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null - / nəl / - verb - to cancel out, amounting to nothing
…
The water’s cold.
Despite it all, it doesn’t hurt.
He feels the air rush through his hair, the drips of blood peel away from his mouth. He feels the momentum of the lean, the warm hands against his torso. He feels the sensation of his skin cracking against the top of the water, the surface tension breaking, the burst of blood cells on impact. It isn’t where the pain’s coming from.
For physical pain is something Hannibal Lecter can withstand, but heartbreak is something he cannot bear.
His heart has been broken twice in this life of his; once, with Mischa, in the dead of winter, where he swore to never love another again. And another now, with Will, his action the final answer.
Will has made his decision. He cannot live with Hannibal.
He had to make sure of it.
His heart twists like a wet rag being wrung out, the sting of rejection insufferable. Hannibal loves Will, loves him in a way that makes him hopeful, loves him in a way that makes him vulnerable, loves him in a way that makes him weak.
It has brought him to right here, right now, with Will’s words and actions contradicting one another, his touch the only solace to the situation at hand; death.
Hannibal is going to die. It is not a matter of if’s, and’s, or but’s. The human body can only withstand so much, and his own is no exception. The marks made by hate and those made by love burn all the same.
It was good to love. It is good to love. He enjoyed the experiences, despite it all. Will is worth the fall. But in the next life he has, if it ever does come, he does not want to endure love. Not again. He cannot make the same mistake twice.
Hannibal doesn’t get to think about the whims and woes of death for too long, doesn’t get the privilege of allowing his opinion of an afterlife to change. In the end, the decision is made for him.
As soon as his vision turns black, the moisture that encapsulated him disappears. Light pours into his vision, his legs on steady ground, the familiar rub of fabric against his skin. He squints his eyes to allow his vision to clear, takes a brief look around.
Heaven? Not a chance.
He observes his surroundings and finds his own version of hell.
Somehow, someway, he is back here, the first day he met Will in Jack Crawford’s office.
…
It’s just as he remembers.
Will’s curls are unruly, glasses stapled to his face, shirt a tacky array of blue. Jack keeps talking because of course he does, rumbling about the victims and possibilities behind the motive. Everything seems exactly the same, exactly in line with the past. It’s not a huge leap of logic to assume he has traveled back to it.
As he debates his next move, Hannibal does what he does best; observe. Speculate. There are plenty of questions to ask and opportunities to explore as his teacup forms together, but he keeps to the task at hand; he doesn’t want to disrupt the timeline.
“Do you have trouble with taste?” He asks verbatim, as he remembers.
Will doesn’t look at him, unamused. “My thoughts are often not tasty.”
The same reply. “Nor mine. No effective barriers.” Less so when the thoughts have been exposed before. He tries to catch a glance into Will’s eyes to see if he is in the same predicament, playing the same game.
“Not fond of eye contact, are you?”
Will huffs, barely passing a glance. He looks into Will’s eyes, waiting to see remembrance, a spark, anything.
He sees nothing.
“Eyes are distracting. You see too much. You don’t see enough…” Will continues to respond as he did three years ago, grumbling about the predicament he finds himself in. Hannibal listens to Will’s answers carefully, and the conversation runs exactly as it had years ago.
Will catches up to Hannibal’s light wording, gets angry, and storms out. Jack asks him to be a bit more subtle next time. Hannibal gives an apologetic goodbye before walking down the hall to exit. The elevator doors shut in front of him.
Now, what to do.
If time has reversed, then every move he makes, if the moves stay the same, should create a scenario that ends the same way. The timeline will continue like a straight, narrow line, leading him to the same demise.
But the butterfly lives. He can account for his own actions, but he can’t account for anyone else's. Who is to say that a certain sentence changes Will’s perspective early, an action is taken that ruins his plan from the beginning?
Truly, does he want it to end the same way?
