Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was melancholic as Hannibal stepped out from the car, gravel crunching beneath his feet as his eyes set upon his new home, wary and scrutinizing, eyes narrowed distastefully. Mishca climbed from the backseat to stand beside her brother, smelling of lilacs and the sugary candy she had eaten on the short drive from the airport. She let out a disheartened huff as their eyes both flitted about the building. It was far less grand than their castle back in Lithuania. A two-story home with white clapboard siding, a wrap-around porch, black shutters on each window and a large tree that a tire swing hung from in the front yard. It was a typical home and Hannibal was still unsure as to why his mother had made the choices she had, but he decided he would give her the benefit of the doubt for now, though he still missed their old home.

It lacked the royal decadence the castle had. The house looked worn, threadbare but firm all the same. Like a used piece of china at the antique store you'd mull over for a few moments before ultimately putting it back on the shelf, though in the end there was still contemplation, and for his mother, it seemed that she had decided to purchase it.

Cicadas buzzed in the early afternoon sun, Hannibal thought it was odd that something made by nature could make such a mechanical ring. It was a sound he'd used to think came from the sun as a child, tussling in the grass with Mischa as he stared up at the glistening sky. Clouds swayed about above him and small bursts of wind danced their way about his hair, blowing it every which way as he heaved his luggage from the trunk of their new car, gravel crunching beneath his boots as he walked to the front steps, trudging a suitcase in each arm. The wind helped soothe his sun slick skin ever so slightly, though it blew against him like a weak puff of air, not enough to truly cool his quickly pinkening cheeks and limbs. They would remain hot to the touch, even after removing himself from the sun. Mama would likely lather him with her jar of aloe later, the one which she’d combined with a smattering of essential oils and oatmeal.

Vines of ivy climbed up the walls of the home with courageous dignity, spindling up the posts which supported the roof above, dancing amongst the railings and fitting in every crack and crevice as if they were needed upon the structure, as if it were the glue that held everything together. The wooden porch creaked under his step, splintered wood sprouting from the lumber, catching on the soles of his shoes ever so slightly as he ventured to the front door. Mischa's steps followed closely behind, her heaving breaths leaving her mouth in puffs as she struggled with her luggage, groaning quietly with displeasure.

The hot sun beaming above left sweat to drip down either of their foreheads and stream down the backs of their necks, weakly securing the fabric of their shirts to their skin, following with their every movement like a glove around their body as they lifted and shoved their baggage into their home, stacking everything in the living room for the time being as mama had asked them to do. The wood floors were rickety under their feet, even as they made careful steps throughout the house, taking in the confines of the new walls that would now shelter them.

Hannibal wasn't too fond of it. The home was delicate it seemed, not structurally, but visually in his mind. White walls and crownmolding, dark hardwood floors that splintered, white lace curtains and beige upholstered furniture that had been patched up with various scraps of fabric. It was cozy, not stark as the castel was with its rigid stone walls and velvet chaises, golden framed murals and dangling chandeliers. It was a home; not a castel. He still failed to feel supportive of his mothers decision, yet he kept his mouth shut regardless. This was mama's choice to make, not his. There was no need for his input and he knew that, no matter how deplored he was.

Though worry loomed in the back of his mind that perhaps this was of his own doing. He knew it was feasible. Maybe his mothers idea of a punishment for the person that he was, if she’d found out somehow. However, Hannibal knew that was unlikely. He was good at what he did. He left no trace. He was skilled and artful enough with his work that it'd never be assumed to be that of a child's. He told himself that this simply wasn't the case. No one could possibly know. But it was hard to convince his mind of such a thing, because if it were true in the end, it meant that something cruel and bleak was to come. His freedom gone, his life. But no, that simply wasn't possible.

In a daze, Hannibal collected his items from the living room and transported them to his new bedroom. The space smelled of wood and dust and freshly cleaned linen and it was entirely empty barring a wooden bedframe with a thin mattress atop it in the middle of the room and a matching dresser rested about the wall opposite of the bed. Across the surface of the dresser were a bounty of engravings carved within the wood, some rigid images of flowers and the rest a spatter of what Hannibal assumed were song lyrics or perhaps quotes and a sprinkling of stars here and there. He ran his finger amongst the carvings, feeling the indentations under his skin as he swept over them. Perhaps he'd add some of his own one day, or maybe he'd cover it all up, though in all likelihood, he'd presumably get a whole new dresser in the end to replace this one. Something which reflected more of his own refined taste.

He heaved his bag onto the end of the bed then, a ratty leather duffle from his childhood, the right strap nearly hanging on by a thread from everything it's been put through. A plume of dust lifted from the mattress as the bag met its surface, the particles floating about in the rays of sun which filtered in through the window on the far side of the room. Hannibal pulled at the zipper of the bag, the teeth getting caught here and there, the fraying threads of the old material getting stuck in the chain as he pulled, though eventually, it opened, the zipper purring as it glided unevenly.

Hannibal let out a sigh as he picked through the bags contents, taking hold of a small wooden box, all that was held inside rattling against its confines as it was lifted and promptly settled down on the mattress beside the duffle. His fingers grazed over the engraved monogram of his initials which lay inscribed within the lid of the box, his skin washing over the etching and the smooth oiled wood, his soft fingers dancing over the surface gracefully. He flipped open the latch then, with only the pad of his thumb, the golden clasp digging ever so slightly into his flesh before the lid fell backwards, revealing its contents which all laid organized intentionally amongst it’s red velvet lining.

Inside sat a few tins, one of hemlock, one of nightshade, one of paralytics and one of sedatives. Beside the few tins was his knife, covered by its leather sheath that held a burnt monogram of his initials in its skin. The handle was made of the polished bone of his first kill. He'd made it on his own with the help of his cousin. They'd bleached and scrubbed it together until it was a pristine white, sanding it down until it was of the right size. Despite his knowledge of the femur being the largest bone in the body, it had been quite larger than he'd expected, though it was the first time he had truly seen a human bone.

Beside the knife lay a velvet sachet, inside sat the proximal bones of each thumb of his kills, all scrubbed and bleached until perfectly clean. Hannibal left the contents as they were, simply confirming that everything remained before pressing the lid shut, folding over the golden latch and sliding it into the top drawer of the dresser, pushing it into the far right corner until it met with the wooden walls of the drawer.

Mischa entered his room then, the short heels of her Mary Janes tapping along the floor as she skipped through the threshold, leaping onto his bed as Hannibal placed the now zipped shut duffle on the top of his dresser, limp with emptiness. She perched at the edge for a few moments, feet dangling fervently in the air before throwing herself backwards with a small huff, her arms lifted in the air, swaying as they were held high, the beams of light from the window flitting amongst her dancing fingers.

“Mama said we start school soon,” Mischa said, her voice still high-pitched with youth, sounding so childlike to him despite only being a few years younger than Hannibal himself. Her accent didn't help much either, still thick in spite of her many years of practice. “Two weeks,” She added with a click of her tongue, hands still swaying in the air above her, eyes staring at them intently, feet dangling carelessly off the edge of the bed, sweeping back and forth.

Hannibal hummed in acknowledgment, picking up a few articles of clothing to refold before placing them in the dresser, just simple sweaters and undershirts, nothing important enough to be hung in the closet. He likely wouldn't be fond of their new school, nor was he expecting his classmates to be too fond of him. Though, it was school. A simple necessity that he couldn't abandon due to mere displeasure. School was never quite enjoyable, though he assumed this new school would be even less so. Classes would likely consist of their teacher droning on about U.S. history that were only half truths and algebraic equations that he already knew of or knew far better substitutes for, and his classmates were sure to be awful, American children always were. Rude and uncultured and selfish and stupid and closeminded. Yet, they were likely to think they were better than him, he presumed. It really was unfortunate how many people this new school was going to compel him to take care of. This town was sure to get a whole lot smaller.

Not that school was much better back in Lithuania, but it seemed as if people there admired eloquence at the least. Americans spoke so mundane and dull. Hannibal found it quite boring. He preferred a more verse way of speaking rather than a straight to the point monotonous jumble of words. Perhaps that was because there was once a time in which he'd realized he had taken speaking for granted, finding himself unable to and grasping the full importance of it, the potential greatness when it's used to its full capacity. Though, he realized that most people really did not care all that much, speech wasn't exactly an art in their eyes as it was in his. Words were such a beautiful thing and yet no one seemed to use them to their true potential.

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Hannibal assured his sister, tucking away the last few articles of clothing with careful hands, smoothing over the material before closing the drawer and turning to face Mischa who groaned into her hands as they plastered over her small face. She was awfully pathetic yet he adored her all the same.

“But I won’t know anyone,” She whined, her complaints muffled by the palms of her hands that laid glued to her lips, her feet kicking at the bedframe now where they hung off the edge of the mattress, dull thuds spouting from the wood every few beats. “And mama said there is no uniforms,” She complained once more, voice now clear as her arms fell to lay on either side of her torso. “How awful is that? I will have to choose an outfit every morning.”

Letting out a breathy laugh, Hannibal stood before his sister, hands holding at his hips sternly, though he remained cordial as he looked down at Mischa, a smile playing at his lips as he peered at her pitiful face. “You will make friends, Mischa,” He said, his voice nearly a sigh as he spoke, turning around once more to heave another bag onto the end of his bed, right beside where Mischa lay, another plume of dust rising from the mattress as he did so.

He knew she would, she was outgoing, far more so than he was himself, and was likely to force someone to talk to her and promptly into a friendship. Mischa always had a cluster of friends back home, most of which were incredibly annoying in Hannibal's eyes, talked far too much and far too loud. Though, he couldn't say the same about himself, he rarely had friends at all, no one besides his cousin, however, he didn't exactly mind that fact and he’d become fairly content with it. No one would ever be at his level and that was okay with him. The only way he could have a friendship with someone was if he could consider them an equal and that was an incredibly rare person to find. Though, he was sure he could find someone as such one day. He simply wasn't sure of when.

“And you adore dressing up. Since when has that become an issue for you?” Hannibal asked his sister, remembering all the times she’d dressed in her finest silk and lace gowns adorning a huge grin on her face and shining pearls and jewels amongst her neck and wrists. Mischa would dress to simply gaze at herself in the mirror most times, strutting up and down the halls in her mothers heels, posing in each doorway to show off her ensemble to whomever was present and willing.

“Not so early in the day,” Mischa complained again, her arm rising in the air to simply fall back into a mattress with her hand in a fist. Hannibal wondered if she should even be laying on the thing, the amount of dust that had risen from it was dreadful and the bounty of stains strewn amongst its surface was quite worrisome, though Mischa didn't seem to mind.

“You are quite pathetic,” Hannibal accused weakly, a soft smile on his face and a few curt shakes of his head as he regarded the new attitude his sister had taken up. Mischa groaned in response, the sound muffled by her hands coming up to her face once more, plastered over her mouth as she whined, further more proving Hannibal's point.

“And you’re rude,” Mischa replied, her voice coming out in weak tendrils through the gaps in between her small fingers, lips still smushed by the palms that remained glued to her face. Hannibal let out a breathy laugh and though he could argue that she was the one acting rudely, uninvitedly splaying herself amongst his bed and idly complaining about nonsense, he did not. He kept his mouth shut as he emptied the contents from his bag, mostly his toiletries of hair and skin products as well as his favorite robe, leaving the room for just a moment to tuck the items away in his en suite.

