rose petals.
"It's worth it," Matthew said, staring resolutely forward. Luke was not worth the sharp steel of the new blade, a poor choice for the first feast.
"There's going to be a party on Friday, at Elijah Meyers' house," Luke revealed. Matthew's interested peaked – Elijah Meyers gave him a black eye when he was nine, and Matthew had returned the favor with a bite mark that was still there. While there had been no bloodshed, the hostilities had only increased.
"Oh?" Matthew asked, feigning interest. Luke prattled on and on about the party and who else was going to be there, but Matthew stopped listening. His teeth ached.
Class let out and Matthew let himself be swallowed into the throng of people before Luke could corner him again. He saw Elijah holding court by the lockers, loudly bragging about the betas he had sex with to an enthralled audience. Crass, Matthew thought.
Crass was the word he used to describe Elijah Meyers to his parents, when they had gathered in the study for a little discussion. His dam had sat with him on the couch, while his sire stayed at his desk, sketching something. Maybe them.
"Sexuality is not something to be bragged about," Will agreed. "It should be a private, intimate thing between individuals."
"This is the boy you bit?" Hannibal asked. Matthew nodded.
"For insulting Dad," he said. "Now he plans on going to Yale, and his very presence would be an insult to the institution."
"That's a liability," Will pointed out. "The police would know that you two have come into conflict in the past, making you a viable suspect."
"Not if it's a Ripper murder," Matthew argued. "Young people have been killed before."
He looked hopefully at Hannibal, who had been strangely quiet the whole evening. Hannibal tilted his head.
"Indeed they have," he said. "Once it is declared a Ripper murder, the victim's personal life becomes rather unimportant."
"At most they'll ask me some questions at school," Matthew declared.
"Just make sure not to do anything stupid beforehand," Will said, before drifting out of the room. Hannibal regarded his son.
"I will be there to help, but the observation is yours," he said. "You must know your victim intimately, before you can hunt them."
He rose, hand gripping Matthew's shoulder. He leaned close.
"Leave no trace," Hannibal murmured. "No writing your observations down. No taking of notes. Contain everything inside the forts of your skull."
He left with a whisper, and Matthew was left alone in the study, cavernous as the echo in his mind. His father's words, circling over and over.
-
There was a house party.
There were always parties, where the idle children of the wealthy drank and snorted powders together. Matthew was a ghost at these sorts of events, finding them almost universally distasteful compared to the dinner parties and performances his parents took him to.
But this wasn't for enjoyment. This was for hunting.
It was a big, tacky house built for looks instead of for craftsmanship (if he paid attention, there were cracks in the ceiling from a poor foundation), parents off with their paramours for the night. Matthew didn't care, weaving between the drunken masses like a long shadow at the end of the day. There was saliva in his mouth, his heart pounded. The promise of the coming hunt sunk deep into his bones.
The fake Tudor mansion thrummed with noise. Matthew grabbed a cheap beer, barely more alcoholic than water and tasting like piss, to calm his nerves and remind himself tonight was observation.
He found his quarry outside in the grass, where hot-tempered alphas wrestled in dominance fights – playful ones, a chance to blow off the steam of unfulfilled ruts. Matthew leaned against the porch railing to watch.
During his first full rut at fourteen, he had challenged the absolute authority of his sire. Hannibal had responded by slamming Matthew's face to the floor, enough to bruise, and bit the nape of his neck until he bled.
Matthew didn't challenge his father again.
Elijah overpowered his opponents again and again, and grew bold in his continued victories, the eyes of the crowd. Drunk, possibly high. Frequent partier, and thrower of parties. Matthew's plan began to form.
Elijah turned and saw Matthew's calm countenance. "Look here, it's Lecter! Too much of a pussy to come and fight?"
"There's no point," Matthew responded, "If there's no omega to fight over."
"Like you like fucking omegas!" Elijah crooned. "Bet you're as big an alpha slut as your dam!"
"Excuse me?"
Matthew's voice had taken a low register that made the spectators uneasy, but Elijah prattled on.
"Bet your dam gets wet for any alpha that passes him by, fucks them right in your sire's bed...if he's your sire..."
Matthew vaulted over the porch railing, landing with the brutal grace of a leopard. Elijah, finally realizing his mistake, frantically backed up, but Matthew was faster. Much faster.
He slammed him to the ground, full weight baring down. Elijah squirmed and bucked, but Matthew was unrelenting. He pressed his hand down on Elijah's throat.