This is not his Will. This is not the Will he has dragged through the belly of the beast, the Will who has shed his chrysalis. This is Will Graham, professor and consultant for the FBI, a man who knows nothing about him or his actions. A man who could, can understand him, but also a man who is hurt more with Hannibal’s intervention.
As much as he wants to, he cannot stop Will Graham from falling into his good graces. Despite the rejection, Hannibal still feels the pang of reverence settled in the bottom of his chest. If anything, to save himself and to save Will, he could stop it all from happening in the first place.
He could remove Will Graham from his life. He could travel to the city where he became a man, live out the rest of his days in peace, his crimes in America never solved. He could pack up his belongings, solve Will’s ailments, and move on. He can, and he will, and he must.
He thinks of the tug of his soul, screaming for Will’s acceptance, and crushes it. He had his time for love before. Now is the time for their survival.
They do not survive each other.
They will not survive each other.
Not again.
…
Still, some things should stay the same. Hannibal needs to get to a point where Will will actually listen to what he is saying if he wants to tell him about his illness. So he lives through time the exact same way; he kills Cassie Boyle. He travels out to Minneapolis. He knocks on Will’s hotel door, tupperware in hand.
As expected, he is reluctantly welcomed in. He collects himself at the table, dealing out breakfast while taking glances at Will’s silhouette. His muse is beautiful, always will be. Hannibal would be foolish not to admire it.
Will takes a bite of his meal, tells Hannibal it's delicious. Just like last time, Will doesn’t know what the meat is. Time is passing the same.
“I would apologize for my analytical ambush, but I know I will soon be apologizing again and you’ll tire of that eventually, so I have to consider using apologies sparingly.”
Will barely graces him a glance. “Just keep it professional.”
The same. It’s all the same. “Or we could socialize like adults, god forbid we become friendly.”
He doesn’t need it to be the same. “I don’t find you particularly interesting.”
Hannibal doesn’t want him to.
“Is that so?”
It comes out of him before he can say anything else. Will’s eyes flicker up to Hannibal for a split second, then back down to take another bite. He doesn’t respond.
Hannibal looks away.
…
Abigail’s blood is warm.
Hannibal had debated on whether or not to keep her alive. She holds no purpose to him if he is to leave Will alone. He thinks of them together, the responsibility of being a father. The trust he put into her. The happiness she peeled out of him.
Hannibal presses into the wound, hands firm.
…
“Will,” he murmurs in the confines of Abigail’s hospital room, the sunset shining through the window. He sits next to Abigail's bed, the young girl fast asleep. He feels the pages of his notebook against his thumb, playing with the spaces between. Will looks up, almost startled, close to the lull of sleep. “I’d like to set a doctor’s appointment for you, if you’re amenable.”
The offering lingers between them for a moment before Will’s face crinkles in confusion. The brunette sits up lightly, and for a rare moment looks him in the eye. “What for, Doctor Lecter?” There’s no argument waiting in his tone, just genuine curiosity. He’s much more agreeable when sleepy.
Unfortunately, it’s endearing. Hannibal smiles curtly, pressing the notebook down firmly. He no longer feels the individual pages.
“I have reason to think that you’re sick, Will. I believe you have encephalitis.”
…
“Hello, Alana.”
She smiles at him, lips a bright shade of red, cheeks a warm hue of pink. She smells of citrusy perfume, her hair product slightly singed from a curling iron. “Hello, Hannibal.”
He steps to the side, allowing her to enter the house. She shrugs off her coat and Hannibal puts it on the hanger, walking her over to the kitchen.
As they do when he invites her over for dinner, he pours her his signature brew, receiving a nod as a thank you. “Still delicious,” she praises, and Hannibal smiles in amusement.
“Thank you,” He pours himself some wine, eyes focused on the glass. When he looks up, she’s settled on the other side of the island, elbows on the counter. “I appreciate you coming by.”
“You told me you had something to chat about,” she replies, “couldn’t say no to that.”
Hannibal hums, bringing the wine glass to his lips. “I do,” he takes a small sip, a taster, letting it settle on his tongue, “but you might not like the topic.”
