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In the first days, the afterimage of the burning house fading quietly into past, it is exhilarating just to be with Will again. Years of words exchanged, and—he does not linger on the words not said, the time spent not speaking, or speaking only through pen and getting no answer—all those minute revelations, it comes to fruition and, for a time, they cannot contain themselves. They are on the run, as they were always meant to be, and this is how Hannibal thrives.
Will too catches his enthusiasm, and there are many days ahead of them that are added to the memory palace in perfect, brilliant color; Will laughing as he stumbles backwards up the stairs of their villa in Recoleta, the swirl of red wine into a pan while hands try—and succeed, to his chagrin and delight—to distract him from his task, at last surrendering to Will, letting it all burn black on the stove.
Always a surrender. Hannibal is no longer surprised to find he doesn't mind this.
There are moments still, as he knew there would be, where Will mourns the life they left. He left; Hannibal has nothing to go back to. He can see the shadow She, and the child, cast on him in some solemn moments, leaning in a window, but even then, he is beautiful, and those too are crystallized in memory. But he always comes back from whatever dream-places they don't share, offers that particular crooked twist of lip. And Hannibal is learning to compromise.
Because long past the days of just having conversations, he is as much Will's as Will is his, arguably more so. And he is informed they cannot possibly see every chapel, stand in each ruin. And of course, the other compromise... Will has said he will tolerate, but not delight. If there are ever to be dinners again, Will's place at the table will remain empty, and this is a keen pain, one that Hannibal rails against. But somehow, he finds, much of the pleasure has drained from the act for him, pales in comparison to a smile under morning light, the flicker of lash as Will wakes beside him. Pleasing things. Art too, in its own way.
He knows how much Will still wishes for that life, on occasion, the one he had borrowed but had never truly been a part of, and Hannibal doesn't remind him that he had tried to give him that, too, had cobbled it together out of his own macabre existence. How Will had rejected his gift, cut from the pieces of his old life, pieces he could never recover. Those are old wounds, and they have enough scars.
They are happy.
Which is why it is such a foolish thought,when it plants itself in his mind one day. They are freshly back from Argentina, Will's skin still bears the warm glow of sun, and it is the first time they have been in the states since—
Well. Old wounds.
They are unpacking, mostly boxes from their new life. They did not have much to bring with them when they fled, but as a surprise Hannibal had arranged for some of their old things to be sent. The possessions of dead men, things that mean nothing to anyone else, but he thought it might please Will to have something of who he once was. Will, who digs eagerly through a box, his sleeves pushed up his arms. Books emerge, battered paperbacks and hardcovers with broken spines. A surprised laugh when he pulls a ceramic figure of a retriever from its sheath of crumpled newspapers. Hannibal notes, fondness warring with dismay, the careful way he cradles it in his hands a moment before setting it aside. It will likely appear on the mantle when Will thinks he is not aware, just as its loud and furry counterparts will turn up, he’s sure, now that they have reached some semblance of stability.
Compromises, he reminds himself, a soft quirk of his lip before returning to the careful unpacking of a painting that had adorned his walls in Baltimore, a lifetime ago. If Will can allow him Leda, he can surely endure a tacky figurine. Though it does look like something a very old woman who watches Wheel of Fortune between knitting projects would collect.
“Oh.”
The soft exhale catches Hannibal’s attention, and he peers back, to make sure all is well. Will holds a small leather-bound photo album, and Hannibal feels something uncomfortably close to fear flutter in his stomach before he dismisses it. In his mind, the teacup shatters again and again.
“What is it?” he asks, keeping his tone carefully neutral.
“It’s—” nothing, Hannibal hears in the pause, but they have promised not to lie to each other, and so Will soldiers on, a dry laugh, “it’s from my wedding.”
The word thrums an unexpected pain through Hannibal, but he allows it. Closes his eyes and waits for it to pass before attempting to speak.
“I should probably get rid of it.” Will beats him to it. Dangerous, they both know, to keep such things around when they’ve built new lives from scratch, and Hannibal nods, goes back to his task.
“Whatever you think is best.”
But the album doesn’t disappear that day, or in the ones that follow, only sits in the box in the closet gathering dust. And Hannibal cannot help his curious nature any more than Will can help the stubborn curl to his hair, so a day comes when he has to look.
It hurts. Always new pains and new joys, being in love. He sits on his knees in the walk-in, the album in his lap, and feels it. A physical pang in his chest caused by the happy smile that crinkles Will’s eyes in one photo in particular, and he slides it out of its plastic sheet to look more closely.
Some photographer—probably a friend of Molly’s, he thinks, an ameteur with a little side business, based on the quality—had them stretch out on the grass, he in his ill-fitting shirt and crooked bowtie, she in a cloud of white chiffon. Her flowers lay between them. They face each other, feet stretching in opposite directions, and ridiculous and suburban and not at all Will though the picture is, it had caught him in a rare laugh, and Hannibal hates it for the intimacy he sees, the way their noses brush.
He closes the album. That is a room he does not care to add to the sprawling grounds of his memory.
And what a terrible color for flowers, that falsely dyed, minty blue-green. Trendy and tasteless.
Box put back as it was, he begins to make dinner, and through the symphony in his head he reimagines Will as he pleases, tailors the suit to his frame, shoes—Italian, of course—a blue pocket square, yes, but the pale stormy blue of ocean skies. Of eyes that peered at Hannibal from the dark of an Argentinian night, heavy-lidded, as Will murmured words he’d never voiced, to him, not for him until the line of scar had faded from his cheek into only a pale seam and their hands touched without that flicker of hesitation.
Love. Once such a foreign concept. How he lives for it though, when it comes from those wryly twisted lips.
The Will in his mind does not laugh, as he had in the photo, but looks at him sheepishly, his head ducked, and offers one of those twisted grins he’s so fond of.
And Hannibal realizes he’s put them at an altar.