“It will all be fine, Mischa,” Hannibal assured his sister through a sigh as he walked back into the bedroom, empty bag in hand which he placed atop his dresser along with the others. If anyone gives you trouble, I will kill them he wanted to add, though he decided to keep that to himself as an unspoken promise.

Mischa heaved herself off the bed with a groan, her feet thumping amongst the wooden floor as they met it, small hands smoothing out her mussed hair and rumpled skirt. “Mama said we need to help clean,” she said, voice soft as her chin tilted low. “This place is a mess,” Mischa stated, swiping her finger over the top of Hannibal's dresser, compiling a clump of dust in its wake, embellishing her point as she looked down at her dusty finger with a scrunched frown.

The house was cleaned in a manner that could only be considered a frenzy. Buckets of warm, soapy water littered each room, threadbare rags saturated in their contents that were slowly turning a dingy brown. The three cleaned with vigor, arms running sore as they swept and dragged amongst the dusty and stained surfaces of the house. Their mother played music from a CD player that had been left behind by the previous owners, some lively R&B melody drifting from the speakers at a nearly deafening volume as their bodies dripped with sweaty exertion.

After a handful of hours and a great deal of complaining from Mischa, the home was finally cleaned to the Lecter family’s standards. The house now smelled of bleach and burned herbs, though the odor was far more preferable than the previous moldy musk that was held within the walls, thick and oppressive as it spindled its way up his nostrils.

Hannibal settled in his bed after dinner, the mattress made up with his sheets and quilt from his last home in Lithuania and a few plush pillows his mother had bought him earlier that day, once they had arrived in Louisiana. The bed was cozy and warm but the walls around him didn't seem to hold him quite the same as the castle had.

He buried himself under the thick quilt his mother had sewn for him as a child, its material still holding the scent of his childhood: the powdery florals of lilacs and the sweet decadence of a crisp apple. Hannibal dug his nose into the fabric, taking it in until the walls around him blurred, molding into those of his childhood room with pale yellow wallpaper and the lace canopy which hung from his bed, softly dancing in the cool draft that flowed in through the open window. He drifted off not long after, reminiscing over the kills he'd planned within the same confines of those four walls and the way Mischa would sometimes pad down the hall until she made it to his room, tucking herself into bed beside him. Hannibal woke up to Mischa curled into his back the next morning.

The schoolhouse smelled of paper and sweat all muddled by hot, moving bodies as they crammed their ways down the halls and reluctantly into their classrooms. Hannibal parted ways with Mischa once she'd found her room, waving a small goodbye as he walked down the hall, searching for his own through the jumbled crowd of students.

Americans were far less proper Hannibal had discovered. They swore and laughed aloud, unaware of their surroundings as they rammed into one another with their oversized bookbags and stepped amongst others feet. They were loud and rude and dressed far too casually, their clothes loosely hanging off their limbs, baggy and limp and stained with holes scattered about their material.​​ They didn't care about how they presented themselves, nor how they were perceived. They didn't seem to care about much of anything. They probably wouldn't care if a few of their fellow classmates ended up dead.

Hannibal found his room at the end of a dingy hallway, the overhead lights flickering amongst the cracked tiled floors and the walls of lockers that were left strewn open and overflowing. He took a seat towards the middle of the room, off to one side, not presumptuous nor avoidant, simply there.

The class was rowdy, full of students catching up with one another after a long summer, complaining about being back and how tired they were. Hannibal sat silently, pulling a leather-bound planner and a pen from his bag, placing them down on the rickety desk aside one another. The room filled quickly as the clock neared closer to the beginning of class, some stragglers slowly trickling in as the teacher prepared to start though the door was firmly locked before she began, assuming everyone was present.

With clacking heels, the teacher made it back to the front of the room, standing behind her desk with her hands clasped before her. She introduced herself, went over the syllabus and expectations of her pre-calculus class before performing attendance.

The class was incredibly dull and Mrs. Landry’s voice was painfully monotonous though the introduction to the course content and outline seemed like it would be easy enough, a mundane but effortless pass.

Much of the classroom remained quiet as the teacher spoke, bar the scattering of bouncing knees and the click of pens or tap of fingernails atop desks. Hannibal took notes, writing down important due dates as Mrs. Landry listed them and upcoming projects he would need to do. It was awfully boring, and he found himself holding back yawns as he did so, resorting to doodling in the margins of his planner in an attempt to keep his eyes open as she droned on about attendance expectations and her grading rubric.

Roll call went similarly as she announced each name with the same flat tone, scribbling down at her clipboard after each affirmation from her students. Hannibal remained doodling as attendance continued, only pausing to look up from his paper and mutter a simple here when his name was called before resuming.

With twenty minutes left of class, Mrs. Landry handed out a worksheet and told everyone to work with the person sat next to them. Hannibal swiveled to the right, facing the boy who sat beside him as the other did the same, his eyes meeting Hannibal’s for a meager second. The boy had a yellowing bruise beneath one of his eyes, on the crest of his cheekbone, and a small split on his bottom lip. He diverted his gaze just seconds after meeting Hannibal's, eyes cast down at the sheet laid on the desk before him, fingers fidgeting with the pencil held in his hand, tapping the stiff eraser amongst the desk top.

Hannibal introduced himself quietly, his eyes lingering on the boy's face for far longer than he'd intended them to, catching on the violent blue of his eyes and the smattering of freckles amongst his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

The boy nodded, muttering an introduction of his own – Will – under his breath as his eyes remained on his paper, pencil now twirling between his fingers.

Hannibal gave Will a weak smile before diverting his gaze, pulling his attention to the worksheet before him as the boy had pretended to do rather than holding eye contact with Hannibal. The page was easy enough, equations and word problems he’d gone over before for the most part. Math came quite easy to him, as did most things; closed-ended things with clear answers, rights and wrongs.

Will remained mostly silent as they worked, giving Hannibal nothing more than a hum of agreement when he went over the formulas they should use and the answer he'd gotten out of them. The boy knew what he was doing though he didn't show it, the answers he wrote down always matched Hannibal's own, yet he didn't utter more than a few words the entire time.

The boy's knee bounced anxiously under his desk, his heel meeting the ground over and over with a dull clink. Hannibal also noted how Will chewed at his bottom lip, the flesh being pulled between his teeth every few seconds as he worked. Something in him wanted to ask why, though he knew that’d be wrong and likely make the boy feel worse, that's what had happened in the past when he'd asked such things. So instead, Hannibal kept quiet, muttering his answers to Will as he found them and gazing at the boy as he nodded or hummed in agreement. He wouldn't ask, but he was sure to find out.

Chapter Text

Hannibal sat beneath a tree within the school’s courtyard during lunch, his back resting into the trunk as he opened up his lunch bag, his legs sinking into the grass. Mischa sat on the other side of the schoolyard at a small, wooden picnic table, mingling happily with her newly made friends, likely forgetting that Hannibal even existed. She smiled wide as she sat and chatted, white teeth displayed against her cheeks that were red with delight. He should envy her, he knew that, but he didn't.

A breeze tickled at his hair, blowing the few longer strands to fall before his eyes which he promptly swept away with the back of his hand. He grabbed for his lunch bag then, fingers wrapping around the zipper when footsteps began to approach him, dried grass brushing against leather shoes. They belonged to that of a girl whom he'd shared an English class with less than two hours prior.

“Winifred?” Hannibal asked, recalling her name from roll call as he peered up at the girl who now stood before him, his eyes squinting in the sun. “Is that correct?” he asked with a meager, toothless smile.

The girl shrugged, tilting her head in a half nod, her curly, red hair bouncing with every small movement as it slouched over her shoulders. “Freddie,” she corrected with a weak smile, holding out her hand for Hannibal to shake. “Like Freddie Mercury,” the girl added with a small chuckle as Hannibal accepted her hand, giving it one firm shake before letting it fall back to her side. Another thing about Americans he’d noticed: they always had nicknames. It was odd but quite endearing at the same time.

“Ah,” Hannibal replied, eyes still gazing up at the girl who remained standing before him. He had no idea who the mentioned person had been, though he assumed they were likely some sort of celebrity. “You may sit, if you’d like,” he offered, not exactly finding Freddie’s current stance to be preferable yet assuming her company may come to be beneficial; he was yet to make any friends at school thus far.

Freddie sat after a curt nod, pulling her bag from her back to set it out in front of her crossed legs, unzipping it as she settled into the grass beside Hannibal, who began setting out his lunch. He pulled out an aluminum tin from his bag, the outside still warm from its contents, chicken biryani that he'd made the night before, though heated up on the stove prior to leaving the house for school. The scent was rich and spiced as he opened the tin and he allowed himself a few moments to bask in the smell before grabbing his fork.

“You’re new,” Freddie pointed out as she began her own lunch, a simple selection of sliced apples and a sandwich made of white bread and what smelled of ham and mustard. Hannibal nodded at her statement as he ate and Freddie returned his nod, thoughtfully shoving a hand over her mouth as she chewed on an apple, swallowing before she spoke again.

“This place sucks,” she shared, brows raised in displeasure. “Everyone here is either weird or…” she paused, mulling over her fellow classmates as she bit her bottom lip. “Just weird, really,” Freddie concluded with a tilt of her head and brief shrug before popping another apple slice in her mouth. “Or rude,” she added.

“As are most Americans, it seems,” Hannibal replied, a brief smile pulling at his lips. Freddie huffed a laugh at his observation, another shrug pulling at her shoulders as her eyebrows rose in subtle agreement.

Hannibal caught a glimpse of movement behind Freddie as she bit into her soulless sandwich, his eyes lingering on Will as the boy took a seat on the bench that stood not too far from the tree where Freddie and himself were perched, pulling out his lunch bag and settling it onto his lap. The boy's hair fell loose above his shoulders, dark curls framing his face and tucked behind his ears which were ever so slightly pink from what Hannibal presumed was a sunburn.

A loose shirt hung over Will's broad shoulders, some graphic t-shirt with a design that Hannibal couldn't quite decipher. It was far too big for the boy yet it made him look endearingly disheveled. Hannibal found the boy quite enchanting though he knew there was far more to him beyond his adorably gruff surface. There had been something about Will that he couldn't quite read. He would need to figure it out before it started gnawing at him like some sort of parasite.

Freddie followed Hannibal's eyes, her gaze too falling on Will as the boy ruffled through the contents of his bag. Her eyes diverted back to Hannibal then, her face scrunched slightly in thought. “You know him?” Freddie asked, a glimpse of disapproval flashing over her face, though there was more beyond it that wasn't entirely decipherable.

“Will?” Hannibal asked, his eyes falling back on Freddie reluctantly. The girl nodded, her red hair bouncing in a poof as she did so, her face still appearing unreadable in his eyes. Hannibal shook his head slightly, “Not exactly," he replied. “I have a class with him, that’s all.”

The girl nodded once more, taking another bite from her sandwich before she spoke. “He’s weird,” Freddie stated simply, her words accompanied by a shrug and a pair of lips which were ever so slightly downturned, her eyes remaining on the sandwich held in her hands as she spoke.

Hannibal's lips pursed, not entirely shocked by the girl's statement yet still displeased by her blunt rudeness all the same. “Is that so?” he asked as he picked at his food with his fork, simply shuffling it around in the lunch tin rather than eating it.

