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Will Graham had an extraordinary talent for hiding in plain sight. His hands, of all things, were a prime example of this. They were calloused and inelegant; the product of a blue-collar childhood spent tinkering in boatyards. His fingers were a fraction too short, nails bitten down to the quick out of convenience. Nobody who looked at Will Graham’s hands thought they were capable of making anything remarkable—either murder, or music.
The garage of the sprawling Cuban villa was the perfect shady retreat from the midday sun. Will often spent his afternoons here, working on his latest pet-project. Settled in a plastic garden chair, Will adjusted the acoustic guitar in his lap. It was a beautiful thing: pre-loved and well-maintained, its body made of polished rosewood and phosphor bronze strings. He’d bought it second-hand a month ago, careful to pay cash just in case Hannibal checked their credit card statement. The man in question was busy with dinner preparations, so Will could risk leaving the garage door open for fresh air.
A gentle breeze played over the back of Will’s neck as he peered down in concentration, feeling out the first chord on the fretboard. The plectrum that came with the guitar was gathering dust somewhere. No matter the task, Will increasingly found that he preferred using his hands. He strummed the first notes and drew a deep breath, taking it again from the top.
“Disarm you with a smile, and cut you like you want me to—"
“I wasn’t aware that you played.”
The soft interruption made Will startle. His rough fingers fumbled, searching for the trigger of a non-existent gun, lyrics tripping over his teeth into the grave. Shooting a glare behind him, Will found Hannibal watching from the doorway. Hannibal’s smile was slight, but his eyes beamed—a young child staring down the lens of a kaleidoscope for the first time. Just when Hannibal Lecter thought he had Will Graham all figured out, the shapes and colours of his world would turn, rearranging the complex patterns of their co-existence. His beautiful, dazzling boy.
“There’s a lot about me you still don’t know, doctor,” Will told him dryly, returning his attention to the instrument. The garage door creaked as Hannibal stepped over the threshold.
“The ongoing promise of discovery is what makes human relationships compelling,” the other answered, creeping closer in Will’s periphery. “The day we learn the last of each other’s secrets will be the day our passion dies.”
Passion. That was certainly one way of putting it. Will would never forget the cruel kiss of a silver knife marking his most intimate places. His fingers shook beneath Hannibal’s enraptured scrutiny, the man himself perched on a nearby stack of paint tins, flaking emulsion and tacky cobwebs clinging to his suit trousers.
“Bit of a step-down from a private box at the opera, I imagine,” Will muttered, keeping his eyes on the chords. Hannibal’s smile grew a fraction wider.
“Perhaps, but the performance is no less enjoyable.”
For a minute, all was quiet. The atmosphere inside the cramped garage reminded Will of his days on the force; his service gun drawn and cocked for a deadly encounter, the air charged with anticipation. But there were no shots fired today. The soft notes of Will’s guitar carried out into the garden, accompanied by twittering birdsong. He played, and he waited. There were at least a dozen questions Hannibal might ask; none of them easy to answer.
“Tell me Will, who taught you how to play?”
Will flinched as though Hannibal had pulled the trigger on him.
“My dad.” He thumbed the strings in careful deliberation, dodging Hannibal’s penetrating stare—but not the words that struck sharper than a bullet.
“Speaking of his memory stirs mixed emotions in you.” It was an observable fact: Will’s stiff fingers strangled the chords, shoulders tensed, stress mirrored by his closing throat.
“Don’t get me wrong, I know he—loved me,” Will began, voice cracking. The all-important ‘so did I ’ remained stuck in his throat. “But it wasn’t always easy between us. There were things he just… couldn’t give me.”
“I imagine there were many things your father could not provide, beyond a simple lack of material possessions,” Hannibal inferred. He studied Will in deep thought, tone losing its professional edge. “You must have been so full of feelings in your youth. No forts yet built. No room in your little body to put them.” Will’s eyes flicked up, startled by Hannibal’s insight.
The doctor, as usual, was right. As a boy, Will had been unnaturally quick to anger, taunted for tears that came too easily. Back then, his heart was an empty cup, waiting for the stranger-of-the-day to plenish him with feelings. Will vividly remembered bursting into tears in a busy department store, after witnessing a frantic mother searching for her missing toddler (much to his father’s embarrassment). He was no stranger to violence either. Unlike his peers who’d mastered the art of indifference, Will couldn’t ignore the casual cruelty of schoolyard bullies. Time and again, Will would come home from school with scraped knuckles and fresh bruises. His father, Bill Graham, would sigh and patch him up, scolding Will for interfering; why couldn’t he keep his head down and his hands busy, like everyone else? Will was too young to articulate what he was feeling—that even though he wasn’t the intended target, it always felt like he was. A living mirror reflecting the worst of human nature.
