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“I'm sorry… you want us to do what ?” Will hissed through his teeth, hand almost snapping the pencil he had been fidgeting with in half.
“I know it’s a little unconventional, but—” Jack Crawford was cut off from where he sat across the desk from Will, a case file spread out sporadically across its surface.
“ Unconventional ?! I understand we need to catch this guy, but is going undercover really the only solution we have? At a strip club , of all places?!” Will spluttered, hands gesturing wildly. He turned to the psychiatrist seated beside him, the man having been eerily silent despite Will’s roiling emotions.
“This is the only place he has consistently frequented, other attempts to apprehend him elsewhere failed rather splendidly.” Hannibal offered with a brisk wave of his hand, and Will scoffed audibly.
“Yes, I know that, but is dressing up as ‘ adult performers ’ really the only option we have?” He glared angrily at Hannibal, who offered him only a sheepish look in return.
“I discussed this with Doctor Bloom—” Jack began, rubbing the bags under his eyes with a tired hand.
“ Of course Alana was involved. ” Will snarled, receiving a shot look of anger from the man before he continued.
“—And you two have become quite well known, thanks to Lounds’ articles. It would be suspicious to anyone at the establishment if men in suits were sulking around, but your faces would seal the deal. He wouldn’t show, and would probably choose other places to familiarize himself with. We need you there, dressed up so gaudily nobody suspects anything.” Crawford steepled his fingers and rested his chin on his thumbs, looking at the two men seated across from him, one stewing in his rage, and the other showing no emotion aside from the thin line of his pressed lips.
“So, what— we dress like whores and sulk around the establishment anyways?” Will rolled his eyes, crossing his arms across his chest. Jack turned his eyes expectantly to the door.
“Well, not exactly.” A voice from behind them hummed, and Will felt himself groan inwardly.
“We’ve already cut a deal with some of the dancers. They make money off of people like the man we are going to be removing from the premises, so our interference isn’t exactly the most…welcome.” Alana smiled sweetly as she moved to stand to one side of the desk, leaning the heels of her palms on the edge.
“It’s not ideal, but in exchange for their time onstage, as well as any ‘ruckus or damage’ we may cause, you two are going to be performers for a night.” Jack finished, expression dead serious. Hannibal seemed to choke at that, his eyebrows pressed together against the bridge of his nose.
“And, do tell me why none of the other fine members of the FBI cannot accomplish this task…?” Hannibal asked with a pointed glance at Alana.
“I trust you two more than anyone, you'll be closest to the patrons and have the best vantage point.” Jack explained, tugging a loose slip of paper from beneath the case file and showing the two men a floor plan of the club. It was a cramped space, with a stage against the center of the back wall and a bar pressed into the left corner, right next to the door that led backstage. A balcony ran around the upper level, only accessible through one small staircase on the right side. Will had to admit, the stage was the only decent vantage point in the place, especially if it was going to be packed with drunk and horny savages.
“Besides, I’ve already snagged a spot as the assistant bartender for the night.” Alana smiled, though the expression didn’t get to her eyes. Will could only splutter helplessly as she mimicked having a shaker in her hands, pouring imaginary drinks on the desk.
“There will be cars parked on every corner for when he does arrive, all you have to do is give Alana a signal and she will contact us. We are hoping to catch him when he leaves for the night, that way there will be as little disruption to the building as possible, and he’ll be drunk out of his mind.” Crawford gentured to Dr. Bloom, where she was sipping on her imaginary martini with a victorious smile.
Hannibal appeared dumbfounded, and it would have been funny to Will had he not been in the same metaphorical boat as the doctor. Alana clapped Will on the shoulder as she exited, his lips parting to retort, but finding nothing. This was the job, was it not. Anything to catch a killer, to put him behind bars where he belonged.
That was how he found himself pressed uncomfortably close to Hannibal in the backseat of Alana’s tiny blue Audi, the seats as clean as a crime scene aside from the occasional tufts of dog hair from her pup Applesauce back home. Apparently, the passenger seat was reserved for the dog, which was why the two men were in such close conditions like being in the backseat of a cramped taxi. He could see the slight bob of Hannibal’s Adam's apple when he swallowed, but his face was otherwise as calm as it usually was. Will on the other hand was sweating buckets beneath his soft green sweater, and the soft smirk on Doctor Bloom’s lips was not helping the situation. He found himself chewing on the nail of his thumb, casting his gaze out the tinted windows to the city around them.