“Hit me.”
“I cannot accept Will Graham as a patient.”
Alana’s eyes widen slightly, betraying her attempt at nonchalance. She clearly was not expecting this to be the topic, or the answer. “How come?”
He sets his glass to the side and makes eye contact with her, softens his gaze. “Will is guarded, even more so after the events we experienced recently. It would be best if he could talk to someone who provides a warm shoulder, cares for him on a personal level.” He reaches for his wine again, allowing her time to think on his answer.
“You care for him, Hannibal,” Alana replies easily, like it’s plain as day. “You caught onto his illness quickly, basically saved his life. If that isn’t caring I don’t know what is.”
Hannibal nods at her, thoughts stilling. Will went to an appointment the day after Hannibal mentioned it to him. He never left the hospital, going into treatment immediately. He’ll stay there for two weeks. “I’ve saved him in a physical sense,” Hannibal decides to say, “but I don’t believe that Will would be comfortable enough with me to be honest during our sessions regarding his mental health.”
“Are you sure?” she questions again, “Will seems comfortable around you, Hannibal. He trusts you.”
He does. Hannibal could go through it all again, if he wanted to. Still, he chooses freedom. “There is no one he trusts more than you, Alana. And if you believe that your personal relationship would be afflicted by the concept, I have one other therapist in mind. But it wouldn’t be the same as with you.”
Alana takes a long, slow swig of beer, eyebrows furrowed. “Why are you so adamant?”
Hannibal blinks slowly, walking around the island towards her. “I ask that you do not spread the news too early,” he waits until she’s placed her glass down, “but I will be traveling to Europe for some time. I’ll be giving referrals to all my patients very soon, and would rather not betray Will’s faith in psychiatry by referring him within a month of sessions.”
Alana barely swallows before she’s coughing by surprise, a short laugh bursting out after. “What?”
“I’ll be-”
“I heard you Hannibal, but I had no idea you were even thinking about this.”
Hannibal nods. “I've been thinking about the pros and cons recently, and decided a few days ago. I need some time away from the states. I might land back here, eventually, but for now another city calls my name.”
Alana purses her lips, a mixture of annoyance, shock, and understanding crossing her facial features. “Any reason why?”
Hannibal takes another sip of wine, slowly swallows. His fingers feel cold around the stem of the glass. “Just one.”
…
Hannibal’s been able to accomplish quite a lot in a week.
He’s referred all his patients to other psychiatrists. He’s packed up his valuable belongings he’ll bring along overseas. He’s managed to royalty and thoroughly upset Jack Crawford, which truly isn’t a terrible thing.
Now, Hannibal knocks on Bedelia’s door, wine bottle in hand. When she opens it, he sees her expression falter to fear first, then flatline with intrigue. She brushes her hair away from her face, forms a grim grin with her lips. “Hello, Hannibal,” she shuts the door behind her, “I believe that I’ve stated that I’m no longer working in the psychiatric field.”
“I am aware,” Hannibal responds, prepared for that answer. “I am not here for that.” He shows her the wine bottle, an aged cabernet, a delectable taste.
She quirks a brow. “A friendly drink?”
He grins. “No, a goodbye gift.”
Bedelia doesn’t respond. He watches as her intrigue and her wariness wage war in her brain, watches as she debates the next statement that comes out of her mouth. “Why are you leaving the states?”
The intrigue won. “Do you not care where?”
She looks at him, unamused. “It’s rare for you to leave a battlefield you know you would have won at,” she exclaims, looking at the label of the wine bottle, “one that hasn’t called for a ceasefire.”
Her body is blocking the door completely; he won’t be going inside today. He takes a deep breath, her remark on the nose. “There’s a liability,” he extends his arms, offering the bottle over, “one I can’t dispose of.”
After a moment, she takes it delicately. “One you don’t want to,” she corrects, beginning to connect some of the dots. “One you can’t.”
No wonder she was his psychiatrist. “You could say that.”