“Everybody thinks so,” Freddie defended, as if that made her stance any more reasonable. "Something's wrong with him,” she added, which Hannibal agreed with silently, though the girl’s words likely held a negative connotation; in Hannibal’s eyes, this something was what made Will so intriguing to him.

“Why’s that?” Hannibal asked instead, deciding that Freddie would be his inside source for the time being, that is until he could get word from the boy himself.

Freddie simply shrugged, eyes cast on Hannibal then, her bottom lip pursed in thought, clearly not sure herself to the reasonings behind her own beliefs. “Something’s just… off about him,” she replied, picking at the last few apple slices left in her lunch tin before plucking one and popping it into her mouth.

“His mother is kind of the town nut-case,” Freddie shared then, a hint of pity in her words despite her evident aversion towards the boy. “There’s something wrong with her too… in her head,” she explained. “She’s crazy, has been so for years now… At the moment, she's convinced that the town’s pastor is the devil.” There was a roll to Freddie’s eyes as she spoke, her tone ignorant and careless. “He probably inherited something from her,” she assumed aloud before popping another apple slice into her mouth, her teeth closing with a crisp crunch as her shoulders rose with a brief shrug. “Crazy like his mother,” she supposed bluntly.

Hannibal’s gaze diverted towards Will once more, pitying the boy and the groundless presumptions made about him. He would need to take care of Freddie someday, but not while she was so extremely helpful.

A girl sat next to Will then, settling down on the bench beside him with a smile. She wore a baggy flannel and tights that were more ripped than not, it was entirely frumpy and quite distasteful yet it did not leave Hannibal thinking any less of the girl. If anything, the way she smiled at the boy beside her and playfully shoved at Will’s shoulder as he laughed made Hannibal appreciate her all the more.

“Who is she?” Hannibal asked curiously, his eyes peering back at Freddie now. He presumed his curiosity was fortified by the fact that he was new to the school, he didn't know much of anyone there, so his questions wouldn't leave Freddie thinking anything more than simple introductions to his new classmates.

“Beverly,” Freddie replied simply. “She’s his only friend, really… Since his last one died. He's been incredibly odd ever since,” she told Hannibal, far too calmly, like a classmate's death was nothing but some simple gossip to be passed around. “They’re weirdly the smartest in the school,” she explained. “Isn’t that funny? Trashy kids like them being the smartest,” she said with a brief laugh, not that of humor, actually, Freddie seemed oddly peeved as she spoke.

Hannibal supposed he would need to dig into Freddie on the topic of Will’s friend’s death some more eventually, but now wasn't the time. He needed to wait, allow it to come to the surface in a way that seemed natural, though he would most certainly be baiting it the entire time, Freddie didn't need to know that, however. He couldn't raise any suspicion. He couldn't be obvious.

All the same, Hannibal would need to construct a friendship with Will. This would have to appear to be natural as well. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Hannibal made his first kill in Louisiana three weeks into school. He had impressed himself with his patience, though he was beginning to grow restless and his fingers itched for a kill, to lurk in the depths of a cadaver, surrounded by thick, wet warmth. He needed it.

The boy had earned his culmination during lunch break one day, muttering insults under his breath about Hannibal’s presumed sexuality, assumptions made upon the way he dressed and spoke. It was undeniably rude, so inescapably so that Hannibal had to do something about it. He had to.

He followed Ryder Goudreau home one day after school, not straying far as the boy roamed back streets and neighborhoods until he eventually made it home. Hannibal did so most days, staying behind to watch over and take note of his typical routine; who else had been home at the time, when the others came into the picture, when they all left again, including Ryder himself. He'd need to plan this all out. He could make no mistakes. This had to be perfect.

Hannibal found that the boy’s mother was home when he'd arrive back from school, though the woman left most days just before four o’clock, except for Fridays. Though, Ryder’s father came home from work at around four thirty every evening, so that left him with only a thirty minute time frame to do his work – if he did it at the boy’s home that was, which Hannibal was deciding was more and more unfeasible as each day passed, especially if his work was going to be as extravagant as he desired it to be. He wouldn't let something as meager as inconvenience stop him.

So, Hannibal decided he'd need to catch the boy on his walk before he got the chance to make it home. He followed from afar as Ryder took his usual route as to remain unsuspecting, though he planned to pounce when the boy made it to one spot just a few blocks from his home. There was a brief alleyway that led behind a café and a barber shop on the way; that was where he would attack.

The barber shop, Hannibal noticed, had a basement entry in the alleyway, a basement that remained unused the entire time he scoped out the area. The deadbolt was far too easy to pick, especially after years of experience, and so Hannibal spent nearly a week preparing the space for his project.

He observed the typical foot traffic of the area, which thankfully, was almost entirely nonexistent. Ryder seemed to be the only person who traveled through the alleyway on a regular basis, that was besides those who worked at the cafe, though they all entered and exited through the back door at the same time, therefore making them easily avoidable as long as he steered clear of those time frames.

The basement was fairly vacant and clean on its own, barring the weak layer of dust across every surface and the cobwebs in every corner. There was a table in the middle of the room too which would be helpful, he only needed to acquire a few plastic tarps to cover the floor and surrounding walls before the basement was ready for his project which was far too easy, it was as if the universe was simply begging Hannibal to take this boy out of its hands.

After two weeks of following Ryder and loitering around the alleyway during odd times to get an idea of his allotted hours, Hannibal finally struck. Of course, it was far less time than he'd typically take to prepare for such a project, though having been months upon months since he had last taken upon such endeavors, he’d needed to act fast or else he might have just lost his mind.

Ryder's pace was slow as he walked home, distracted by the headphones funneling music into his ears. He strided with confidence, both hands in either pocket of his jeans, head bobbing with the beat playing in his ears, entirely unaware. It was perfect.

Hannibal approached the boy, his steps quiet and sure despite Ryder's lack of attention. It was routine at this point even in spite of it being quite unnecessary with the current situation in hand. Needlessly careful, Hannibal matched the boy's steps with his own, his fingers twitching where they fell at his sides with excitement, insurmountably ready to wrap around his victim, to feel the boy’s pulse fade away under his grasp.

His hands wrapped around Ryder then, one at his jaw and the other at his throat, both shoving until the boy’s neck let out a solid crack and he fell backwards into Hannibal's chest, breathless and dead but still warm in his grasp. He went to open the basement entrance, slumping Ryder’s body down against the brick wall of the café before he did so. The metal door leading to the stairway opened with ease, he'd picked the lock earlier that morning and left it as so to keep this project as simple as possible.

With the entrance open, Hannibal picked the boy up from the ground, holding his body against his side with one arm wrapped around his torso as he trudged the two of them down the stairway, flicking on the light switch at the last step once he made it there. He laid Ryder’s body atop the table which he'd lined with plastic as to give himself an easy clean up and pulled his cart of tools to stand beside the boy's cadaver, the wheels crinkling amongst the tarp that covered the floor.

With the overhead light illuminating his field, Hannibal grabbed his scissors from the cart and began to rid the body of clothing, setting each cut up article aside in a bag for later burning, he wouldn't be leaving a fiber of evidence behind. Once the body was bare, Hannibal visualized his desired tableau.

Ever since he'd laid eyes upon the sculpture, he knew he needed to replicate it with his favored medium. The Gaddi Torso had struck inspiration immediately, the sculpted body broken and ridden of its most important anatomy. No head, no arms, no legs; simply a torso. The sculpture had served as inspiration for many other prominent artists before, though none would ever reach the level of magnificence that Hannibal's would.

With a bone saw and a plastic suit to protect his clothing from the blood, Hannibal began ridding Ryder’s body of its limbs. Starting just below the pubic bone he severed the legs from the body, thick blood coated the plastic tarp beneath the boy’s body and splattered amongst Hannibal's hands as it sprayed from the friction of the bonesaw against the beginnings of Ryder’s femur.

The smell of blood filled the room, thick and delicious as it spindled its way up Hannibal’s nostrils, falling upon the back of his throat, the taste lingering against his tongue with its metallic spice and subtle, delectable sweetness. He had missed this.

Hannibal’s fingers tingled with excitement as he worked, moving onto the task of removing Ryder’s broken neck from his shoulders. The bonesaw cut easily through the boy, blood spilling from his throat, thick and coating the plastic beneath him, sopping off the sides of the table and falling into a puddle on the tarp-covered floor.

In his head, he pictured the tableau once more as he looked down at the body before him. It'd soon stand stiff and stark rather than so weak and drab as it laid now upon the table. He'd cauterize the boy's wounds to keep them from bleeding after inserting wire within the cadaver, posing it as such before he injected Ryder’s flesh and muscles with silicone in order to stiffen the body as if it were truly a sculpture.

He would keep Ryder's head and limbs for later use, he hadn't eaten brain in quite a while, so that would be a treat, though there was one more thing he wanted from the boy. Picking up his scalpel, Hannibal then cut into his chest until he met the sternum which he then spread with protractors until the boy's beautiful, delicious heart was revealed, red and plump. It fit in his hands quite perfectly as he removed it from the gaping chest. Still warm and sopping in his grasp, his mouth watering as he placed it on ice in a cooler he'd brought in earlier.

The body was displayed later that night after the silicone had settled within it. He'd found a museum in the French Quarter with lousy overnight security, virtually none besides the middle-aged man who sat at the ticket booth all night, though a simple anesthetic concoction ridded him from his stance as a barrier to Hannibal’s project.

Upon a wooden pedestal, as most statues were, Hannibal stood Ryder's body within the Greek artistry division of the museum. The only defining factor amongst it’s companions was its color, though Hannibal wanted it to stand out in some way, he wanted it to be seen, that was the whole point.

As for his luring of Will, the boy's silence was resulting to be far more hindrance than he had suspected. Hannibal understood it to a certain extent, he himself had gone through a phase in which he had not spoken after the lasting effects of his father's death failed to subside. Perhaps the death of his friend had the same effect on Will. He'd need to get more out of Freddie, maybe Beverly, if he could form something between them as well. Though he was beginning to find that if he wanted something from Will himself, he would need to earn permission of his voice, it wasn't something he gave to just anyone. Now it was simply finding out how to do so that was his problem.

Chapter Text

Ryder Goudreau’s body was found the next morning by the museum's opening crew, the news played on the TV as his mother prepared breakfast. Hannibal listened dutifully yet conspicuously from his doorway as he tied his tie and tucked a pocket square into his jacket, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips as he did so.

The news anchor droned on about the scene; no head, no arms, no legs, the heart missing. The gruff man stated that the killer was quite skilled, nothing they had ever seen before in Louisiana with their artistic approach and surgical precision. Hannibal basked in the praise.

He walked into school with a grin and a cheerful pep to his step as he made it to pre-calculus, sitting down at his desk beside Will as he typically did, though the boy had muttered no more than a handful of breathy words to him within the three weeks he'd attended class with him.

Will looked at him warily as Hannibal sat down, eyeing him with an uncertainty that wasn't a look that typically took place on the boy's face. Hannibal took in Will’s scent as he loitered in his presence. The boy smelled of cigarettes, dog, pine, and faintly of mildew and sweat, yet it was simply intoxicating. There too was a tinge of fear that could be smelt on Will, making itself known by a presence of a spice and bitterness that clung to the confines of Hannibal’s nose, though it was alluring all the same.