It was still relatively early in the morning, but after most of the traffic for the work time rush had dissipated, though a few stragglers were running awkwardly towards office buildings with untied shoelaces and messily closed briefcases. Apparently he and Hannibal had to be there at the same time as the other performers to get ready, though he was unsure why a club that opened when the sun set required a day’s worth of time for it. It couldn’t hurt to get used to the building though, since he would be trapped within its wall for the next 24 hours.
As if summoning it from the pits of hell, the blinking led signs depicting silhouettes of girls in twinkling stilettos and ostentatious flashing XXXs appeared as they turned down a street lined with bars and similar clubs. Right above the glass doors, The Popped Cherry blinked on and off in shimmering red light. He took in a deep breath, preparing for what was going to be, most likely, the most humiliating night of his life.
The interior smelled like vodka and too much sugar when the three of them entered through the glass doors, shiny black floors reflecting the sunlight that filtered in. He could only imagine how different it looked at night, flooded with flashing leds and glowsticks, lights catching on the two twin poles that rose from the left and right sides of the stage, leaving the center empty. The tapping of heels alerted him to someone approaching.
“Oh— you three must be those government weirdos I got called about.” A woman in black stilettos clicked towards them, plush red lips holding a purple lollipop loosely in their grasp. She wore a short black pencil dress with a leather coat over it, her pin-straight black hair completing her sharp silhouette.
“That would be us, yes. Thank you again for this— I’m Alana.” Dr. Bloom said with a smile, moving to reach out her hand.
“Charmed.” The woman huffed, pulling the lollipop out of her mouth with one hand and taking Alana’s in the other, bobbing it once loosely, “Then you’re the one helping me behind the bar tonight, I presume?”
“That's me! Let’s hope I don’t get in your way too much.” She let out a nervous laugh, which was not returned by the cold woman.
“Let's hope. These two the dancers?” She jutted her chin out at Hannibal and Will, who had been standing awkwardly behind Alana.
“Yes, I suppose we are. My name is Doctor Hannibal Lecter.” Hannibal introduced himself though he did not offer the woman his hand, keeping his arms drawn behind his back.
“Whoa, a doctor .” She gushed sarcastically, before turning her eyes to Will, looking him up and down. “And you?”
“Will Graham.” He cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing around the hollow space.
“Great. Let's go you two, you’re already late to get dressed up.” She pivoted on her heel with expert precision and marched towards the door behind the bar, labeled Staff only in bold yellow lettering. Will jogged after her, followed closely behind by Hannibal.
“Wait— what do you mean, ‘ dressed up .’ Isn’t stripping taking your clothes off ?” He questioned as they entered the back rooms. He could hear Alana chuckling faintly behind them as the door swung shut. He received no response as his eyes were immediately assaulted with neon lights.
They had entered a long, thin hallway, lined on one side with racks on racks of glittery, shiny, half-transparent scraps of fabric that Will would never in a million years call clothes, the other side boasting tables piled high with assorted makeup products, hair accessories and mirrors lined with lights. Men and Women who sat at chairs before the mirrors drew on thick black liner and glued on false lashes, slathered lip gloss over already shiny lips and smeared glitter onto their pink cheeks. Others sorted through racks of clothes, tugging out mesh shirts or knee-high heels that hung by the hem.
“Pinkie, Moxxie! Y'all's new pets are here, come slap some sense into them!” The woman called down the hallway, pushing the two of them forward before turning and exiting back through the doors. Will just looked around in horror. Hannibal had a hand placed over his face, lips drawn together. A few faces glanced at them through the chaos backstage, all equally disappointed in the two middle aged, rather exhausted looking men that stood before them.
“Come on back to the dressin’ rooms, loves!” A man’s voice with a thick southern drawl called from somewhere in front of them. Hannibal looked down at Will with a raised brow in challenge, and Will sighed.
“No going back now.” He grunted, stepping over a pile of sequinned fabric and making his way back towards where a few doors were tucked against the black brick walls. Hannibal chuckled faintly behind him, and followed soon after.
The voice that had called to them belonged to a tall, relatively young man with a head of bright pink curls, various barrettes shaped like small gold stars peppered around his forehead. He turned towards them with large brown eyes, his skin an olive brown and peppered with freckles. His lips were painted a soft rose, though they were pressed together with wariness at the two of them.
“I call the one in the suit!” A female voice called from behind a curtained closet, a head peeking around it crowned in a tumble of untamed black curls that framed her round face and matched her deep brown skin. Hannibal dipped his head gently, having been oddly silent this whole time.