Her eyes don’t leave his face, thoughts like a developing storm. “Be careful, Hannibal,” her tone is genuine, something Hannibal hasn’t heard from her since the beginning of their relationship, “you don’t like having loose ends.”
He hears the implied; if you don’t give yourself one option, you’ll eventually slither back. She shuffles her feet to stand more comfortably, examining him. “Have you explored it?”
Hannibal nods. “I have.”
“So quickly?”
“Long enough.”
She hums, contemplating.
“Thank you for the gift,” she tucks the bottle close to her chest, the intrigue giving way to wariness, “I’ll be sure to enjoy it.” She won’t ask any more, won’t put herself in harm's way. For now. “When do you leave?”
He smiles, turning his body towards the driveway. “You’re the second-to-last stop,” he says over his shoulder, watching the cars drive by. When he gets to his car the door is shut, lock clicking behind her.
…
He saves the best for last.
He visits Will at the hospital; he’s still recovering, in and out of consciousness constantly, and Hannibal’s managed to capture him in one of the inbetweens. On the cusp of being present, on the cusp of sleep.
Will’s eyes flicker open, the steady sound of machinery lulling in the background. He rolls his head over to Hannibal, analyzing his figure. “When did you get here?”
Hannibal takes a step toward him, finding the seat beside his bed. “A few minutes at most.”
“Not too long?”
“Not too long.”
Will nods. Hannibal takes the seat beside him, peeking a glance at the window. There’s a bouquet of fresh flowers. They must be from Alana or Abigail. Maybe both.
He sits with Will in silence; they don’t talk about anything, don’t move, barely breathe. They don’t need to say anything, and this version of Will probably wouldn’t want to talk to him much anyways. The medicine bag starts to drip slower. The footsteps outside start to falter. The air begins to still. They’re stuck in time, in this moment, each other's presence enough for the other.
Before long, the sun peeks through the blinds, hitting Will’s face at just the right angle. His eyes flicker open again, greeting Hannibal with a beautiful ocean blue. Hannibal sucks in a breath, in fear of it being taken.
Will is, and always will be, divine. Despite this, he needs to say what he must. “I came to say goodbye, dear Will.”
Will quirks a brow at his voice. He twists his head in no particular direction, confused. “You’re leaving?” He doesn’t mention Hannibal’s endearment, and Hannibal doesn’t think he’s coherent enough to catch it.
“I am.”
Will nods. The recovery must be taking its toll; nothing seems to be registering, no fight to any comment. “Okay,” he responds, oblivious of the implications, “I’ll see you soon.”
No, you won’t, he almost says aloud, stops himself short. Hannibal watches Will’s eyes droop again, fighting off sleep. When Will’s eyelids fully close Hannibal stands up, pressing a kiss to Will’s forehead as he falls into unconsciousness.
“Till we meet again,” he whispers. In this life or the next.
…
Florence is beautiful in the fall.
The crowds are smaller, the streets feel wider. The weather begins to cool during the afternoons, leaves a slight chill in the evening. He visits the art galleries around the city every day, the new collections captivating, tourists and locals alike able to witness their beauty. It’s been a little over three weeks since he’s made it to Florence; he’s spent his time wandering the alleys, going to art shows, planning what his new profession will be. He’s rented a small apartment with a beautiful studio attachment, plenty of room to work on his paintings and any other activities.
He steps out of the Uffizi gallery, looking down at the rows of food vendors. He hasn’t had time to develop a relationship with a gardener or grow his own vegetables yet, so he needs to consider multiple avenues for meals. He goes through the motions, greeting faces that are beginning to recognize him, saying a few words of encouragement, grabbing what he needs, and leaving.
In another life, he might’ve considered this freedom. Right now, it doesn’t feel like it.
This is not the victory that he took with flesh and teeth. This is not the blood and gore of that night, the look of Will’s gaze, the satisfaction of the kill. Hannibal felt more free in that moment than any other, would never feel like that again. And he knows, subconsciously, that any other form of freedom will never hold a torch to that freedom, and yet he is still appalled by how insufficient it really is.
