Chapter Text
Beaches, the Corinthian loved to contemplate, contained the whole scope of the human experience. Over there children playing, and some other children crying; a woman sunbathing and relaxed, a woman stressed over the looming possibility of sunburn and drowning her skin in sunscreen; a man reading as if he has all the time in the world and nothing could bother him, a man frantically checking emails before he’s even set his bag down by his towel; teenagers throwing a ball around and happy to call it beach volleyball, teenagers swimming and spraying themselves with the water, teenagers yelling profanities at each other with boiling affectionate tones, teenagers throwing lustful longing glances at each other. Elderly taking slow walks, seasoned salesmen threading between the umbrellas and the beach chairs offering shiny trinkets and sweets. And above all of them the glaring sun plastered on a blue sky without a single cloud in sight, the waves crashing against sand in a salty symphony that not even the nearby bars blasting music could silence.
Truly the pinnacle of existence, the Corinthian thought lazily. Especially with someone to share it with.
He didn’t actually remember the name of the man next to him. He rarely did bother with names because there were much more defining characteristics to remember humans by. This one in particular was bold and assertive to the point of brashness - he’d spotted the Corinthian at the bar last night and insisted on buying him a drink and then seeing him off to his hotel room, a game familiar and played and, of course, enjoyed every single time. And the eyes, of course, the Corinthian never forgot a set of eyes. The man lying in the sand next to him had dark eyes, a star squeezed free of all light and then folded into a tight ball and left to rot in the darkness, worked over by a capable carpenter who smoothed it out to a dull shine into two and slotted them right into this man’s skull.
His name was probably James. He looked a bit like a James, but the Corinthian preferred to remember him as the one star-eyed man who very insistently slammed him against the wall in his hotel room. His eyes and hands were currently tracing idle patterns over the Corinthian’s collarbone, taking maximum advantage of the latter’s unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt.
The Nightmare let him do it as he busied himself people-watching - the sensation felt good on his skin, and he was never one to turn down attention.
“You’ll burn,” the star-eyed man pointed out. “Pale bastard.”
The Corinthian laughed and raised his cocktail glass to his lips. He didn’t bother replying, instead busied himself with his phone and his drink. Possibly-James wasn’t all that invested in his skin’s health, as he let it be and continued his mindless exploration, pushing the other man’s shirt further away.
The Corinthian opened one of his numerous emails mostly out of habit and to have something to do with his hands. He was surprised to see something in the inbox.
Ah … so it was that time of the year already.
He pushed himself up into a sitting position, to the displeasure of the star-eyed man who followed him with a frown. The Corinthian grabbed the back of his neck with one hand to pull him forward and kiss him, salty and biting and hot, before he pushed him away and stood up.
“Sorry, darling,” he purred as he stashed his phone in a pocket and buttoned his shirt up. “I know said I leave in the evening,” he threw an appreciative glance over Possibly-James’s nothing short of perfect body. “But I just remembered I have places to be.”
“Could I interest you in a trip?” Hannibal offered with one of his sly smiles, something lurking, hidden beneath.
Will threw him an exasperated look. This could be anything - a confession that his companion had killed someone too obviously and it was time for them to leave, a preposition for another extravagant get-away to some exotic corner of the Old Continent (although with them get-aways tended to be permanent, as they never settled in one place for long), or maybe just an attempt to distract him from the game.
They were playing sixty-six and Hannibal was currently losing 7 to 3. Although he had picked up the trump King from under the pile with his nine, so there was a chance he’d have a forty and win this round because Will did not have the trump Queen. He had the Ace, however, and the Jack, and was fairly confident he could push to 33 points even if his companion decided to close the round.
“What trip?” he finally asked as he threw a Jack from a non-trump suit on the table.
Hannibal took with a ten and reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. Will waited patiently.
He was presented with a thick, textured envelope of obviously expensive paper, half of the broken wax seal still clinging to it. He raised an eyebrow - not many people save from his companion would bother with such officiality. Naturally, his curiosity pushed him towards flipping the envelope open, especially since Hannibal had obviously already read it, and lacking behind in information was dangerous even when he was fairly certain the two of them presented no threat to each other. Slacking would be rude, and he had absorbed some of his companion’s distaste towards rudeness.
It was an invitation, written by hand in elegant calligraphy and decorated with a stamped trim along the edge of the page.
