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Will puts the change in the back pocket of his cargo shorts, grabbing the plastic bag containing a small Cavala fish with his free hand.
“ Obrigado .” His pronunciation is not the best, though some locals seem to find it endearing. Strangely, Will’s southern twang comes out more when he speaks a foreign language.
He exits the peixaria , turning right, then left, down the narrow paths of Rocinha. He goes up a set of stairs, then quickly enters through the back of a padaria to make it across to another set of stairs. You have to find shortcuts to make your way efficiently around the favela.
Up the second flight of stairs, Will lowers his green cap over his face as he walks past armed security. Their rifles are menacing, almost making the entire length of their bodies. It’s not the safest place for foreigners. You have to blend in and act like you know your way around, but once you do, you’re invisible. Needles in a haystack.
Will has been here for two months, and still, the sight of the guards makes him very uneasy every single time. He tries not to tense up.
Going up one final set of stairs and turning left, Will makes it back to his and Hannibal’s house, if you can call it that. It’s barely bigger than a college dorm. They have everything they need – well, Will has everything he needs to survive. Hannibal is suffering. No walk-in closet, no study, no bookcases, and most devastatingly: no elegant kitchen with all the fancy utilities. They sleep on a double-sized mattress on the floor, in the left-hand corner. A couple of books are stacked next to it. On the right, they have a small counter, cupboards, a sink, an oven, and a tiny refrigerator. Their only luxury is a couch that can seat two people, next to the front door, and a small round table in the center of the room. The bathroom, which barely fits one person at a time, is in a separate room, thankfully.
Will deposits the bag onto the counter and removes his cap. His curls stick to his sweaty forehead. The heat is oppressive.
Hannibal was already in the kitchen, splitting a ripe cherimoya with his hands. It never ceases to surprise Will to see him dressed so casually. The man, who lived and breathed in three-piece suits, is wearing jeans and a light pink t-shirt. The light shade makes his skin look tanner. It’s a good look on him. He looks more approachable, more… human.
Hannibal turns his attention to the fish and observes it with barely contained disdain.
“What?” Will asks, now irritated. The slight change in emotions from Hannibal often triggers Will’s mood swings.
“The quality is subpar. Being a fisherman yourself, I expected better from you.”
Will scoffs. “Woke up on the wrong side of the bed and bonked your head on the wall? Don’t throw unnecessary jabs at me.”
Hannibal frowns, barely noticeable, dabs his own sweaty forehead with a napkin and moves his fringe out of his face in the process. Both of their hair is getting long. Will’s curls are more untamed than usual.
“If you’re so unhappy with it, you should have gone yourself,” Will continues, taking the fish out of the bag and rinsing it in the sink to start preparing it.
“You are the one who does not allow me to go out without you.”
Will shakes his head, depositing the fish back onto the plastic bag. He takes a pan and fills it with canola oil.
“You’re not my prisoner, Hannibal.” He puts the pan on the burner. “You have a very recognizable face; I want to be there if anything were to happen.”
“I would argue I’m more at risk of being identified with you by my side.”
“I’m not having this conversation again.” Will turns his head to see Hannibal leaning on the counter, arms crossed. “What is it? It’s not just the fish. Speak your mind.”
“Very well.” Hannibal smacks his lips. “This is not what I expected our days to be like. I would like to show you the world, not be confined to a cardboard box. I feel like an insect in a jar.”
Will sighs and nods. He thinks of how Hannibal waited three years for him, in a different box. Their living situation must remind him of it. “I know. We just have to lay low for a couple more months. Just to be safe.”
Hannibal doesn’t respond. He sets a half of cherimoya on their respective plates.
“You shouldn’t have made such an impulsive decision, Will.”
Will had taken a gamble with their lives on that cliff. By some miracle, the sea gods wanted them to live and sent them back to the shore. Maybe they just didn’t want two more monsters in their dominion. But Will knows that’s not what Hannibal is referring to. He’s bitter about what happened next. Once they were out of immediate danger, Will had driven them both to his boat, attached it to the back of a stolen pickup truck and drove it to the coast. He sailed them across the Atlantic, hoping the gods would be merciful as the two men set foot back into their kingdom. Will guided them both towards South America. Hannibal was out of it for weeks, delirious from the strong pain medication. He did not appreciate waking up in a favela.
“Well, I couldn’t really consult you, now, could I? I am not having this conversation again either. There’s nothing more to say.”
Hannibal has to know Will is right. He just likes to argue, it seems. Will has to rein in his anger.