“Means this little cutie’s all mine!” The man cooed, moving quickly and grabbing Will’s wrist to tug him towards a floor length mirror on one side of the room.
“I’ll be out in a minute— Just putting clothes on!” The woman called to Hannibal, who just turned to follow behind Will.
“You can call me Pinkie, and that darlin’ back there is Moxxie.” He hummed, chewing loudly on gum and positioning Will in front of the mirror with quite a lot more grasping than he was comfortable with, before dragging his long pink nails through Will’s curls. WIll takes a moment to remove his glasses, setting them on the table beside the mirror.
“We can work with this…” Pinkie muttered, looking Will up and down. He felt like a specimen under a microscope beneath the performer’s gaze, his eyes falling to avoid eye contact. Instead he examined the man’s outfit, one that made Will dread what he was going to be wearing. Pinkie had donned a black mesh top that left very little to the imagination, riding up over his stomach and stretching around his arms, where it was cut off beneath a pair of fingerless leather gloves. His shorts were small and looked uncomfortably tight, leaving much of the man’s thighs exposed above the knee-high, bubblegum pink platform heels he walked around in as easily as if he was barefoot. Will swallowed nervously.
“What did you say your names were again?” The woman- Moxxie- chirped from where she had appeared behind them, wearing a sequined black bikini top over an equally bedazzled mini-skirt, the glitter matching the streaks of sparkles on her cheeks and eyes.
“Doctor Hannibal Lecter.” Hannibal turned towards her, and she looked him up and down. She was much shorter than he was, but the way she held herself in her spiked black heels was somehow more intimidating, especially against the way Hannibal stood out in his three-piece suit in comparison.
“We have to make them look like— not them? That’s what that agent guy wanted, right?” Pinkie asked, blowing a bubble with the gum he was chewing.
“Yes, we are going undercover.” Will urged, crossing his arms. The two dancers seemed to roll their eyes in tandem.
“This is not exactly where I pictured agents going undercover.” Moxxie hummed, tugging on Hannibal’s jacket to hint for him to remove it. He did so reluctantly, brown eyes flashing in the fluorescent lights.
“Yeah, well, this isn’t exactly where I would choose to go undercover.” Will hissed, not hiding the resentment he felt for his situation. A darkness fell over the man’s eyes, his lips tugging downwards into a frown.
It was a shock when the dancer grabbed Will by the shoulder and shoved him to the ground, kneeling down to look at him from above.
“You may not think this is serious, but this is our job . This is the only way most of us can make a living to support ourselves, our families, our education— So I will tolerate no shade from you government snobs .” He hissed into Will’s face with a snarl, lip curling with disgust. Moxxie hummed in agreement from where she stood hanging Hannibal’s jacket on a rack. Will felt his face flush with a mixture of guilt and embarrassment.
“We are giving up our time to be on stage making money for you two, so I expect a top tier performance tonight, whether you catch the bitch you’re after or not .” He finished, rising to his feet and offering Will a hand.
When he took it, it was with a new sense of purpose, and a strange new outlook on the world he lived in.
No matter what happened tonight, people depended on him.
Half an hour later, sitting behind a curtain in nothing but his boxers, that thought was what kept him from descending into madness. He could hear Hannibal breathing behind him, but the two of them had decidedly turned to face away from each other when the dancers had told them both to strip down while they found outfits to fit them. The silence was awkward, only stifled by the muffled electro pop playing from the hallway beyond, where performers bustled around and talked amongst themselves like actors before a broadway performance, excitement and nerves and adrenaline. Though there was quite a lot more substance consumption than what was tolerated at a theater, as the smell of cigarette smoke poured into the room from beneath the crack in the door.
“Are you… alright, Hannibal? You’ve been uncharacteristically quiet.” Will asked nervously, crossing and uncrossing his legs on the plush bench the two of them sat on back to back. There was a moment of silent thought before the doctor replied.
“I am, thank you for asking, Will.” Hannibal shifted slightly on the bench.
“I am just… taken aback at the request Jack has made. It is not often people with my job are positioned on the field, much less a playing field quite like this one.”
Will chuckled, “You can say that again.”
The silence came again, Hannibal drawing the occasional breath as if to speak, before deciding against it.
“I just… Am not often presented with my own body in the mirror. It is sometimes so painful to look at myself.” He spoke softly when he finally allowed words to bubble to the surface, and Will had to stop himself from turning to stare in surprise. Hannibal was usually confident in the way he carried himself, the way he tilted his chin haughtily and stood over others in his presence. It had not once crossed Will’s mind that he could be just as self conscious as Will was.
