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Hannibal wasn't lonely.
He liked the cold nights in winter when he could stay at home and cook a fancy dinner made out of whatever he wanted or had planned to eat. He liked the warm yet windy nights in summer when the air was rough and he could go out in his garden to water his plants or just take a walk in the street next to his, where the air was a little sweeter, because his neighbours had an habit of making barbecues in the middle of the night, when stars could barely be seen because of how bright the moonlight was. Or the evenings in spring when he couldn't stay up until late because of how much it rained during the day.
Hannibal liked being alone, and he'd give up those nights for nothing.
Because of that, he always assumed he wasn't lonely.
He never imagined how being curled up newt to someone during those cold and snowy nights in winter would feel, or how having company while gardening would encourage him to smile more.
Maybe he just didn't like to smile.
But when he realized how attached to Will he felt, he couldn't rip this feeling of void, deep down buried under his person suit. Or perhaps the person suit was beginning to blur with his real self. He didn't recognize the man he was when he was in Will's company, and much less enjoyed him. He was... messy. He didn't feel like Hannibal. Like his skin was ripped off and all that was left was muscle tissues, tissed in one another, tied by veins and tendons. His nerves ached, and his blood boiled.
He didn't know him.
He was scared of him.
A pure and childish sense of fear. It was unusual of him to be this terrified, and it made Hannibal uncomfortable.
It made him uneasy when he talked to Will, his body tensed like he was trying to repress this thing in him, his skin felt weird. It was too restricting.
Because of this, it had become an habit of his to try and be as alone as possible. He found comfort and safety in this. He could walk in peace during those night in march, enjoying the light rain on his body and humid air filling up his lungs. He thought about what he would eat for dinner, what suit he could wear tomorrow or an end to the composition he was creating. He liked being alone.
Or so he thought.
Hannibal liked being alone, but lacked something. He didn't really know what, because he was pretty much fulfilled in his life. He had a job, money, validation and appreciation from his colleagues, he was a very estimated man in general. He knew something wasn't there.
Since he had met Wll Graham, he didn't dream, not once. He'd have a full night of sleep, and wake up cold.
He'd take a walk in his garden to keep his mind awake, but his thoughts escaped from his brains and blinded his eyes. The flowers would fade away and let Will take their place. Let his cold gaze pierce through Hannibal's skin, kill him with just a glance. No words were ever exhanged, but it felt as if his soul was speaking to him through a change in Will's pupil. Dilated, not dilated. Cold, and burning. They were dislocating every single one of Hannibal's joints, fracturing his bones until they were just a fine and greyish powder, leaving his body structure-less. They were holding him tightly while killing him slowly, like Hannibal had once done to Will.
Will's eyes screamed and ached and cried for recognition, validaton, power. They cried while staring at Hannibal's heart, this stunted and broken organ that he could never let be seen to anyone. Except Will had seen it. An he had accepted it as his. And it instantly became his. Just like Will's was Hannibal's.
His heart shattered more everyday.
It didn't like be alone. It had tasted closeness to another one of his kind, it had tasted understandment. It could never live without it again.
Hannibal possibly, probably,,, was certain of he knew what he lacked.
He missed Will. He missed his eyes and how his would soften everytime he glanced at Will, he missed his hair and how filled with blood it could get.
He missed his touch.
Though it was always Hannibal who would initiate physical contact.
He craved it. Hannibal was touch starved. But only for Wills.
He dreamed that night, for the first time in months. He dreamed of something stupid, and when he woke up he could barely remember what the dream was even about.
But he knew that he was still cold. He knew he still felt comfortable in his big, quiet room and light silk sheets.
He also knew he was lonely, even though he liked being alone.