“I know that you feel like our living situation is some sort of indignity or humiliation. But may I remind you that I grew up poor, Hannibal.” Will puts the now seasoned fish in the boiling oil. “Some weeks, all I had to eat was the cheapest white bread with margarine I’d scrape from the bottom of the container. Some places my dad and I stayed at were worse than this. So, fucking spare me.”
Hannibal huffs through his nose and makes it to the front door in just four small steps. He puts his sneakers on, another piece of clothing Will is never going to be used to seeing on him. He walks out the door before Will can say anything.
Will ate his half of the fish with his piece of cherimoya alone at the small table. He took a quick cold shower and laid back on the bed. His eyes kept threatening to close while he tried to read a book he had already read.
Hannibal came back hours later. His weight makes the mattress dip as he sits on it, waking Will from his impromptu nap. The older man observes him in silence, his face over his.
Will quirks an eyebrow. “Need somethin’?” He mumbles, voice heavy with sleep. He feels a little disoriented. Naps always do that to him.
Hannibal shakes his head slowly but doesn’t take his eyes off him. Will is the one who feels like an insect in a jar now. He hopes Hannibal doesn’t plan on using a magnifying glass to focus sunlight on him. The older man leans closer, over him, one of his hands next to Will’s head. He brushes the fingertips of his free hand across Will’s forehead, pushing back his curls. He traces the white scar with his index finger delicately. His touch trails down to his cheek, tracing the scar left by the Dragon. It healed relatively well, though that side of his face twitches involuntarily sometimes.
Will doesn’t move. Like a prey hoping the predator won’t notice him.
Hannibal’s touch goes back up to his hairline, tangling his fingers in his curls. Will leans into the touch. God, he hasn’t been touched like this in so long.
Maybe he does want to be caught in between the coyote’s jaws.
“I have always liked your hair long…” Hannibal says, barely above a whisper.
Will takes in a sharp inhale. Hannibal is looking at him with so much adoration, it’s dizzying.
The older man leans in even closer, his face an inch from Will’s.
“You are ethereal…”
Will laughs. “I’m sweaty and groggy from sleep. I doubt that I’m painting an attractive picture.”
Hannibal smiles for a split second before putting his lips to Will’s. The younger man hums in surprise but doesn’t hesitate to kiss back. Hannibal tastes like tropical fruits and smells like sun and sea salt.
Hannibal slides a hand under Will’s shirt and traces his belly scar.
A show of possession.
Will smiles into the kiss. “Fresh air did you some good, huh?”
Hannibal chuckles. “It helped me situate my thoughts in order.” He crawls over Will, pressing his entire body on his. He’s caging him in. The predator caught him - or just recaptured him. Will let himself be captured between sharp fangs a long time ago.
Will’s face would be redder if it could. He’s already sweating from the humid heat and the unhelpful nap. But this new wave of warmth comes from within, deep in his core.
Will takes Hannibal’s face in both hands and gently reconnects their mouth.
“And what are those thoughts…”
“I would rather be a sea beast in a tiny fishbowl with you for an eternity than be free without you. I have gone through this thought process before, and I do not think it will ever change.”
Will feels a pang of guilt. Hannibal let himself be apprehended before, willingly putting his mouth to a fishhook, just to be able to see Will again. The younger man takes a deep laboring breath - Hannibal is crushing him - and he moves his hand to the man’s hair.
“Your hair’s getting long too. I like it. Makes you look younger.”
Hannibal doesn’t seem surprised by the change of topic. He smiles. “Do you not like me old? Wrinkles, gray hairs, and all it entails?”
Will laughs. “You’re not old.” He traces the shape of Hannibal’s lips with his thumb. “And I love you as you are. For everything you are.”
Hannibal freezes. The change in his face is small, blink and you’d miss it. He regains his composure quickly, but Will sees it: the glint of hope in his eyes. Will had never said he loved him before, not with these three words at least. Isn’t staying by his side, despite it all, already proof that he loves him?
“I love you, Will.”
Will kisses him once more. Hannibal’s entire body relaxes into it, like he’s finally been freed from invisible restraints.
“I love you too, Hannibal.”
Hannibal smiles, sharp teeth and crow’s feet.
“I bought us another fish. Fresher. I am not eating the half of the Cavala you left me.” He gets up from the bed in one swift motion. Will can feel the man’s body heat linger on himself.
He rolls his eyes and sits up in bed, out of breath from having his lungs compressed. “Fine, but you’re cooking.”
“Naturally.”