There was an inquisition behind it all, too. Some intense, confused engrossment that could be scented on him, and evident too in the way he looked at Hannibal. Eyes peering but questioning all the same; wanting but in a way he wasn't sure of yet, nor the reasoning behind this odd desire. Was it the knowledge he wanted? Or the man himself?

Hannibal felt chillingly transparent as Will’s eyes swept across him, like he could see right through the front Hannibal was putting on. Though the chill that was knit upon his spine wasn't exactly that of fear, Will’s eyes were unnervingly knowing yet not hateful. The look on his face was nearly exhilarating and so utterly tempting. Hannibal needed to know what was behind it. What exactly did he see?

Lunch went as it typically did, shared with Freddie under a tree in the schoolyard. Freddie did a majority of the talking most days, though Hannibal usually did very little listening unless the topic was that of Will Graham. Freddie rambled on about her mother’s new boyfriend today. The girl's aversion towards the man was quite amusing, though Hannibal couldn't find himself caring in the slightest. He'd need to start getting his information from the source, and soon, Freddie was becoming a useless bore.

And so, Hannibal found himself following Will home after school that day, through the thickly settled streets and bare fields that led to the boy’s house. Will walked carelessly, hands wrapped around the straps of his book bag that sat at his chest, feet rising and falling asynchronously, stumbling through the tall grass and beat-up sidewalks of the city, throwing up small pebbles, brush, and clouds of dirt in the wake of his leather boots.

There was honking of horns as he followed Will into a considerably more urban area of the town. Hannibal presumed that perhaps that was what had distracted him. After one glance behind himself, he no longer found Will before him as he diverted his gaze back in the direction that the boy had previously stood.

Hannibal’s step was stifled for a moment, his eyes peering back and forth anxiously as they lost their target and failed to locate it once again. He twisted his neck in one swift motion to scan his surroundings for the boy, yet his eyes did not get the chance to land on a singular subject before his back was slammed into the brick wall behind him and the air was promptly strangled from his lungs in one swift gasp.

As he looked up, his eyes met those of Will Graham’s, blue and furrowed with anger and accusation. The boy was confident, his fingers curled around Hannibal's shoulders securely, though there was still that bitterness of fear that could be scented on him as his eyes bored into Hannibal's, fierce, determined blue against unmoored maroon.

“Are you fuckin’ followin’ me?” Will gritted out as his nails dug into Hannibal's shoulders through his shirt. It was the most he had ever heard the boy speak. His voice was terse, escaping past a jaw clenched with anger, his brows still furrowed, though adorably so. The boy thought he appeared as a threat in Hannibal's eyes, though Will seemed more like a snarling puppy to him rather than anything seriously harmful.

Hannibal shrugged simply, avoiding the urge to smile as he returned Will's stern eye contact. He figured that wouldn't be a great idea. “I found you intriguing,” Hannibal said instead, his words leaving Will immediately diverting his gaze to somewhere behind Hannibal, seemingly incredibly angry at a brick wall.

Will let out a gruff laugh, shaking his head ever so slightly with disapproval. “You’re fuckin’ weird, man,” he replied, though there was no real punch to his words despite the ridiculing tone he wielded.

Shrugging once more – which seemed to be a trait he’d acquired since moving to America – Hannibal eyed Will before speaking. “I simply don't confine myself to the hindering complexities of social constructs,” he replied. “I am who I am. I think that's how it should be for everyone.”

Will blinked ever so slowly as he took in Hannibal's response, a breathy laugh leaving his lips. “Right,” was all he said, releasing his grip and taking a step backwards, slowly looking Hannibal up and down as he did so. “Well, stop,” the boy ordered, though his tone failed to escape his mouth in earnest. “Followin’ me,” he clarified softly with a brief eye roll that would have gone unnoticed had Hannibal's eyes not been glued on Will's face with intent.

“My apologies,” Hannibal lied plainly, a weak smile pulling at his lips, knowing he wasn't sorry in the slightest and would certainly continue following the boy. However, Will didn't need to know that.

The boy eyed him warily, hands clenching and relaxing at his sides, giving Hannibal a brief nod before beginning to walk away. He watched Will disappear into the city, his figure soon turning to a bleary shadow as he approached a faraway field. He'd need to be more discreet next time. He wasn't going to stop following the boy, that he was sure of.

Hannibal met his mother in the kitchen after arriving home following his failed expedition. She stood behind the counter, giving him a quick glance before returning her attention to the dough she had been rolling out atop the counter, her arms dusted in flour nearly up to her elbows, a white streak adorning her chin.

“I just talked to Mischa,” she briefed, fingers wrapped tightly around the handles of the rolling pin, her arms pushing and pulling sternly. “I am setting a curfew,” his mother said, glancing up at him for a brief moment before diverting her eyes once more, making sure he was listening. Hannibal stood before his mother, arms crossed at his waist, peering at her with confusion and intent.

“There is a killer on the loose,” she clarified, leaving Hannibal's eyebrows to relax from where they had been heartily furrowed. “It's not safe out there; for either of you… You are to come directly back home after school and stay by your sister on your walk to and from.”

Hannibal sighed in frustration, though there was no way to relieve his mother of her worry. He was the killer on the loose; he was in no harm nor was she or Mischa, though he couldn't possibly tell her that, nor could he possibly follow his mother's new curfew. It was another gentle reminder that he could never be open about who he truly was. To never be entirely seen.

“No exceptions, Hannibal,” his mother added sternly, eyes peering up at her son as her hands continued to work. This would simply be a new burden he’d need to work around. It was angering, though he'd make it work. He'd have to. He always did.

Disregarding his mother's previous set rules, Hannibal followed Will after school a few days later. The route was far more urban than the one Will had taken just a couple of days ago. It was mostly backroads until it slowly became a forest entirely, walking along a man-made trail through trees and brush, and rocks. The woods smelt fresh, warm, and earthy in the hot sun, and birds sang contentedly above them, dancing between the arms of trees and just below the clouds.

Hannibal took careful steps as to remain unnoticed behind the boy, mindful of the twigs and leaves beneath his foot; one wrong step and his plan would be ruined.

Will’s pace slowed as the sound of rushing water became audible. He pulled his bag from his shoulders and tossed it down to fall atop a mossy rock. He watched intently as Will shed his flannel, placing it on top of his bookbag before toeing out of his boots, leaving them where they stood on the mossy forest floor.

Hannibal gazed, stock-still behind a tree, as the boy ridded his upper half of a shirt, eyeing as his biceps subtly bulged with the action, his core flexing beneath pale skin as his arms lifted above his head and threw the shirt to land beside his bag. The boy looked like that of art, scrawnily so, his pale skin looking as if it were polished and carved marble, pale and glistening with sweat in the hot sun above.

A waterfall rushed close by, rumbling in Hannibal's ears in a crisp gush. Will, now ridded of his jeans, stood at the ledge of a large rock just above the water, the backs of his thighs and calves taught as he faced away from Hannibal, looking down at the pool below, the muscles of his legs flexing as he brought himself up on tip-toes to peer down eagerly, presumably getting a better look as to decide where he’d jump.

Remaining inconspicuous for the time being, Hannibal slowly inched closer to the landing, using the distracting splash of Will landing within the water to his advantage, and moved slightly recklessly towards the boy, more so out in the open, as he wouldn't be visible from the depths of the water as Will swam below.

Deciding that he no longer wanted to stay unseen, Hannibal approached the ledge. He stood beside the rock where Will's bookbag and clothing lay before he sat down at the edge, legs dangling as he watched Will slowly drag his hands down his face, slicking his hair back as water dripped from his forearms and beaded off his chest, still oblivious to Hannibal, who watched from above.

Will opened his eyes at once, making firm eye contact with Hannibal's legs as they hung before him to which left those eyes promptly rolling. “Jesus Christ,” Will muttered, peeved by the other man's presence, though a smile pulled at his lips all the same as water dripped from his jaw and beaded at his eyelashes, peering up at the man who grinned.

“Thought I told you to stop followin’ me,” Will said, biting at his bottom lip, his brows furrowed with frustration, though amusement was also evident in his voice and in the slight smile on his face that he couldn't keep from forming.

Hannibal shrugged, eyes still gazing down at the boy. “I suppose I took it more as a suggestion than that of an order,” he replied smoothly. Will shook his head in response, a brief laugh slipping from his lips, swiping a dripped strand of dark hair from his forehead. “I suppose I also couldn't help myself.”

“You need to gain some self-control,” Will advised as he remained standing waist-deep in the small pool, Hannibal's eyes following the droplets of water as they fell down the pale skin of Will’s chest.

“I have plenty of self-control, I can assure you,” Hannibal countered, a smile still teasing at his lips, though nearly his every action in the last hour had opposed his statement.

Will rolled his eyes once more at Hannibal's words, his thick curls beginning to dry in the hot sun and puffing up once more to frame his face. “What is it exactly that you find so intriguin’ about me?” Will asked, flicking his head to one side as to rid his face of the bothersome curls that began to fall before his eyes. “Because I can assure you that I’m quite boring.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Hannibal replied, his legs swaying ever so slightly off the edge, his palms digging into the rock beneath him. “You see me,” he added after Will had gone a few moments, remaining entirely silent, wordlessly urging Hannibal to continue with raised brows.

“And what does that mean, exactly?” Will asked, his brows now furrowed with confusion as he began to retreat from the water, slowly inching closer to the shore until he was out of the pool entirely. Hannibal gazed at Will as he did so, eyes not leaving his body, watching as thick water droplets streamed down his chest and thighs, how it had left the boy's boxers to cling to his skin oh so tightly. His staring was nothing more than that of simple appreciation.

Hannibal shrugged once more, finding that the motion to come naturally to him as he spoke with Will, his shoulders moving entirely on their own, mirroring the boy's casualty. “You tell me,” he replied simply, face unreadable as he eyed Will while the boy sat beside him, a few feet away, that was.

“I can… read people's emotions. Share their experiences without really goin’ through them… Better than most people can.” Will’s voice was slightly muffled as he spoke, looking down at his feet as they dangled off of the ledge just above the water, avoiding eye contact as if he were ashamed.

“True empathy,” Hannibal replied, a soft smile on his face despite the boy's gaze being diverted away from him, the gesture going unseen.

Will simply hummed in agreement, the movement of his legs speeding up as he remained silently peering at them, his feet just barely avoided contact with the water.

“And what it is that you see when you look at me?” Hannibal probed, his voice soft but still commanding.

Letting out a breathy laugh, Will looked over at him finally, his eyes squinted in the sun as he peered at Hannibal, his cheeks squished just beneath his eyes, and an unavoidable smile tugging at his lips. The boy was quite compelling. “Too much,” he replied simply, diverting his gaze once more to focus on the water below him instead.

“I suppose that’s why you avoid eye contact whenever possible,” Hannibal presumed aloud, eyes wide with intent as he watched Will.

“I don't always particularly like what I see,” Will agreed with a weak nod, teeth biting at his bottom lip, hands fidgeting in his lap as he remained gazing into the glistening water.

Hannibal regarded Will with pursed lips. “Why’s that?” he inquired, brows furrowed with overwhelming interest as he spoke, his entire body wholeheartedly vibrating with enthusiasm. His appetite was soon to be sated.

“Your thoughts aren't always… tasty,” Will replied, the words pouring out of his mouth slowly, his teeth now biting at the insides of his cheek.