“…Well, he at least gave me this.” Will demonstrated the point, weaving a short phrase across the strings, his natural tenor dragged out rough and crackly like a fading bonfire. “I used to be a little boy, so old in my shoes, and what I choose is my choice. What’s a boy supposed to do?”
Will’s father may never have fully understood him, but music enabled them to connect in ways they never could through words. Anchored out on the lake, surrounded by vast stretches of still water, Bill would often take his battered guitar from its case and sit little Will in his lap. Bill Graham was a country boy born and bred; his voice was gruff and his hands were rougher, guiding the boy’s small fingers to the tune of a whiskey lullaby. Will loved how calm it made him feel. The lyrics directed his emotions, following the structure of verse, bridge and chorus. Predictable. Safe.
“The ability to express oneself through music instead of words,” Hannibal murmured, leaning across to lay a hand on Will’s knee. Will stared at it. His fingers moved mechanically over the strings, melody reduced to a simple ostinato.
“When dad died, I thought I’d never pick up a guitar again."
Right now, Will felt anything but safe. A part of him—the oversensitive child who’d learned the hard way to push people away, the ghost that once sought refuge in the simplicity of violence—wanted to cut the invading appendage clean off. But that version of Will Graham was dead. He’d died falling from a cliff wrapped in Hannibal Lecter’s arms. Will knew now that his feelings couldn’t be severed so easily as flesh from bone. As if in agreement, the hand on his knee gave a gentle squeeze.
“What changed?” Hannibal asked. Will hesitated, tongue caught between his teeth.
There’s something I need to express, but I don’t know how.
“Well… I wanted to surprise you.” Will’s eyes slid across to Hannibal’s. Golden rays trickled through the dusty garage window, casting him in an angelic glow. His irises shone like precious gems that Hannibal craved to carve out and keep. “You always play for me, and all I ever do is listen,” Will elaborated hurriedly, readjusting in the seat to force Hannibal to withdraw. “I wanted to return the favour.”
Hannibal loved to treat Will to a living room concert at every opportunity. Just last night, Will had been spread out on the chaise longue after dinner with a good book, serenaded by the tinkling of Chopin, “Nocturne No.2, Op.9”. His eyes had grown heavy, hypnotised by the graceful movement of Hannibal’s hands as he played. A nameless ache gnawed at Will’s insides, as those practised fingers teased the ivory keys like a familiar lover. If Will’s own rough hands had a softer side, he bet that Hannibal’s must hold a few secrets too.
“The pleasure of monopolising your company in the evenings is no chore to me, Will,” Hannibal said, eyes gleaming. “But consider me thoroughly and pleasantly surprised… envious, even.”
“Envious?” Will raised an eyebrow.
“The harpsichord is my preferred instrument, but the sound it produces is too delicate for certain songs,” Hannibal explained, looking wistfully to the beautiful piece of craftsmanship balanced on Will’s knee. “The guitar has always appealed to me for its universality; the oldest record of a stringed instrument dates back more than 3,000 years to the Hittite Empire. It’s unfortunate that I could never master it myself.”
Curious, Will rose from the chair and unhooked the strap from his neck so that Hannibal could try. It turned out to be true: Hannibal was far too heavy-handed, his freakishly strong fingers throttling the notes. The guitar strings left red dents in his fingertips that were used to handling silver spoons and steel scalpels. Amused, Will offered gentle corrections, reaching around to guide Hannibal’s hands. They were nearly embracing.
“Reminds me of that one time you tried to teach me March of the Toy Soldiers,” Will remarked with a lopsided grin. Hannibal’s lips twitched, offsetting the pout of annoyance at his own inadequacy.
“Yes, I recall you were quite terrible.”
“Guess we complement each other,” Will retorted, taking back the guitar into his lap. Hannibal gave him a sweeping look. His usual dark, beady gaze had melted into warm chocolate.
“Complement… complete.”
Will had no idea how to respond. Looking into Hannibal’s eyes, a burst of neat desire rushed through him—the depth of Hannibal’s adoration, admiration, obsession—a boulder careening into a crystal-clear lake. The disturbance rippled out through Will’s chest into his fingertips and toes, hands trembling on the neck of the guitar. In that moment, Will was a little boy again; swept away by the momentum of another's feelings, his cup overspilling.
Kiss him, the mirrors in his mind commanded, dozens of cupid’s bow lips whispering in unison.