By definition, he is free. He has ridded himself of his affliction, has started the building blocks of a new identity. He knows, he knows that he cannot compare this freedom to that freedom, but it proves redundant in the confines of his mind.
He thinks of his first case of freedom, decades ago. It’s hard to compare the feeling when it can barely be remembered. He remembers the rage of the incident with his sister, the anger that drove his actions, the setting of what made him numb. Yet now, when leaving of his own accord, the numbness doesn’t have a pleasant sting. The cavity in his chest is yet to fill in, waiting for something else to come.
Freedom does not ring when it hasn’t been stripped from its captor. Its contract is null and void.
Still, he remains. He cannot go back; his conscience knows the benefits. Will will live a simple life without him. Simple and unharmed. Simple and unafflicted. Simple and without him, as he wanted.
Hannibal approaches the steps of his building, walking up the narrow staircase. He shuffles his bags into one hand to grab his keys and unlocks the front door. His apartment is moderately decorated three weeks in, little trinkets and vases gracing countertops and cabinets, but no artwork has been placed on the walls yet.
He puts the bag down, starts unloading his groceries. The window’s open, and he doesn’t remember doing so, but he keeps it open almost constantly with the good weather. His mind wanders as he places the ingredients in the fridge, debating what he’ll be making tonight. He turns to the counter, looks through the bags, takes a deep breath. He can smell the faint remains of the previous owner’s scent, the dog walking down the building’s hallway, the croissants the baker on the second floor is making.
He can smell the faint scent of a terrible aftershave.
He doesn’t dare to look, unsure if he’d believe what he’d see. Before he can turn slightly, a pressure forces itself onto Hannibal’s shoulders, his torso lunging towards the countertop.
Nails dig into his shoulder. “You play dirty, Doctor Lecter.”
The voice throws him to the side, sending them both crashing to the floor. Hands press into Hannibal’s wrists, but they aren’t strong enough to keep him still. Hannibal surges his body over to the right, forcing the perpetrator off his back. Before he can get up the man is back on him, beautiful blue eyes crashing into crimson.
It’s Will– brillant, beautiful Will.
“I was playing my part,” he spits out, wrestling with Hannibal between words, “I was reciting my lines, doing things right. And then you go out of your way to fuck up the play,” Will reaches behind him, pulling out a small pocket knife from his pocket and thrusting it towards Hannibal’s neck. “Ironic, considering your love for theatrics.”
Hannibal doesn’t move. Will’s grip is firm, steady, the blade aligned with his throat. One swift movement is enough to end this life. “I thought that, maybe, this version of you just wasn’t inclined to interfere. That you saw more of a threat than an opportunity in me,” his words are said with the haziness of a monologue, like he doesn’t really care whether Hannibal listens to him or not, “and in all honesty, I thought I could be okay with that. You were the cause of my evolution, but you were also the cause of my suffering.” He presses the blade into Hannibal’s skin, blood welling at the surface. “No matter how much we went through, or how much I feel for you, I couldn’t blame a version of you who had no clue.”
Hannibal moves his hands up to Will, palms forward in a show of mercy. He can’t believe what he’s hearing. It can’t possibly be real. “Don’t fuckin’ move,” Will scowls, “you don’t get to move yet.” Hannibal doesn’t deny Will his obedience, stilling immediately.
Will leans his head down to Hannibal’s face, inches away from his lips. “It came to me when I walked out of that hospital with a clear mind,” he purses his lips, like he finds something funny. “You helped me.”
Will laughs almost manically through his teeth, like he can’t believe it. Hannibal simply watches him, watches the jut of his Adam's apple, the cracks of his chapped lips. “You don’t help people, Hannibal. You use them. You showed your cards like a fucking amateur and then fled the scene like a coward.”