“I presume your own aren't either,” Hannibal countered, his lips pursed once more as he peered at Will.

Will's head tilted ever so slightly in mock consideration; he already knew the answer to the matter at hand. “No,” Will agreed finally, huffing a laugh as he spoke, though it was not one entirely of humor; perhaps it too was an act in an attempt to diffuse tension; he did not favor speaking on this topic. However, Hannibal was unrelenting.

“Then what's so different about mine?” Hannibal grilled, eager to get what he wanted, even if that meant making Will uncomfortable.

Will sighed, “They remind me of my own,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper, shameful despite the need to be anything but.

“You should embrace who you truly are, Will,” Hannibal suggested earnestly, eyes warm as they regarded the boy who remained avoiding eye contact at all costs. “As I do myself.”

“No-” Will practically laughed out the word, “I should not,” he said, looking towards Hannibal finally with a roll of his eyes and an unbelieving smile on his face.

“But why?” Hannibal asked earnestly. The boy beside him was beginning to smell differently as their conversation progressed, similarly to how he had the other day at school when he’d stared at Hannibal with wary eyes. There was a spicy musk to him, that of fear, but there was also regret to it; he was reliving something from the past, something connected to these very thoughts he was so fearful of. This spice began to take over the other odors that came with Will, as did the bitterness of sweat that came with his current worry.

Will shrugged lazily, biting at the insides of his cheek once more as he contemplated. “Acting on these thoughts would make me a monster… It has made me one,” he admitted softly, voice wavering as he spoke, looking down at his feet in avoidance.

Hannibal shrugged as he regarded Will. “God kills all the time and yet he is seen as the greatest entity in existence,” he stated simply. “Why would it make you a monster if you did the same? Are we not born in God’s image? His morality?”

Will peered at Hannibal, his face scrunched with unbelieving disagreement. “It's wrong,” he countered plainly.

“Then why does it feel so good?”

Chapter Text

As Hannibal’s second kill was found and cast over nearly every Louisiana new channel, fear began to encroach upon its population. The body had been that of Watson Audier, an incredibly rude young man whom Hannibal had noticed had begun to make his way into Will’s favorite watering hole while he had been dutifully scoping out the area.

Thankfully, Will had not taken notice of the man; however, Hannibal did not believe that anyone besides Will should be allowed to enjoy the area, even without his knowledge. Will’s ignorance regarding the man invading his unowned property worked in Hannibal's favor; the kill wouldn't raise any suspicion from the boy, yet Hannibal would get satisfaction from the kill all the same.

He’d posed the body in a way that was reminiscent of Trigoulet’s Le Précurseur, though the symbolism behind Hannibal's own piece was entirely his own perception of his inspiration. Knelt at the knees with hands pressed in begging and head missing as to show it was unbeknownst to him as to what he had done wrong, what he was unwittingly begging for forgiveness for. The man’s neck stood bloody and bare of a head, dried up but forever dripping crimson down his chest, pooling at the floor beneath him. It was quite perfect and could easily be connected to his last kill, with its surgical precision and symbolic expressions. Hannibal was beginning to make a name for himself here.

His classmates whispered their fears and mothers' warnings the day it was discovered, clearly all with their facets glued to their televisions and radios as news anchors droned on about the killings, waiting for more to come. Teachers went over safety protocols that Hannibal had heard hundreds of times over and ordered that no one walk to or from school alone, just to be on the safe side; though, in the end, they assured their students over and over again that there was nothing to worry about; however, it certainly failed to do much to calm the roused students. Everyone was erratic, either shaking with worry or far too interested in this case and eager.

It was quite amusing to Hannibal; all this fuss just for him. He didn't believe himself to be much of a danger, though it was flattering all the same.

Freddie Lounds sat beside Hannibal under their tree in the schoolyard; this had become routine by now. The girl smelled of rose petals and patchouli, and her red hair bounced in shiny curls as she plopped herself down upon the grass, adjusting her seating until she found it fitting. Freddie sat with her legs bent at the knees, standing just before her chin, the denim of her jeans ripped and fraying at the joint, her painted nails picking at the threads; a pink and yellow design which had previously been reminiscent of daisies before it had begun to chip.

Freckles stretched over the girl's face, vibrant and speckled across her skin; the curves of her cheeks, the bridge of her nose. Her teeth were a bit crooked, not unlike Hannibal's own, her canines jutting ever so slightly in front of her upper incisors, one of her lower front teeth standing at a slight diagonal.

“You hear about the killer?” Freddie asked enthusiastically, tucking a stray curl behind her ear as she quirked her brows. “Well, obviously you have – who hasn't?" she said quickly with a laugh before continuing. “Anyways, I’m gonna find him – or her. Actually, I think it'd be quite cool if it were a woman." Freddie let out a small laugh once more, her teeth biting at her bottom lip.

Hannibal gave the girl’s confidence a small smile. “Is that so?” he asked with unapparent humor in his tone. Little did she know how close she truly was.

Freddie hummed in agreement, her fingers now picking at the unraveling and dirtied laces of her shoes that sat upon the grass, dusted with dirt and pollen. “Beverly an’ I are already lookin’,” she told Hannibal with a confident, crooked grin. “It came up in our mock trial meetin’ last night. We've organized a bit of a team,” she added with a firm nod.

The thought of people seeking him, wanting to discover him, who it was that was behind his cruelly beautiful work, not giving up until they find their answer; it was incredibly thrilling. He’d be standing just before those who were seeking him, playing right in their faces, hiding in plain sight; it was simply alluring. It had his mouth watering, his heart thrumming in his chest; this was going to be far better than he could have ever anticipated. His appetite was growing ravenous.

Freddie’s gaze diverted to call out towards Beverly, who had been walking towards her typical seat with Will in tow. Beverly's eyebrows rose as she regarded Freddie, her chin tilted towards Will as she muttered something incomprehensible before walking over. Will's eyes rolled ever so slightly as he followed, a gesture likely gone unnoticed by everyone but Hannibal, who smiled briefly at the motion.

“Freddie,” Beverly greeted with a small nod, her lips pressed into a tight smile as she took a seat beside the girl, patting at the ground next to her in a motion for Will to follow her lead – which he did, begrudgingly and with an irked huff.

“Katz,” Freddie returned with a grin. “I was just informin’ Hannibal about our case on the killer,” she told Beverly, eyeing Will as he settled down beside the girl, her fingers still picking at her shoelaces as she did so, one eye quirked ever so slightly.

“Ah,” Beverly replied, a smirk blooming on her face, throwing a quick look towards Will before returning her gaze in Freddie's direction. “Our Fresco Killer,” she said, which emitted a weak laugh from Will, whose eyes were glued to the grass that grew beneath him – nothing more than a puff of air pushed from each nostril, though the grin on his face gave him away.

Hannibal's eyebrows quirked. “Fresco Killer?” he questioned with intrigue, a smile pulling at his lips.

“Sounds a lot like Psycho Killer,” Will butted in, “Y’know like the song,” he added, a grin on his face though it was almost entirely hidden by the angle he held his head at, tilted directly towards the ground. It had been a bit of a shock to hear Will speaking so openly around others.

“Exactly,” Freddie chirped with a toothy grin. “A catchy name is key to gettin’ coverage,” she stated sternly. “If we wanna catch this killer, we need eyes ev’rywhere,” she said with a nod.

Having an audience, having eyes on his work at all times – in appreciation, in disdain – was impossibly exciting. Perhaps it'd make for an adequate substitution for the real thing, for properly, truly being seen.

Hannibal thought the name was quite childish, possibly dull, though he would make do. His work was being recognized; it was being named, that was all that mattered. He had a name that was quite rousing in and of itself.

“So this killer,” Hannibal began, brows furrowed low, “How much do we know about him?” he asked, hands perched clasped upon his lap.

Beverly sighed from where she sat opposite of him. “Not much,” she replied plainly. “We assume he's a doctor – or finished med school at the least. Mid twenties to early thirties… Well traveled, broad education… introverted, or at least socially anxious and likely an artist – outside of these… kills, that is.” Beverly spoke with a tilt of her head, her black hair falling upon her shoulder like silk, and her bottom lip caught between her teeth with each pause she took.

The profile made Hannibal feel confident in preserving his freedom, though it left an emptiness in his chest. His work would be seen, his mind, his thoughts and feelings, though he never would, he'd never get the credit, the admiration, the hate. He'd go unseen. Not that he wanted people to see right through him, but the mild transparency that he had felt from Will’s eyes that one day had felt so incredibly good.

Freddie hummed in agreement. “Beyond our assumptions, we really know nothin’,” she sighed, lips pressed into a tight line. “An’ it's mostly gotta do with what the FBI has concluded… We haven't come up with much on our own.” Freddie bit at her bottom lip before continuing, contemplating as he picked at the fraying holes in her jeans. “But I’m gonna get us to that next scene. We're gonna see it with our own eyes,” she told the group with wide eyes, verging on manic, and a grin pulling at her lips.

Beverly eyed Freddie for the remainder of their lunch period, periodically diverting her gaze to give Will a look, her chin tilted low, brows raised, and leaving Will chewing at his bottom lip to keep a laugh from escaping their confines.

“God, she’s takin’ this too seriously,” Beverly grumbled, her eyes rolling as she regarded Will, who watched Freddie retreat from their group with glee in his face. “It’s not like we’re actually gonna find the dude,” she stated with a shake of her head.

Hannibal smiled weakly, head tilted down, eyes gazing at the grass in a form of defense, hiding the pull at his lips. “You have no faith in her?” Hannibal asked, subtle humor in his tone as he looked up at Beverly.

The girl shrugged, a laugh escaping her lips. “She’s still convinced Austin was murdered – despite his death bein’ ruled a suicide three years ago,” Beverly said with a roll of her eyes. “She’s a skepticist… She thinks that makes her smart,” she stated with a tut of her tongue.

Brows furrowed, Hannibal regarded Beverly, the name she’d brought up running unfamiliar in his mind, though Will’s body tensing from where he sat beside the girl at the mention of the name was a helpful giveaway. Austin was Will's friend who had died. It seemed Hannibal was getting information without even having to ask. How pleasant.

“It seems Ms. Lounds enjoys kicking dead horses,” Hannibal remarked with a tight-lipped grin.

Beverly laughed, her eyebrows raised in agreement as she flashed a knowing look at Will. “More than you know,” she replied, regarding Hannibal with a genuine smile, white teeth glistening where they parted her lips. Will remained unmoving beside her.

Once again, Hannibal followed Will after school that day. He hadn't done so while revealing himself since that first time in an attempt to not be seen as persistent by the boy, though he now had some questions he desperately needed answers to.

Hannibal revealed himself far sooner into the journey than he had last time, just before their venture turned into a trek through the woods. He slowly strided towards Will until he approached the boy entirely, Will assessing him with an eye roll and weak smile before shaking his head as they fell into synchronized steps through the beginnings of the forest floor.

Fallen pine needles crunched beneath their feet, as did brittle twigs and dying leaves. Autumn was closing in on Louisiana, the trees above dull reds and oranges or nearly bare as they swayed in the weak breeze. The air smelled crisp with the accompaniment of Will’s natural musk as the boy walked beside him. He smelled far more smoky as the temperatures began to decrease, the typical bitterness of sweat was fading and leaving the smell of cigarettes to come to the forefront, though Will always smelled as so. A sweetness clung to him, too, though it was an odor that seemed to come and go on the boy, something akin to cinnamon – perhaps a spiced apple.