With a shuddering breath to keep himself from drowning, Will closed his eyes, erecting a dam between their souls. He readjusted his fingers on the fretboard, channelling the flood into sound.
“The killer in me is the killer in you—my love. ” The intimate setting swaddled Will’s vocal chords, a shy smile creeping up his lips, dampening the warbling chorus. Smoke-laden lyrics and unspoken feelings settled heavy in the air. “I send this smile over to you. The killer in me is the killer in you. Send this smile over to you…"
As the last line faded, Will continued strumming, wanting to keep this moment on repeat forever. He was comfortable like this—the noise in his head drowned out by sweet music, the windows to his soul shuttered. But the moment he stopped playing, the carefully woven spell would break. He would have to open his eyes and face… whatever might come next.
There came a point where Will could no longer prolong the inevitable. His fingers stilled, and the strings stopped vibrating. Silence reigned. Listening carefully, Will detected a rustle of fabric as Hannibal shifted beside him; a slight movement in the air, a light footstep moving across the floor.
Why isn’t he saying anything?
Will cracked his eyes open, uncertain what he would find. What he found was Hannibal kneeling on the dusty garage floor, gazing up at him in sheer reverence.
Will froze as Hannibal planted both hands on his knees, his natural weight pushing Will’s legs slightly apart. Coaxing his calloused fingers from the body of the guitar, Hannibal ran a thumb across the back of Will’s knuckles. It reminded Will of a similar scene from far away and long ago: Hannibal bathing his bloody hands in warm water, wrapping him up in layers of cotton like he was the most precious thing in the world.
“Remarkable,” Hannibal murmured, caressing the expanse of Will’s palm and the pads of his workman’s fingers. “The beauty you exhibit, in feats of both creation and destruction, always astounds me. I never imagined these hands would someday serenade me, having sought my blood for so long.”
“... I’m not seeking your blood anymore, Hannibal,” Will attested quietly. The past echoed in the depths of his psyche, taunting him:
‘I don’t want to kill you anymore, Doctor Lecter. Not now that I finally find you interesting.’
He’d been lying back then. Or, at least, Will thought he was lying. These days, he was a tad more honest with himself.
Will took a deep breath.
“Not now that I—”
He tried to finish the sentence. The truth strained against his clenched teeth, tasting bittersweet on his tongue, locked jaw nearly buckling under the pressure. With a defeated sigh, Will swallowed it down. However many years passed in each other’s company, he had a feeling that honesty would never come easy.
Still, Hannibal caught the trickle of truth from Will’s lips. His eyes lit up; a man lost in the desert tasting his first drop of rain. Lifting Will’s hand, he bowed his head and pressed a tender kiss to the back of his knuckles. Will knew that Hannibal must have felt his breath hitch in response; the telltale tremor that travelled through his whole body.
“Will you do me the honour of a duet tonight?” Hannibal asked. The request was so mild, so outrageously polite, Will almost burst out laughing. Hannibal seemed the epitome of decency; like he wasn’t currently speaking from his knees—as if there was nothing at all suggestive about their position.
“A duet?” Will echoed incredulously. The laugh caught in his throat as Hannibal’s fingers slid a centimetre further up his thighs, dangerously close to the hem of his shorts. Half-lidded brown eyes regarded him with an easy smile.
“Why the reluctance? You’ll join me at the table, but not in other endeavours?”
Not in bed? Hannibal didn’t say it, but Will heard the question loud and clear. He cleared his throat, followed by a breathy laugh.
“I’m still rusty.” Will nodded down at the guitar, his fingers wrapped around the wooden neck in search of something solid to hold onto. “There’s actually a whole other verse to this song that I’ve been meaning to learn.”
“Then we can learn together,” Hannibal said simply. He ignored the arch of Will’s eyebrow, thumb making small circles against the inside of Will’s thigh, still wearing that quasi-innocent smile. His words came out low and rumbling. “Teach me what you know; we’ll figure out the rest.” The silky-smooth touch to his skin made Will shiver. He had a premonition that someday, in a far more intimate setting, he’d end up echoing the same sentiment.
“Won’t the Sistine Chapel collapse the day Hannibal Lecter plays rock music?”
The easy smile curled into a devilish smirk.
“One can only hope. In fact, I think we’d best start right away.”
“Wait—you want to play now ?” Will blinked.
“Certainly. I just need to download the appropriate sheet music.” Hannibal rose to his feet, extending his hand for Will to take. His eyes twinkled. “Enlighten me, Will: what will be the name of our long-overdue duet?”
Will smiled at the irony as he accepted Hannibal’s hand, rough palm pressed against smooth, and not a gun-barrel or wicked blade in sight.
“Disarm.”