“The Cereal Convention,” Will read aloud evenly, then threw his companion the most unimpressed look he could muster. “And here I thought chemicals offended your palette.”
“Do read to whom it happens to be addressed,” Hannibal smirked at him and that was never a good sign.
Will frowned and skimmed the invitation quickly, noting something about ‘giving the special address’ and ‘it would do us a great honour’, until he saw the name of the addressee at the very bottom - The Chesapeake Ripper.
His eyes widened as his head whipped up to stare at his companion, who was looking terribly smug.
“I receive an invitation every year,” he pointed out calmly. “Never felt an interest in attending.”
“Are you bored?” Will quirked an eyebrow.
“With you by my side? Never,” his companion denied as easily and sincerely as breathing. “However, it is an interesting opportunity. I find myself curious.”
“Cereal Convention …” Will repeated, twisting the paper in his hands this way and that.
“They call themselves Collectors,” Hannibal explained disinterestedly. “An understatement of art, but it serves the purpose.”
“It’s bold,” Will pointed out with a scoff.
“Talent may spring from the deepest darkest cavern and the poorest of lands.”
“So you are bored,” Will accused, his turn to be smug. “Looking for a new project to toy with?”
“I should like you to accompany me, if you are willing,” Hannibal ignored his remark. “Meeting peers could prove an enlightening experience.”
“Peers would imply us to be equal,” Will tilted his head to the side, assessing. “Do you nurse such hopes?”
“Nothing and nobody in this world could equal you or replace you, Will, but I do find himself wondering whether or not my continued rejection of this event would not lead me to miss anything.”
Will surveyed the thinly hidden innuendoes in the invitation, not least of which naming the event ‘The Cereal Convention’. It was tacky, in his opinion, and tastelessness was tantamount to rudeness. But they had been spending too much of their time holed up with only each other for company.
“Alright,” he shrugged, and that was that.
Hannibal won the game of sixty-six 12 to 8.
The Good Doctor strolled into their diner of choice with the smuggest grin any of the others had seen on her yet. She fixed her eyes on their table and took the distance in several smooth, long strides until she was sitting next to Fun Land.
“I have news,” she announced, her voice soft and rich like honey.
“So do I,” replied Nimrod. “And I believe yours cannot beat mine.”
“Let’s hear it,” The Good Doctor smirked, crossed her arms, and leaned back like a goddess allowing a lowly pilgrim to entertain her.
Nimrod did not take it personally - he brought his tongue out to wet his lips and then spoke with his fervent enthusiasm.
“I have received an answer … from the Corinthian,” he announced proudly. He didn’t notice how The Good Doctor’s smile faded, how she straightened immediately, tense as a plank of wood. “He’s agreed to attend the convention this year. And give the special address!”
“That’s amazing!” Fun Land exclaimed, eyes twinkling with excitement. He turned to the woman next to him. “Can you imagine? The Corinthian - in the flesh! Why, is it Christmas already?”
“It’s better than Christmas,” Nimrod chastised him but his words held no venom, only a near childish joy. “It’s once in a hundred years.”
“One hundred and thirty,” Fun Land nodded energetically.
“Boys,” The Good Doctor interrupted their celebrations, her voice ringing sharp and cold in the diner.
The two of them looked over at her with bewildered disbelief, apparently unable to comprehend how she could not be shaking with excitement like them.
“I also received a response,” she explained slowly, carefully. “By a special guest who agreed to give the address. The Chesapeake Ripper.”
Two sets of eyes widened before her. Fun Land and Nimrod exchanged glances, suddenly terrified and quiet.
“He … he too wants to come?” the older man chanced to clarify, his voice trembling just a little.
The Good Doctor nodded severely.
“Oh dear …”
“Yeah, that’s not good,” Fun Land agreed nervously. “I mean, they can’t both give the special address, right?”
“We cannot recede our invitation,” Nimrod pointed out reasonably.
“Maybe one of them will cancel,” The Good Doctor hummed thoughtfully. “Neither of them has ever attended. It seems unlikely both will this year.”
“Yeah …” Nimrod exhaled in relief. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Of course you’re right,” Fun Land nodded. “But in case you’re not …”
“Then our guests will be more than happy to meet both the Corinthian and the Chesapeake Ripper,” the woman announced sharply. “And we’ll figure something out for the address.”
“Looks like this is crisis averted,” Nimrod gave a small smile.
It did not at all feel like crisis averted.