The rush of water began to crescendo, alerting Hannibal that they were nearing Will’s typical spot, a mossy, rocken perch hanging just above a small pool formed from the weak flow of a waterfall. The crunch beneath their feet began to ebb, and Will sat before him amongst a rock, his book bag rested on the ground beside the rock he'd settled upon.

Hannibal took a seat atop a fallen tree trunk that lay opposite of Will. The surface was awfully mossy and damp, but Hannibal oddly didn't find himself minding all that much. He followed Will's lead, unstrapping his bag from his shoulder and leaving it perched against the log and on top of the grassy floor. His hands ran down the fabric stretched over his thighs as he heaved a sigh out from his lungs, eyes gazing at Will intently.

“Was your friend murdered, Will?” Hannibal asked, his tone clear though devoid of any intent, his eyebrows furrowed in question as his hands settled clasped in his lap.

Will’s gaze diverted instantaneously, his lips parting wordlessly before closing once more, teeth biting at his bottom lip as his eyes regarded the ground, his fingers fidgeting restlessly in his lap. The boy’s scent had become bitter, and his breaths were edging on jagged, an unconscious response to the unnerving question.

“Will?” Hannibal asked once more, slowly, as his question fell unanswered by words, his eyes peering at the boy as he squirmed under the gravity of Hannibal’s presence and words, his mind. Though Will’s scent, his precarious breathing, and the twitching hands that sat upon his lap, that answered his question quite well. “Did you kill your friend, Will?” he asked, peering at the boy as a smile began to tug at the corners of Hannibal’s lips in earnest.

His breathing settling, Will's eyes met Hannibal's, the boy's mouth agape, lips twitching as he conjured the words that would answer the complexity of the simple question. An excuse, perhaps, though Hannibal hoped dearly that it would not be. Their eyes never left one another as Will took a steadying breath, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly, tongue darting out to swipe at his bottom lip.

“Yes,” Will replied breathily, his lips remaining parted as he eyed Hannibal, searching for a response, projecting his own hatred amongst his actions on Hannibal, though all that showed on his face was a fiery grin, teeth peaking from behind his lips, fangs bared but not in a predatory manner.

Hannibal's gaze hadn't given him away, actually quite the opposite. Will peered at him fiercely then, accusing, his brows knit low on his face, nearly hooding over his eyes as he took a step forward. The boy smelled ablaze.

Will took in a shaky breath before he spoke, nearing on Hannibal with one more step, gravel crunching underneath his boot. “If you tell anyone, Hannibal,” Will spoke, his voice stern but wavering all the same, eyes boring into Hannibal's own.

Hannibal's smile grew at the boy's unspoken promise, leaving Will’s face to twist and lips to part in confusion, though his eyes remained glued on Hannibal as if he were incapable of diverting his gaze.

“Will,” Hannibal said, the single word a mere whisper as he returned the boy's cautious gaze, his own eyes reflecting like blood in the boy's stare. “We are far more alike than you are aware of,” he promised Will, Hannibal's grin growing soft as Will regarded him with brightening eyes.

“Give me one instance,” Will ordered, his voice stern once more, his tongue darting out to swipe at his bottom lip as Hannibal peered at him through squinted eyes. “You’ve got something on me. Give me something back.”

“You don't trust me,” Hannibal accused, voice soft despite the strife in his words as he took a step away from Will.

“It’ll make us equals,” Will stated, shrugging calmly.

Hannibal gave the boy a slow blink, hiding the slight roll of his eyes with the gesture, and took in a breath before he spoke. “I killed a man back in Lithuania,” he offered, not desiring to give himself up entirely. “I still have a number of his bones if you need further proof,” he shrugged. “Since it seems you are falling to trust in me.”

Will let out a breathy laugh, the tenacity in him seeming to ebb away. “How about a blood truce?” Will presented. “To bind our promise.”

“Will that help you to trust in me?” Hannibal asked as a weak smile grew on his face.

Will regarded him with pursed lips and a brief shrug as he mulled over Hannibal's words in his head. “I suppose it might,” he replied with a twinning grin.

“All right then,” Hannibal agreed with a single nod before reaching into his pants’ pocket, wrapping his fingers around the pocket knife that sat within it. It wasn't a particularly special knife. It wasn’t made of the bones of one of his victims, it hadn't been passed down by his father, and it was yet to draw any blood. Hannibal supposed this would be something akin to a baptism. Uniting death and resurrection, a rebirth and commitment, only with blood.

Hannibal held his left hand in front of himself, his palm facing up, while his right began to retract the blade of the knife. Will watched his every move as he did so, eyes watching eagerly as Hannibal lined the sharp edge up to the plump flesh of his own palm, the blade digging into it slightly just before it pierced the surface. Blood slowly beaded at the gash, and he swiftly pulled the knife across his skin, leaving a thin wound across the middle of his palm. The cut burned, flooding his hand with warmth, though there was a delight that settled in his stomach and flushed his cheeks.

Will’s fingers wrapped around the handle of the blade, then, as blood pooled in Hannibal's hand, beginning to pour past the edges and between each finger, left to fall upon the forest floor in big, crimson drops. Will did as Hannibal had, holding out his left hand palm up, slowly inching the knife to his skin with a shaky hand. He pressed the blade into his flesh slowly, just a dip into his palm before the edge nicked the skin and blood began to rise. The boy sucked in a breath through gritted teeth, and Will lifted the knife from the drawn wound.

The bitterness of blood flooded Hannibal's head, metallic and salty but delectably sweet. He reached for Will's hand then, his mouth beginning to fill with saliva, his nostrils flaring. Will’s hand was warm in his own and wet with the thickness of blood that poured from his gash. Their blood melded into one as their fingers entwined, colliding their open flesh with one another and slotting their wounds together.

Will's bottom lip was clenched between his teeth, stifling the aching burn that was undoubtedly writhing among his hand as it was Hannibal’s. Their hands sat as one for a few moments, grasped together as their blood mingled into one crimson pool, dripping down their wrists and forearms to fall upon the forest floor amongst dried leaves and pine needles.

With a wavering smile, Will looked up at Hannibal, his eyes retreating from their blood-soaked hands that sat enveloped in one another. “Good,” Will said softly with a brief nod of his head before he broke their grasp, their skin separating begrudgedly, their blood working as glue to keep them connected to each other.

Hannibal replied with an agreeing hum and a warm smile, stretching his fingers out in front of himself, the drying blood across his palm pulling at his skin as his joints moved and his gash still aching.

Will shrugged off his flannel then, after unraveling his sleeves that sat scrunched up at his elbows with his unwounded hand, before slipping it off his shoulders. Holding the fabric between his forearm and the upper arm of his left hand, to avoid any disturbance to his still bleeding wound, he used his other hand to rip off scraps of the material.

With careful hands, he wrapped a strip around Hannibal's palm, knotting it at the top of his hand as a makeshift bandage to keep for their walk home. Will's fingertips were warm where they inched across Hannibal's skin, softly looping the fabric around his gash and smoothing it over dutifully, all with his bottom lip pinched between his teeth in concentration. Hannibal found it quite endearing.

He returned the gesture with a soft grin growing on his face as he did so, deft fingers securing the flannel around Will's hand and making sure to brush his fingers across the boy’s skin whenever the possibility arose.

With their promise secure and one another committed to keeping it as such, the two retreated from the woods and went their own way as they ventured back into the city. Mischa met Hannibal at the front door when he arrived home, her lips pursed and eyebrows raised in suspicion.

“Where have you been?” Mischa asked Hannibal with crossed arms, not taking her peering eyes off of him as he hung his bag by the doorway.

“I walked a friend home,” Hannibal replied simply and with a weak shrug as he ventured into the kitchen. He didn't favor lying to his sister, though he knew it was far better than telling her the truth.

Mishca’s eyebrows furrowed further as she regarded her brother. “Why are you lying?” she prodded as she followed him through the threshold of the kitchen, her Mary Janes clicking amongst the tile floor.

“I’m not,” Hannibal replied plainly, lips pursed as he peered at his sister, who stood before him inquisitively.

“You are,” Mischa accused sternly. “I’ve had to walk home with Abigail nearly every day the last two weeks because you have always had something up after school,” she stated, arms still crossed at her front. “What is going on?” she asked, eyes on Hannibal as he grabbed a mug from the cupboard and filled their kettle up with water at the sink.

Mischa must have noticed his hand then as she strided over to grab at his arm. “What happened?” she asked, no concern in her voice, but more inquiry instead, taking place as she spoke and flipped over her brother's hand to get a better look at it.

“I forgot to switch my knife shut,” Hannibal lied easily as he fidgeted with the controls of the stove until a bright blue flame rose from the burner beneath the kettle. “I sliced my hand when I went to grab it.”

“You’re lying,” Mischa accused once more. “I’ll tell mom,” she stated with a warning tone.

Hannibal rolled his eyes weakly as he regarded his sister, looking down at her where she stood before him, arms crossed and posture stiff and stern. “Fine,” he sighed with faux relent. “My friends and I are trying the killer,” Hannibal said; it wasn’t entirely a lie, he supposed. “We meet after school,” he said with a shrug. “That is all, Mischa. I promise,” he told her, voice soft as he placed one hand upon each of her shoulders.

“Your hand?” Mischa asked warily, looking up at her brother with eyes now taken over with concern.

“I told you the truth,” Hannibal lied once more, his hands leaving his sister's shoulders to search through a drawer for his preferred tea. Mischa's eyes furrowed in suspicion then. “I did, truly. You can trust me, Mischa.”

His sister considered his words with pursed lips, eyes diverted to the side as she did so. “Fine,” Mischa replied with a singular quirk of her head after a few moments. “Just make sure you are safe,” she warned softly. “I don't want the killer to get you.”

Chapter Text

The body that laid before Hannibal was not that of his work. Though, under anyone else’s eyes but his own, it was recognized as the work of the Fresco Killer, his newly earned alias.

The lifeless body of a middle aged man slouched backwards, impaled by that of a post of the fence which sat beneath him, holding the dead weight of his limp body. Blood poured thick from the gash amongst his torso, painting the white wood of the fence a harsh crimson as it dribbled down his sides to coat the grass below like a violent, maroon morning dew. Blood dried in thick globs at the stump of the man’s headless neck which fell backwards, nearly grazing the grass beneath him. Across the man's torso scattered tens of stab wounds, dowsing his loose flannel in blood as it poured from the inflicted gashes.

The scene looked like that of one done in a fit of anger, of a boiling rage that was released in one fiery go. Hannibal wouldn't dare work as such. He would never act on meager rage. He would never act so disgustingly impulsive. To have this work named as his own was infuriating, though he could never utter the truth. He'd simply have to endure. Chafing in the shackles which had been fastened around his ankles, drawing blood as they grew tighter and tighter in constraint, piercing through his tender flesh.

The work was juvenile, horribly unplanned and disgustingly distasteful. It was a shame for his name to be sewn to this piece, this irrational, ugly, haphazard excuse for art with his name slapped on it like some sort of imposter that no one could see through.

Hanging beside his thigh, Hannibal's fists clenched tight, his fingernails digging into the soft flesh of his palms, nearly drawing blood as his fists shook from exertion, his knuckles growing white. The nearly healed wound that splayed across his palm ached but it was nothing compared to the fury of his anger. The weak dig of his nails did nothing to aid the burn.