“Sorry, I do not mean to burden my patient—” Hannibal began, but was cut off when the door slammed open, the two of them dropping their conversation abruptly.
“Will! Get out here!” Pinkie called from beyond the curtain, and Will groaned inwardly.
“I’m not wearing anything!” He called back, and heard a muffled giggle from the dancer.
“This is a strip club, not a convenience store! No shirt, no shoes, you still get service!”
Will sighed, and quickly exited, feeling a flush rise to his face as he stood in his light gray boxers before the two dancers. Moxxie had already moved behind the curtain to where Hannibal sat, and was talking excitedly with him.
“Put this on.” Pikie held out a shiny handful of a latex-like fabric, and Will balked at the small amount of fabric as it settled in his grasp.
“That’s a bodysuit, those are shorts.” Pinkie added, pointing to the scraps of fabric in an attempt at helpfulness. Will just blinked as Pinkie clapped his shoulder and smiled encouragingly.
It took him a few tries to get his head through the right hole in the latex, the garment so tight it felt like it was strangling him. He had gotten it on now though, and stood slightly sweatier before the mirror to look at himself. A tight black mock-turtleneck was shiny in the fluorescents as it hugged his lean figure, the lack of sleeves leaving his battle-scarred arms bare. There was a rather large cutout from above his collarbone to just above his nipples, and the amount of skin showing where the waist of the bodysuit did not meet the shorts was enough to make him flush. The shorts were…well…short, hugging his body tightly and bunching around his thighs uncomfortably. The whole latex getup felt strange on his body, like a second skin that captured the curves and edges of his form in the mirror like one of Hannibal’s pencil sketches.
It was strange, though it set his cheeks on fire with embarrassment, he had never felt so confident seeing this much of his skin in the mirror.
“We ain't done yet hun.” Pinkie grinned, grabbing him and dragging him out of the changing room, leaving Moxxie and Lecter behind the curtain. Will wondered how the doctor was faring.
The hallway was still bustling, barrettes being clipped into hair and glitter being smeared onto eyelids, thigh-high lace socks or fishnets being pulled up over bare legs, ponytails and pigtails and braids being tied let down into cascading curls of blue and purple and neon green hair. Pinkie sat Will down on an ottoman in front of one of the makeup tables, the surface cluttered with assortments of shadows and sticks and stains, each one foreign to Will as the dancer touched the tops of a few of them with nimble fingers. Looking closely, Will could see calluses on the man’s otherwise perfectly soft hands. He questioned how much work it really took to make this career succeed.
His thoughts were cut off when Pinkie began to assault his face with a large soft brush, sprinkles of powder catching in the unshaven stubble over his lip, and he stifled a sneeze. The performer named each of the things he was smearing or blending or dusting onto Will’s face, contour, concealer, highlighter, blush, but the man didn’t absorb any of it. He just watched as his own face changed before him in the mirror— no, not changed. It was still him he was watching, just…enhanced. Still his eyes, but the bags beneath them were gone, the blue green of his irises brighter against the sweep of black eyeshadow smudged beneath them, wider with the streak of black liner that winged almost identically from each corner. His lips were wet with a soft pink gloss, and his cheeks and nose shone in the lights from the dusting of glimmering highlighter.
He was eerily beautiful, like a stag standing amongst the trees as snow fell around it, like a stream burbling beneath his fishing rod. He almost didn’t notice when Pinkie dusted more of the glitter onto his exposed shoulders and chest, the powder tickling his body and sending a shiver across his skin.
“Ah, you look stunning. Drop dead gorgeous .” Pinkie gushed, yanking him out of the seat. In his trance, he hadn’t even noticed the hallway emptying. Not once had Hannibal exited the dressing room.
“Now hurry hurry, we are warming up, and you need to get jewelry on before you learn how to strut your stuff in heels!” He laughed, and Will balked, already unsteady enough as it is with bare feet.
“What do you think of these?” The dancer was holding up a pair of black iron earrings, each one in the shape of a dangling antler. He wondered if fate was playing some cruel joke on him, but just smiled sheepishly.
“How did you know I had my ears pierced?” Will asked, a hand drifting to the remnants of holes in his earlobes. It had been a long time since he had worn anything in them, but they never really closed all the way.
“Every guy is a dumb teenager at some point.” The dancer shrugs, handing him the earrings. Will threads them through his ears with little resistance, pushing the backing on and letting himself get used to the heavy swing of them.
