Work Text:
Metaphors are not to be trifled with. A single metaphor can give birth to love. —— The Unbearable Lightness of Being
The numbness was almost comforting.
Hannibal had made sure he’d locked the door to the darkest alley of his mind palace. Had sunk against that door, made of the endangered Lignum Vitae (who amongst us is not?), and had shivered against the chilling spectres of distant screams that sought to pull him back in. His instinct for self-preservation was the only thing that begged him to save himself, to get up and run and not die.
And now he found himself in a bustling American city, alone in the whirlpool of bone-chilling late winter snow, a hotdog in his hand and a few layers of tattered fabric clinging almost pathetically to his pale skin, reminiscent of their former glory. The hotdog he earned with his good manners and thankfully decent command of English. The look of severe malnourishment must have helped, too. Cautious of the risk of hypophosphatemia, he took the food in meagre bites. It was his first night here, after the seemingly endless sail across the Atlantic and the bumpy truck rides. His only wish was to escape the nightmares, and it didn’t matter where the flight would lead him.
How could he have stayed, when everything was a desolate reminder of what had been before and what could never be?
Hannibal thanked the snow for dulling his senses. He chewed on the food almost mechanically, exercising his mind on what nutrients he gained and still lacked. Whatever heat that had lingered in the hotdog had escaped entirely into thin air, the yellow glint of which merely an illusion of warmth borrowed from the looming street lights. But he did not feel it. He didn’t feel the cold, even as the movement of his fingers became palpably strained by his growing loss of control over his body.
It wasn’t too bad, was it? He could sink into the night, and perhaps blissful oblivion would welcome him into its arms, the way his family used to.
‘Hey, are you…are you okay? Are you on your own?’
A soft voice, not unkind.
Slowed by the cold and still unused to the language, it took Hannibal a moment to understand what was asked. Guarded, the thirteen-year-old looked up, maroon eyes scrutinising the man in front of him. His clothes suggested a comfortable income, but not wealth. He was young, around 25, Hannibal estimated. His brown curls were dampened by the snow that melted on him, but still appeared soft in the glow of the light that the two of them shared. He seemed to be avoiding eye contact on purpose, but Hannibal still caught the beauty of those captivating blue eyes that wore brilliant hues of green.
Hannibal attempted to speak but managed only a whisper. ‘I’m on my own.’
Fortunately, the stranger’s hearing was good enough. He took a step closer, hands in his pocket, careful not to violate Hannibal’s personal space. Hannibal noticed he was shuddering against the cold, and regarded him with more intrigue. ‘Okay, uh, d’you have a place to stay? You know, it’s only going to get colder. If you stay here, chances are you won’t last through the night. And I’m Will, by the way, sorry, and…you can stay with me for the night, if you don’t mind.’
Will. Hannibal repeated the name in his mind. Will smiled a little, and for the first time in a long while, Hannibal felt warmth.
‘I will appreciate that very much.’ Hannibal still had his suspicions, but there was nothing he could lose now, and his instincts told him this was someone he could trust. So he returned the smile politely and as much as his freezing muscles allowed.
Will looked genuinely delighted. ‘Let me take you home then. Well, it’s really just my hotel room, but home has a nicer ring to it, don’t you think?’
Hannibal nodded, gathered himself up from the bench, and stepped into a new beginning.
‘Thank you.’