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Right now, his world consists of sounds. The logs crackled in the fire. The measured ticking of the old fireplace clock. Rain pattering against the window glasses, and muffled steps in the other room. Will takes a deep breath, trying to concentrate on these sounds only. They merge, filling his head with a pleasant, soothing noise. He exhales, listening carefully to how the ambient space changes. To how his breathing becomes a part of the already existing melody for a few seconds.
The steps sound is getting louder, and Hannibal appears in the doorway soon. Will doesn’t see him but hears the characteristic clink of glasses. Not paying any attention, Hannibal approaches the small wooden table on the other side of the room and pours some wine. Then he comes to Will in silence and offers him a glass. Also, in silence, Will accepts it. Their fingers touched each other for a moment, and Will looked up at Hannibal. His face seems pale in dim daylight, and the bruise on the right cheekbone seems dark, almost black. There are still bloody scars and abrasions in some places. As usual, Hannibal’s look is careful and surprisingly peaceful. The wrinkles appear around the eyes like the sun's rays when a slight smile touches his lips.
“Thank you.” Will says this in response to the offered glass. Hannibal sits near him on the couch. “It was quick.”
“It wasn’t hard, taking his age into account.” It sounds simple, like something not worthy of being pondered for too long. With his peripheral vision, Will notices Hannibal bringing the glass to his lips and taking a small sip.
“How did you know him?”
“We used to work at the same private clinic. He is a good surgeon.” Having twirled the glass in his hands, he adds, “Was.”
“Why did he agree to help?” Not that this information is so important to Will, especially now, but he feels the need to ask.
“He owed me.” Hannibal makes himself more comfortable. The clothing rustle and the creak say that he leaned back on the sofa. A quiet, barely audible moan sounds too loud in Will’s head. The melody changes.
“I suppose he paid in full now.” Will catches Hannibal’s look. The corners of his lips turn up slightly in a grin. Will doesn’t understand who reflects whom: he does Hannibal or Hannibal does him. Either way, he isn’t ashamed.
The glass of the French red, lightly tart wine is half empty when Will asks, “Where will you go?”
“I have a couple options.” Evasively. Suspiciously. The omission is coming through the words. It seems to Will that he feels it with every nerve of his wounded body. He waits. He waits like he has never waited. After a minute, which lasts forever, Hannibal finally says, “And what will you do, Will?”
Will has heard this question in his thoughts many times over the last three days. Way too many times. It has to concern him; it has to rest on his shoulders as an unbearable burden and leave a bitter taste in his mouth. But the only thing he feels right now is relief. Will runs his eyes over Hannibal’s face, not understanding which part he wants to focus on: the scars, the gray like a thunder sky eyes, or the thin, exquisite lips. The eyes win.
“I’ll go with you. Of course, only if my company is suitable for you.” Warmth is spreading inside Will as he sees how the opposite eyes sparkle and how a pleased smile appears on Hannibal’s face. Not wide, but not his “standard” one as well. The real one. This is the reaction that Will has expected. That he has desired.
“Very suitable, Will.”
They are quiet, staring at the flame in the fireplace. The silence reigned doesn’t push, but soothes. Having finished his wine, Will puts the glass on the floor next to the couch and, keeping silence, moves closer to Hannibal and lies down on his chest. He regrets the hastiness immediately as stinging pain shoot through his shoulder and the body goes into spasm involuntarily. Will suppressed a painful groan, letting himself only displeased hiss. He notes with delight how Hannibal’s body strains because of the same pain. His wounds are as fresh as Will’s wounds.
Suddenly, Will finds himself willing to hear Hannibal’s voice imbued with pain, but the only thing that his ear catches is a sharp inhale and an intermittent exhale. This overall tension, along with the overall pain, feel like something unbelievably right and thrilling. Will closes his eyes slightly. He breathes in the nice smell of herbal tinctures, wood, and something sweet — the cologne, obviously. The last one doesn’t suit Hannibal. It must have been left from the doctor.
The fact of the murder is supposed to cause in him any feelings, but not cold indifference. Will doesn’t want to think about it. Not now. Will has got so fucking exhausted for the last few months that he wants to feel nothing at all. He has no strength left to worry and torture himself anymore. He wants to give everything free rein and let the dark engulf him. Temporary probably…
Will is starting to nap when Hannibal’s hoarse voice over his ear says:
“I want to go back to Italy.”