"Did you learn your lesson? Don't you still bare my mark?" Matthew hissed. "The next time you speak of my dam will be the last time you have a tongue."
Matthew let got, rising up and walking away from the makeshift fighting pit. Elijah sputtered and coughed for breath. Matthew's mouth watered with the desire to permanently prove his superiority over Elijah.
Soon, he told himself, pushing past the gaping on-lookers to make his way home. Elijah's status as a Ripper victim would make this incident fade away.
He cracked his jaw. The night air was cold and comforting on his skin. Fearless, he began his walk home.
-
Matthew stalked Elijah for a month and a half.
He could make no notes of his movements and activities, instead carefully committing them to memory. He knew Elijah better than Elijah knew himself – his dreams, his goals, his motivations. His now, and so would the rest of him.
Unable to sleep and his appetite diminished to almost nothing with excitement, Matthew worked out compulsively when he wasn't hunting. His excellent work in school became flawless. He read when he could not sleep and could not go out, forming a leaning stack beside his bed. The journal he kept became a dark place, kept obscured in the Lithuanian shorthand his sire had taught him.
Elijah was only mentioned once by name.
Finally, the new moon came and left only black sky. Luke Brandon threw a party to celebrate graduation. Matthew declined an invitation.
Dinner was a simple affair, conducted in near quiet. Matthew had a hard time sitting, mind going over the plan again and again.
"Sit still," Hannibal ordered. Matthew quieted.
"He's just excited," Will murmured. He ran his hand over Hannibal's arm. "Aren't you?"
The terse line of Hannibal's shoulders relaxed a bit. "I'll admit that I'm a bit tense. Apologies, Matthew."
"It's okay," Matthew assured. "I've probably haven't been a treat lately, either."
"This is a happy occasion," Will said. "We should be celebrating. Our baby boy is becoming an adult."
He was wearing that happy-sad smile he had during the celebration of Matthew's acceptance to Harvard. Matthew reached out across the table to take his hand like he used to do as a child. Will squeezed it tight.
After dinner, Matthew lined the back of the Bentley with thick plastic, and Hannibal handed him a syringe full of anesthetic. In the garage, he ran his hand through Matthew's hair with a wide smile, like Matthew was a child again.
"My son," he said proudly.
The Bentley was parked ten blocks away, in a shadow. No headlights. The houses here were far from the streets. In one hand was the syringe, in the other was the knife.
Quietly, Matthew navigated through the grove of trees to the edge of Luke's yard. There was another dominance fight occurring, and for a moment Elijah broke away from the group to take a piss.
Like lightning, Matthew stuck the syringe in Elijah's neck. He dropped like a lead weight; Matthew dragged him into the shadows of the woods, before hog-tying him. Matthew estimated it would take fifteen to twenty minutes for people to notice that Elijah had not returned from his piss. Plenty of time to throw his unconscious body into the back of the Bentley and discretely leave, like they had never been there.
The ride was silent, Matthew's whole body thrumming with nervous energy. The drugs would last about an hour.
Finally, they pulled into the garage, and this time Hannibal helped haul Elijah's form into the house. In the kitchen was Will, nursing his cup of coffee. He watched the procession quietly.
They descended into the basement, and Hannibal left it to Matthew to strip the body and bind the limbs down to the table. It was propped up, so Elijah was semi-upright. Matthew rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, boiling hot, and laid out his tools – scalpels, saws, and of course the gleaming knife, shining like a mirror in the operating lights.
Elijah came into wakefulness wearily, eyes blinking open and promptly blinded by the lights. When he adjusted, Matthew was the first thing he saw, leaning casually against the wall.
"What..." he sputtered. "Is this some sort of sick joke? What the fuck, man?"
"No," Matthew said calmly, pushing away from the wall. He grabbed the knife, and Elijah began to squirm.
"I know we've had our differences in the past, but you don't have to..." Elijah began, but Matthew pressed his finger to his lips to shut him up.
"I don't have to," Matthew said. "I want to. You are nothing but a blight. In death you will become more. How many dead people get to be a part of the Ripper's sounder?"
"Bullshit, the Ripper's been operating for decades..." Elijah argued.
"He has."
Hannibal and Will descended down the stairs, arm in arm. Elijah's eyes widened.
"And he will for decades more," Matthew boasted. He brought the point of the knife under Elijah's chin, causing a pinprick of blood to trickle out.
"The Ripper removes the organs of his victims when they are still alive and conscious," Matthew mimicked in his best professor impression, before letting a wicked grin spread across his face. "I think I'll start with your tongue."