“Now hurry hurry! You need to get the feel for the other performer’s routines so you can improvise on stage. Should be easy, our songs all have pretty easy beats to just swing your hips to— audience won't bat an eye!” Pinkie grabs his wrist again and the two of them exit backstage. Will is shocked when he sees the sun is already beginning its descent beyond the glass doors, the sky just barely tinted yellow. There is a gasp from the bar when he steps barefoot onto the floor, and he turns to meet Alana’s shocked gaze.
“Holy mother of god…” Alana gapes, dragging her gaze up and down his figure with little shame. Will feels himself flush, yet at the same time, he feels beautiful. He feels worshiped.
“He dresses up nice, huh?” Pinkie grins from over his shoulder before urging him to sit down at one of the bar’s stools, a rush of ‘hurries’ and ‘gorgeous’ spilling from his lips. He dashes backstage once more and emerges with a pair of heels of the same latex fabric, not nearly as tall as most of the other dancer’s but still quite a difference from his comfortable fishing boots. He takes them with a nervous smile, tugging them over his feet. They rose up to his thighs, held up by thin garters that clipped to the front and back of his shorts. He felt unsteady, even as he was sitting down.
“Alright, it’s easier than it seems.” Pinkie assures him, reading the nervous expression on Will’s face as he attempts to stand on shaky legs, gripping the bar with one hand and letting the other stretch out to balance him.
“Heel, toe. Heel toe.” The dancer demonstrates, slowing down his walk to enunciate each step.
Will takes a deep breath and releases his hold on the bar, putting his trust in his balance as he takes one shaky step forward. He lets the heel of the shoe click to the ground, and then shifts his weight to his toes, repeating with the other foot. As he makes his way across the room under the dancer’s watchful gaze, his ankles only go out from under him a few times, and by the time he hits the adjacent wall, his confidence is soaring. When he places a hand flat on the black painted brick, a chorus of cheers erupts from the performers who were rehearsing on stage, all watching him as he grinned like a moron in their direction.
He keeps practicing, learning to walk to the electro beat of the music that blares from the speakers, so focused on his own steps he doesn't notice when a new pair joins alongside him. He almost falls over when he turns and looks at Hannibal Lecter.
The doctor is wearing a crop top made of bright pink mesh that rides up his stomach and clings to his arms, ending in fuzzy pink feathered wrists. His shorts are a black similar to Will’s own, except for the pink-lace trim around the bottom hem. Pink knee-high platform heels keep him towering above Will, even at his newfound tallness.
But when he looks at the doctor’s face, his breath is beaten out of his lungs.
White liner beneath his brown eyes makes them seem bigger, yet the sharp black liner surrounded with an aura of bright pink is like a neon warning sign in Will’s mind, flashing on and off, danger and allure wrapped up behind wispy black lashes. The doctor’s lips are no longer pressed into a tense, thin line, instead plush and soft red and smelling like cherries and sugar. Will feel’s his throat dry, and is thankful for the makeup on his face as he feels heat rise to his cheeks.
“You look different, Will.” Hannibal notes, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he adjusts to the heels.
“Good different, or bad different?” Will chuckles, having the urge to adjust his glasses before reminding himself they are no longer on his face.
Hannibal leans forward, brushing his lips softly against Will’s ear in a way that makes him jump.
“ Very very good different .” He whispers before pulling away, and returning to his practice walking in the strange new footwear. As he walks away, Will can only observe that the doctor was a stupid teenager too, a pair of earrings in the shape of human hearts dangling from his earlobes.
The night is still young, he thinks.
It doesn’t take long for the sun to set, only an hour or so of listening to the club soundtrack and getting a feel for the low thumping bass and electric vocals that seem to hypnotize his limbs. It is easy to sway to it, easier to lose himself to the music. When Pinkie yells “Seductively! We need to make money!” It is almost fun for him to put more effort into his movements, into the lowering of his lashes and the smize in his grin. His heart thunders against his ribcage when Hannibal does the same, leaning against the cold metal of the pole he was practicing on and peering curiously out from behind the pink mesh of his arms. There may have been glitter on his lashes, but Will could swear the doctor was shimmering.
When the bright lights flicker out and the dim red and violet ones flood the space, he is ready. And to his surprise, not to catch the crazed serial killer they had come here to catch. No, he was ready to perform.
For the first few hours, he is just making laps of the crowded club while other performers show off onstage, sipping on drinks purchased for him by horny drunks and flirting money out of sleazy men’s wallets, sliding it all to Alana across the counter of the bar. He hadn’t seen Hannibal all night, only short glimpses of hot pink heels disappearing behind a group of people or a flash of familiar brown eyes watching him like a hunter from somewhere beneath the neon lights.