The air smelled of drawn blood, rage and death; bitter and putrid. This was not his kill. The saltiness of this blood was not refreshing as it coated his lungs and washed over his tongue. This had not been his anger, though it was quickly transforming as so, burning its way down his throat and churning in his stomach.

A gruff voice pierced through the air then, boring through Hannibal's thick and hot anger that raged in the confines of his body. The man’s yell, that of an FBI agent ordering that the children must vacate the premises, shooed Hannibal and the others from the scene, leaving them to congregate within the small, dirt parking lot a few tens of yards away.

Freddie perched upon the wooden guardrail that framed the lot, hands splayed to each side as her feet sat planted sternly upon the dirt scuffing up a dusty cloud every once in a while as she spoke with enthusiasm. “So… the Fresco Killer strikes again,” she mused with a toothy grin, her red curls blowing slightly in the wind, framing her face like that of the rays of the sun. Hannibal wanted to strangle her. Wrap his hands around that pale neck until her eyes bulged out of their sockets and the cartilage and bone crunched beneath his grasp, slowly feeling as her breaths gave out and her body went limp in his hold. Smelling as death fell upon her.

Though he couldn't kill her now, that'd be far too obvious, and it too would rid the Fresco Killer of his biggest fan, the one person who could spread his name most efficiently. Hannibal would simply have to use Freddie to his greatest advantage while she lasted which he knew would grow far too long.

Beverly sighed from where she stood beside Will, her arms crossed at her front as she tapped one foot amongst the dirt floor, a small dust plume emerging from under her foot. “And we're never going to be allowed on scenes again,” she gruffed, her eyes rolling beneath the dark fringe of her bangs.

“I’ll make somethin’ work,” Freddie replied with a sigh. “I'll go alone next time. Snap some pictures,” she offered. “Tell ‘em it's for the school paper,” she shrugged. Freddie's confidence was growing sour in Hannibal's nose.

“Right,” Beverly huffed through a laugh, “”Cause that's gonna work.” She looked over at Will as she spoke, a disbelieving smile on her face though Will remained silent, simply an observer, a stance which he seemed to take often.

Freddie shrugged, lips pursed as she did so, unbothered. “We’ll see, I suppose,” was all she replied, settled amongst the guardrail still as she peered about her surroundings.

Beverly looked towards Hannibal for any input though he was far too occupied mulling over this new killer and filing away his rage for a later time to give Beverly anything of use. “I suppose we’ll see,” was all he said, his words accompanied by a small, humorous raise of his eyebrows.

What seemed to be the lead agent of the bureau, a broad, husky man, approached them then where they stood amongst the parking lot. The man walked with a confidence that irked Hannibal, his shoulders held stout as his hands sat folded in the confines of his pants pockets as he neared on them. “Graham?” the man asked, his voice terse and brows furrowed behind the rim of his hat that sat low on his head.

Will’s scent became fiery and bitter as he regarded the agent, a tinge of saltiness from the beginnings of sweat was present as it began to bloom amongst his temples. “Yes?” Will replied, confusion in his tone as his mind churned, determining whether he would need to act in defense or not, a decision it seemed he often found himself mulling over.

A smile grew on the man's face, nearing on Will to nudge at the boy's shoulder with enough strength to leave Will stumbling but with enough care that he didn't send Will falling to the ground entirely. Will seemed to calm at the gesture, his scent sweetening ever so slightly.

“I knew that was you, boy,” the agent smiled as he slapped his hand amongst Will's shoulder once more, leaving to rest it there this time, jolting the boy around to get a better look at him as he peered past the rim of his fedora with an intentful gaze. “You look like the spittin’ image of your father when he was ‘bout your age.” The man released Will's shoulder then, his hand slipping back into his pants pocket though the grin remained in his face.

“How's he doin’ these days?” the agent, Jack Crawford, Hannibal learned after a quick glance at the FBI badge that laid clipped to the lapel of his overcoat, asked then. “Haven’t heard from him in years.” Jack was burly and smelled of cigars and reeked of citrusy confidence. His voice was deep and sure and he exuded a trustworthy professionalism that Hannibal didn't quite have faith in.

"He's doin’ fine, sir,” Will replied, the sourness of a lie could be smelled as the words left his tongue.

Jack nodded, noticing the lie in Will's words but accepting it all the same. “That’s good,” the agent responded through a falsified grin. “Now, what’re you kids doin’ ‘round here?” he asked, regarding them all now with newly furrowed brows. “This ain’t exactly a scene that youngins like y’all should be seein’.”

Freddie took a step forwards then, arms folded sternly at her front. “It's for the school paper, sir,” she said, gaining Jack's attention as she spoke, her tone just as sure as his own. “We're tryna warn everyone, show them how bad it really is. We don't want no one gettin’ hurt is all.”

The agent peered at Freddie as he took a step towards the girl. “I don't think this is exactly the best way to get your word across, young lady,” Jack replied, arms crossed at his middle, unconsciously mirroring Freddie.

Freddie shrugged, lips pursed as she mulled over Jack’s response. “Seein’ it face to face is far different than just knowin’ about it,” she offered. “Thought we should know what we're up against before we start warnin’ others,” Freddie shrugged once more, taking another step closer to Jack as she spoke, arms still held sternly at her waist. "I'm thinkin’ next time I'll snap some pictures. Let everyone see what's really goin’ on rather than simply what the news wants us to think.”

“Is that so?” Jack questioned, his brows furrowed in what smelled like suspicion.

Nodding once more, Freddie regarded the man with an innocent smile. “We just want to protect everyone, sir. Truly.” Her lies melted off her tongue easily, settling upon Hannibal’s nose with the blankness of truth. He was quite impressed with the girl.

Jack mulled over the situation with pursed lips, his hands returning to their place in his pockets as he did so. “Alright,” he said with a curt nod. “But only one of ya’s is allowed on the scene and only after we've processed everythin’,” Jack ordered. “An’ if I say no, the answer is no, got it?” he asked, eyebrows raised in inquiry.

Freddie nodded with a grin spread upon her lips. “Got it, sir,” she replied. “Thank you, truly.”

“An’ no touchin’ nothing,” Jack added sternly, eyes wide as he regarded Freddie, chin tilted towards the ground though his gaze remained on the girl stood stonily before him. “You take your pictures and be on your way, understood?”

Freddie flashed the agent a toothy smile. “Of course, sir,” she nodded once more, her grin bright on her face and stature stern as if she were subtly sizing up the agent before her, all the while keeping up her innocent facade.

The agent took in a brisk breath through his nose, regarding Freddie briefly. “Alright,” Jack agreed, giving Freddie a tight lipped smile before his gaze diverted towards Will. “Well, it was nice seein’ you, kid,” he told Will as a brief smile flashed across his face. “Say hello to your old man for me, will you?”

“Of course, sir,” Will replied, unconsciously mirroring Freddie's demeanor as he spoke to Jack, picking at the fraying hem of his flannel’s shirt sleeve as he did so. The bitterness of a lie could be smelled on the boy once more, Hannibal assumed Jack realized it as well, both he and Will putting on some sort of act.

Jack gave an approving nod, eyeing Hannibal and Beverly who had remained silent momentarily before he walked away back towards the crime scene.

“See?” Freddie grinned with a toss of her hair as she turned on her heel to face back towards the group. “Told you it'd work.”

Will’s steps were sure ahead of Hannibal as he led him through the forest, on his own account for once. It was a peculiar feeling, being known as he followed the boy, being consciously guided, not needing to be careful with his steps or time his breathing. His presence was invited, not something to be hidden.

Something was different about Will. Not off, but the boy seemed unsure and mildly suspicious, though Hannibal couldn't discern what brought about such feelings in him.

For some odd reason, Hannibal was quite content simply basking in one another's presence. Will would likely remain silent for the entirety of their trek and stay as such even when they arrived at their destination. Maybe he'd make a few comments about Jack or ask about the new kill if Hannibal was lucky, but he knew that Will likely wouldn't share much, and he found himself curiously fulfilled by the simplicity of that.

Their feet crunched upon the dead leaves and dried grass as they took twinning steps along the trail, the frail limbs of trees dancing around them and above, swaying in the wind that blew their leaves from their hold and left them to tumble to ground tiredly.

Perching upon his typical rock with its mossy surface and broad stature, Will opened his coat for a moment, digging his hand into the inner pocket to retrieve a box of cigarettes before folding it shut around his chest once more. His hand sunk into his pants pocket then, surfacing after a few moments of rummaging with a lighter held between his fingers. Hannibal watched as Will plucked a cigarette from the box with careful fingers, raising his hand to his mouth to hold the stick between his lips. A flame rose from the lighter then with a few sparky clicks, the end of the cigarette glowing in a weak flame as the boy pulled in brief puffs from his lips.

As a plume of smoke fell from Will’s mouth the hot scent filled Hannibal’s lungs. He often found himself hating the odor, though mixed with Will’s salty musk and woody spice, it wasn't quite so distasteful. It sat well upon the boy's skin, sewed itself into the material of his clothing and within each strand of hair. It melded to him and in Hannibal's mind, it was all simply Will.

“I don't believe that today’s scene was our killer’s work,” Will shared, his voice quiet as it often was, the cigarette sat pinched between two fingers that rested upon his knee and smoke slowly weaving from his lips as he spoke.

“No?” Hannibal replied, his intrigue in the boy growing painfully. He kept his hands clasped behind his back as to refrain from reaching out at Will, either to sink his fangs into the boy's flesh or wrap his fingers around the first limb he could reach and peel the skin from his body beginning there. Not to kill, but just to get a taste, a lick of what was inside the boy, to satiate the raging hunger that coiled in his stomach, even just a little bit.

Will shook his head, eyes regarding the ground beneath his feet as he took in another pull from the cigarette. “This kill was done out of anger. It was… impulsive,” he said, biting at his bottom lip. “It was done without a second thought besides hatred… Fresco kills out of hatred too, of course. But his kills are calm, calculated. His work is planned and well thought out. It has meaning. Every little action has intent. Symbolism. Everything is on purpose,” he stated, his brows furrowing more and more with each word as the cigarette grew to ash between his fingers. “This is… juvenile compared to Fresco. They killed to kill and that's it… Fresco’s kills are more than that. His work is art… Death meaning more than just… an ending.” Will shrugged, tapping off the stick before taking in one more pull and stubbing it out on the rock that he sat upon.

Hannibal wanted to grab Will’s face then, hold it between his hands so fiercely that he drew blood by simply looking. Pry open his jaw and climb right in, face first. He'd draw his hands amongst the surface of his confines, smooth over every crevice and find a way to fit himself into place. He'd strangle himself with the boy's veins and nerves, drown himself in his blood and feed off of his every organ, lapping at his pulsing heart as if it were the one thing that kept him alive. Hannibal wanted every single part of him, to feel it in his mouth, to draw his tongue over, to grind between his teeth, to swallow down his throat and hold deep in his stomach. To hold so tightly in his hands that it burst between his fingers just to stitch it all up again with those same, bloodied fists.

“I find it quite fascinating how deeply you are able to see these killers, Will,” was all Hannibal said in reply. “So much so that you are able to discern the two when no one else can, or even thinks to do so.”