He retracts the knife from his skin, staring at him in anticipation. Hannibal, frankly, doesn’t have a word to say. Will remembers them. He remembers their fall, their evolution, their time together. He didn’t mention it to Hannibal, as Hannibal didn’t mention it to Will. He is enamored and enraged, unable to pick a fleeting emotion for how easily his plans were exposed.
There are too many possible scenarios for why Will kept his knowledge away, too many possible outcomes. All Hannibal can think of is Will’s final choice; the lean over the cliff, the crash of the water. Why has he come to find Hannibal after the way he left them? Is this not his freedom?
Either way, Will does not seem to appreciate the gift Hannibal gave him. So be it. “Can you blame a man for not wanting to be rejected once more?”
Will tilts his head like a dog, leaning back. “What about my action was rejection?”
“You took my life from me,” Hannibal grits out, eyes narrowed, “something you said you wouldn’t do.”
“Did I?” Will quips back. “You seem to be alive.”
Hannibal juts his hips forward, throwing Will forward into the air. He places his hands above Hannibal’s head to catch himself, and Hannibal takes the opportunity to grab his hips and throw him to the side, pivoting with his knee to tower over him. His hand presses lightly against Will’s throat, waiting with the other for any fight Will puts up. “I will not be tricked again, Will. I cannot stop the affliction of my feelings, but I refuse to be deceived by you once more.”
Will reaches his hands to Hannibal’s right wrist, trying to lift it. For a moment, Hannibal considers pressing down, ending it all. Yet he remembers. He remembers.
Hannibal obliges, leaning up and perching on his knees, swinging his leg over to the side. He doesn’t look into Will’s eyes. “Live your life without me. I’ll live mine.” He cannot, will not do this again.
“I don’t want to.”
The statement is sure, set in stone. Hannibal’s brows furrow. Will’s resistance can be fruitful at times, but at this point it’s grating. “You test my patience.”
“And you’re constantly rubbing on mine,” Will spats, pushing himself up to a seated position, “I don’t want to live without you, Hannibal. That was what was gonna happen if I didn’t tip us over the cliff. The police would’ve caught up to us, we were too injured to run. The farthest distance I could get us away from the scene was down.”
“You didn’t expect for me to die on impact?”
“I didn't want you to. If death was the option, it had to be both of us. I tilted both of us over. Till death do us part, or something like that.”
Hannibal’s heart stutters, but he is not swayed. “Still, you could not live with me.”
The brunette rolls his eyes. “I can’t live without you now. I don’t want to, Hannibal.”
“Why? The familiarity? The only one with the same memories?” he spits, almost mocking.
Will nearly launches himself to his feet, standing a few inches away from him. “You’re a fucking idiot, you know that? Why would I sail across the sea, again, for a man who shares a few memories with me? I can cookie cutter my life right about now, do whatever the fuck I want. I’m choosing not to.” He points his index finger into the middle of Hannibal’s chest. “I’m choosing you.”
Seconds pass. Hannibal, despite all his preparations, the internal warning bells inside his head, takes the hand pointing at him into his own. Without his best interest, he believes Will’s words, knows when Will means what he says. His conviction is something, and his statements are another, but his heart rate reveals the final fact Hannibal needs to confirm. They stand there together, silent, until Hannibal interlocks their fingers, locks eyes with the other man.
“Will you stay here, then?”
“Of course.”
“You won’t wander off?”
“Where else would I go?”
Hannibal exhales, taking in Will’s figure. He looks disheveled, not just from the fight but from the days that have passed. Up close he smells of saltwater, of dirt and soot from the streets, and still, faintly, the scent of dog hair. It’s Will. It’s his Will, giving him a second chance.
He begins to lean in, holds back the motion. Will notices. He leans in, just as Hannibal, and then holds back as well.
Choice. Will has made his; now it is time for his own.
Freedom does not revolve around the power of choice– it is the power of restraint. And here, with Will, he has no shackles. He takes Will’s cheek in hand, leans forward, and pulls them together. His lips taste like salt, feel like freedom.
In this life and the last, they will be one.