The next lap he concludes, he settles down once more at the bar.
“Any sign of the guy?” Alana asks, drying a glass on a slightly dirty dish tower. Will shakes his head, and motions for water, which she offers him with a soft smile.
“The dancer with pink hair says the next song is yours, I would head backstage.” She hums as he downs the glass quickly, sweat beading on his brow and sending rivulets of glitter dripping onto the bar. He stands without another word, feet aching in the heels from the hours of wear, but he still holds himself with confidence. It is his time to be on stage now.
Backstage is a blur of noise and chatter from performers finishing up, patting him on the shoulder or head and wishing him luck. There is still no sign of Hannibal as he moves to the door leading directly onstage, waiting for the telltale notes of his song to begin. His hand is shaking when he places it on the doorknob, but for once, it is not from stress or panic or terror. He is excited.
And when a rough, familiar hand rests lightly on his own, he smiles softly to himself.
“ You smell like cherries. ” Will murmurs, just as their song begins, and they fling open to stage doors.
The crowd is pulsing to the music, all lost in rampant drunkenness, skimpy clothing and loud music making the perfect concoction to lose one's mind in. And when Will walks to center stage, he drinks it all in. There are eyes on him, he can feel them, but the only pair he cares about stand right beside him. Have always stood beside him.
They sway and spin in tandem, Will sinking to his knees to blow exaggerated kisses at the crowd, while Hannibal laughs and smiles on the other side of the platform. Two other dancers have taken over the poles as a sort of backup for the two of them, but they seem unnecessary to Will. He and Hannibal are blurred, smears of glitter on an oil painting, so meshed together they seem to be one pulsing, shimmering thing of beauty. The music is like a heartbeat in their ears, like the very thing pushing blood through their veins, the very thing keeping them alive.
When they meet at the center of the stage, their eyes lock. Sweat and glitter and neon lights seem to cling to Will’s lashes as he sways and moves, placing a hand on Hannibal’s arm and dragging it up his shoulder with a coy smile. The doctor has a shimmer of something predatory in his eyes, something that made a harpsichord wire in Will’s heart twist.
When he turns to look at the crowd and sees the face of a man that had been drawn in a case file, he is far less excited than he had thought he would be.
When he looks at Alana and winks, he black curls bobbing as she nods and carefully messages the dozens of cars that await outside, Will could care less.
He is enthralled, ensnared in the glimmering brown eyes of Hannibal Lecter.
They are standing so close, swaying so close, their breath mixing together, cherries and sugar.
“ For the record, doctor… ” Will murmurs, so quietly he can barely hear himself, though he knows Hannibal hears him by the way his eyes drift to Will’s lips.
“ I think you are beautiful in your own body. ” He whispers, and the world lights up.
It takes him a moment to register that Hannibal’s lips have met his own, the roar of the crowd like an ocean in his ears. Somewhere else, he registers that the man he came here for was being apprehended, handcuffs flashing in the darkness. Will could care less, drunk of the taste of cherry lip gloss as his glitter coated lashes drift shut, fire burning from the simple contact. He can feel the glitter on Hannibal’s chest mixing with the sweat on his own as they press their bodies together, a show for the crowd and yet, so personal, as if they were the only two people in the world, standing alone in the neon lights of a barrage of snow. When the song draws to a close, it takes more effort than it should to pull apart, to bow to the crowd, his mind blank and muffled as Hannibal takes his shaking hand and pulls him backstage.
Somewhere in his mind, he is cheering. All he can do now though, is smile a goofy, victorious grin.
It takes a few more hours for the club to close, and although their mission is complete, Will and Hannibal stay until it closes, entertaining guests, though never leaving each other’s side. And when the bar closes, they help clean up, help pick up the tossed dollar bills and broken glasses and various lost articles of clothing. When all is done, and the midnight moon is casting light into the once more quiet room, they sit side by side at the bar, Will’s newfound friends counting up their earnings.
“Jesus, we haven’t made this much in a night since that time Pinkie accidentally went commando.” Moxxie said, amazed.
“We should really have middle aged men perform here more often.” Pinkie quipped in return, a chorus of tired laughter following.
His head felt fuzzy, whether from alcohol or from Hannibal’s lip gloss he didn't know, but he liked it. He fell asleep in the backseat of Alana's car, resting his head softly on Hannibal’s shoulder, and smearing glitter all over the car. It smelled like cherries.