“Wanna show me Florence?” Will feels the warm breathing touching his curls. Good. “They will look for us there.”
Will knows that Hannibal knows. Will also knows that Hannibal hasn’t considered this option. Not seriously. Something has made him remember Italy — something important. Something that he hasn’t forgotten... Someone who he hasn’t forgotten. The puzzle is solved quickly; Hannibal hasn’t been going to complicate it.
“Why have you decided she is in Italy?” Hannibal puts his free hand on Will’s shoulder and squeezes it slightly. Not hard enough to make the pain unbearable, but enough to feel the effort. A compliment. The expression of admiration. Will is really happy that Hannibal can’t see a pleased smirk on his face.
“You should know Bedelia, she has a soft spot for certain places. Besides, she has the unfinished business in Italy.”
“What business?” Will sounds harsher than he intended to.
“Doesn’t matter. The key point is the place.”
Will stays quiet for some time, analyzing his feelings. Hannibal waits.
Will doesn’t have any settles to score with Bedelia Du Maurier. Will isn’t supposed to have any scores to settle with Bedelia Du Maurier. She didn’t do anything to him personally, and if he thinks straight, she doesn’t deserve his wrath. But Will can’t think straight. Every thought about this woman has always given birth to uncontrolled irritation inside him, which in turn turned into outright anger. And even though Will won’t admit this out loud, deep down he realizes that the main and the only reason for his conflicting, tormenting feelings towards Bedelia has always been Hannibal Lecter.
The way she made herself a career and a fortune out of Hannibal’s name, having pretended to be a victim she had never actually been. The way she managed to walk away unscarred just by wearing adequate armour. The way she discovered the nature of Will’s feelings a long time ago without even knowing him, while Will himself has only recently realized it. All of it has not just made him angry. It has driven him to wrath. The monster on the dark side of his mind has demanded blood and the reckoning greedily. He demanded revenge. And Will hasn’t found a single reason to refuse him.
“You won’t look for her. Not yet.”
“Why not?” Hannibal tries to feign surprise by overplaying his voice on purpose and knowing damn well that it’s just a question for the sake of a question. To both of them.
Will settles on Hannibal’s chest in the way he can look him in the eyes. Hannibal looks back, just as expected. Intrigued.
“Because she acted... rude. And the rudeness should be consumed in a proper way. You won’t simply kill her; you will do it like you’ve always done — you will do it with taste. You will turn her death into a work of art. And the real works of art require space, time, and details. You have none of this now. It is just a thought which is only going to become a design.
Never before has Will seen so much admiration and adoration in someone’s eyes. Never before has he been a reason for them. He can literally feel them physically. It flatters him. It flatters him so hard that gives him fucking goosebumps down his spine and makes his insides twist in pleasure. Will sees these keen eyes, almost black now because of the light, literally devour each of his facial features, going down and capturing as much of him as they could. Will sees it as his personal drug. But it’s not the only thing he sees. It is also an opportunity. The resource. Now it is extraordinarily clear: there are thin strings braiding Hannibal Lecter’s whole body, which can be easily pulled if you say the right words at the right moment. As if in confirmation, Will feels someone’s hand slipping over his back. It’s deceptively soft and almost… almost! weightless.
“Will you join me over the table when everything is done?” Hannibal’s voice was low, practically chest. Will feels it with his whole body.
“You know,” he starts, and moves his shoulder slightly to get rid of another person’s touch, “I much more like catching, eviscerating, and cooking fish than just eating it. So, if you want me over the table, share the process with me.”
Hannibal squeezes his shoulder hard, causing the pain. Will thinks he’s crazy because he likes it as hell. It’s been a moment before the grip loosens, and Hannibal brings his palm to Will’s cheek. He runs it firmly and confidently, pressing the unhealed cut with undisguised pleasure. Will doesn’t pull away and doesn’t protest.
“There will be a scar,” he says, pressing the cut with the pad of his thumb. Will can swear he hears Hannibal’s pleased groan in his head.
“You left it on purpose while sewing the wound up. You like it. Don’t deny.
The short “I do” becomes the last and the most beautiful sound of this Melody.