Will shrugged, plucking at the fraying threads of his shirt sleeve. “I think it's pretty obvious,” he told Hannibal. “Fresco is far more skilled and artful while this kill is… nothing more than murder,” Will said, lips pursed as he plucked another cigarette from the box.

“I’m glad you think so, Will,” Hannibal said, watching the boy as he lit the cigarette that sat perched between his lips. “I found it incredibly frustrating when this kill was immediately attached to our killer when it is so blatantly the work of another.”

Shrugging once more, Will let a plume of smoke escape his lips. “Shall we tell Lounds?” Will teased with a grin, the cigarette held between his tightly knit lips. “Or shall we see if she can figure it out on her own?”

Hannibal returned the boy's smile, lips unfurling to reveal his teeth ever so slightly. “That would be awfully rude, would it not, Will?” he asked with faux disdain. “Withholding such information,”

Will’s smile grew, his gaze diverting as he took in another pull from the cigarette, his lips plump as they pursed, his cheeks drawing in ever so slightly as he did so. Will simply shrugged in reply, his smile remaining on his lips as he peered down at the ground, the heel of his boot scuffing up a rock that sat tucked beneath the dirt.

“She’ll find out on her own eventually,” Will said after a few moments. “Let’s let her think it's her own profound revelation… It's the least we could do.”

Hannibal let a laugh fall from his lips. “I suppose so,” he agreed with a brief shrug and a smile pulling tight at his lips as his eyes gazed upon Will's face.

As Hannibal arrived home, stepping his way through the threshold of the front door, he could smell that Mischa had company over. He could tell their company was that of the girl whom Mischa often walked home with, Abigail. A young girl the same age as Mischa who lived not far from them, simply a few houses down.

The air smelled of the typical aroma Mishca would come home smelling of, lavender and honey with the muskiness of deer pelts. Though today, blood could be scented in the air, acrid and dry.

Hannibal hurried his step ever so slightly as he neared on the small living room in which the two settled within, both perched on the couch as they went over their many sheets of homework that sat laid upon a folding table that Mischa had pulled out from the hall closet. There was no pain to be scented in the air, however, as both girls focused on their algebra work sheets, Mischa with a fist holding up her head, her bottom lip pinched between her teeth and Abigail with fidgeting fingers settled upon the table, avoiding eye contact with either sibling as her eyes peered over the papers.

Abigail had dark hair, pin straight and glossy where it fell over her shoulders and framed her pale face. Her eyes were this bright, oceanic blue not dissimilar to Will’s, so vivid yet akin to a bottomless, black hole all the same, drawing in their surroundings that no longer held counsel over their own. Freckles splattered over the girl's face like a flicker of a paintbrush, dowsed over her nose and the highest peaks of her cheekbones.

Behind the sweetness of florals and musk of animal hide, blood could too be scented on Abigail, pungent and bitter. However, the blood wasn't that of a child’s as it was scented upon the girl, and with a better look, a quick glance at Abigail’s fidgeting hands upon the wooden table, he spotted it, the dried blood that hid beneath her finger nails.

The girl was not a threat, he could tell. Abigail did not wish harm upon he nor Mishca, despite the blood that was undoubtedly weaved within her fingerprints as she scribbled down answers upon her paper with Mischa's pencil. Abigail was a shy girl, Mischa had told him. She kept a distance from those around her and didn't talk all that much, and even when she did it seemed that there was never much for her to say. But this girl was a killer. She was his copycat.

Abigail reminded him far too much of Will. Beyond the twinning eyes and dark hair that framed their pale, freckled faces. The girl smelled of worry as Will typically did, and there too was an unsettled and self-conscious bitterness to Abigail as what often settled upon Will's skin. Her brows were furrowed timidly, lip sat pinched between her teeth as her eyes remained devoid of any human focus. She was terrified of the possibility of being caught, though there too was the lack of desire to stop, and instead, there sulked the hope to continue her endeavors.

Hannibal found himself proud of the girl, of a child of her size and stature to over power a man as she did. The fury of anger that was held within her small body. Abigail's kill was juvenile, yes, but she was a child after all and he must know why she did it.

Chapter Text

The first semester of school was soon to come to a close and Hannibal had managed to accumulate three kills under his belt. The Fresco Killer was now defined a serial killer by the FBI and spoken about at a near consistent rate on every news outlet. Though, to his dismay, his copycat was still killing. Two more kills occurred prior to her last.

Hannibal hadn't gotten much about Abigail through his sister and even less from the girl herself, though from a surface level inspection of her kills, Hannibal found himself coming to a few conclusions. The girl had some pent-up anger, obviously, but the subject of such rage was becoming much clearer now. Every one of Abigail's victims were that of a middle-aged man, Caucasian and around five foot seven in height, give or take an inch or so. It seemed she had a true target that she couldn’t possibly touch and so she went for the closest thing she could get her hands on instead. Her father, most likely.

He too concluded that Abigail was not eating her prey. Two were left lacking a brain, but that was on account of their heads that had gone astray. She wasn't eating the organs, the heads were gone so as to make it far easier to pretend her prey was that of her father as she bloodied their bodies and felt their pulses slow beneath her hand. Her one victim whose head had not been misplaced was instead mutilated beyond recognition across his face. The brain was not what mattered to Abigail. It was the brutality that she sent upon the faceless figures in which he replaced with her father's own.

Hannibal thought of his own father, the man’s flesh as it ground between his teeth, caught between every little space and gap, the taste flowing over his tongue. He'd licked his lips, licked his plate clean, the palms of his hands and fingers, the juices and blood that'd drawn down his forearms as he ate hungrily and sucked at the meat that sat wedged between his every tooth. He filled the pit of his stomach, the sunken, looming hole at his center until his body no longer wept as if it were hollow the same way he’d cried for his mother.

Winter was encroaching and so the topic of his father was becoming all-consuming as of late. That bitterness of burnt flesh was fresh on his tongue and too was the warm saltiness of another human's blood as it filled his mouth and swept down his throat. That winter had been fatally cold and the warmth of that meal had been the first glistening of heat he'd felt in what could have conceivably been years, though truthfully, it had only been mere months.

With the first semester coming to an end, Hannibal had quickly learned that called for a celebration. Freddie had told him over lunch, which now took place inside the cafeteria as it was growing colder outside, that she held an end of semester party twice every school year. It didn't seem much of a subject that was deemed for celebration in Hannibal's eyes, though she mentioned that Will would be attending as he did every time and so he couldn't dare pass up the opportunity.

The cold hadn't gotten the chance to creep up on them entirely yet, however, the air that was growing on frigid still called for a fire. Will hauled wood from a pile that sat alongside the beginnings of a forest amongst the girl’s yard, one in which Freddie had said her father dutifully chopped just for this occasion.

Will plucked a box of matches from his pocket then, striking the stick against the strip until a flame rose between his fingers and promptly chucked it into the gathered logs that Matthew had doused with lighter fluid prior. The flames climbed with vigor, inching up the stacked logs with reverence before it rose far above the wood’s height, flaring an orange heat and hue across everyone's faces as they settled around the fire, perched upon folding lawn chairs and tree stumps.

Hannibal kept his eyes on Matthew as the boy stood around Will, far too close for Hannibal's pleasure. The boy looked at Will with a hunger in his eyes that Hannibal loathed too, a hunger similar to his own yet not nearly as desperate and raging, licking at his innards and rustling its way up his throat, though he yielded it from escaping.

Matthew lacked that sort of composure and it was awfully distasteful. He let it slip right out and off his tongue, taking hand in the way his eyes swept over Will's face and body when the boy wasn't looking. Self-control was honorable in Hannibal’s eyes and Matthew was amiss in that asset. That simply wasn't acceptable.

Will took a seat next to Hannibal then, slouching back into a chair beside him. Matthew’s eyes remained on the boy as he did so, seemingly watching his every move. As a meek greeting, Will gave Hannibal a tight lipped smile, the boy's eyes settling on his own for a split second before diverting. His fingers flexed and unflexed around the arms of the chair, seemingly restless before he let go entirely and focused his attention on the cooler that sat on the grass beside his chair instead.

The boy’s distaste for eye-contact was quite endearing. Not only was it a loathing for the intimacy that it involved, a closeness and connection, but too what Will saw when he looked. Hannibal's inner thoughts that Will deemed untasty, though something that pulled him in all the same. He avoided Hannibal’s eyes because he might just not be able to look away if he lingered for too long. If only he could force him to look.

A bottle was handed to Hannibal, moist in his hands from condensation and his fingers brushed over Will’s as the boy passed it to him despite the touch being entirely unnecessary. Will's skin was cold where it swiped against Hannibal's, sending a brief shiver through his fingers as he let the touch linger before Will released his grasp around the bottle and the flare dissipated.

Hannibal eyed the bottle in his hands, wary of the taste of its contents. It was likely a cheap beer, purchased at the local liquor store just a few blocks down the road. Likely poorly and improperly fermented and thoroughly oxidized, leaving the beer to taste awfully stale. Though, he'd drink it regardless and suffer through the bitter dryness that it left in his mouth.

“You don't drink?” Will asked, eyebrows furrowed to leave him looking needlessly worried.

Hannibal shook his head, a small smile pulling at his lips at Will’s attentiveness. “I do. Just typically not beverages in which flavor profiles include that of urine.”

Will rolled his eyes as a weak laugh escaped from his lips. “It's not that bad,” he defended unconvincingly, grabbing the bottle from Hannibal's grasp as he did so before promptly snapping the cap off with his teeth which Hannibal couldn't take his eyes off of then. He imagined Will's teeth piercing through flesh, his fang-like canines drawing blood as they punctured through tender tissue and skin. Ripping out one's throat with nothing more than his teeth, blood dripping from his overflowing mouth.

The cold, glossy touch of the bottle against his hand left Hannibal's mind flickering back to reality and accepting the beer from Will's giving hands. He gave the boy a tight-lipped smile in thanks before braving a sip of the liquid. It was awfully bitter as he'd anticipated, though dreadfully watered down as well which at least helped lessen the acidity ever so slightly. His face had still contorted in accordance to the awful taste and he heard Will let out a weak laugh beside him.

“It is not quite as vile as I'd expected,” Hannibal admitted, licking the taste from his teeth as he regarded Will who gazed at him with a warm smile. “Though it is still awfully dreadful. I do not understand why you would willingly drink this.”

Will shrugged as he grabbed a bottle of his own, opening it with his teeth once more which alighted Hannibal's imagination all over again. “It gets you drunk for cheap,” Will replied, shrugging once more. “That's about all I'm lookin’ for.” He took a few long sips from the bottle then and Hannibal watched his throat bob with each swallow.

Beverly took a seat upon Will's lap a few moments later, giggling as she stumbled towards the two of them before plopping herself down gracelessly. Hannibal suffered through another gulp of beer as he watched Beverly pluck the cigarette from her lips just to tuck it between Will's own, the boy accepting it with a long drag that hollowed his cheeks.

“I’m glad you came,” Beverly beamed, her words slurred ever so slightly as her hand nudged at Hannibal's knee in greeting. “I didn't think you would,” she giggled as she and Will shared a look. Hannibal often felt as if he knew everything about Will, yet when he and Beverly peered at each other in this way, he felt entirely left out and so incredibly far away from the boy. He took another long draw from the bottle as he watched the smoke dribble from Will’s flared nostrils.

Hannibal gave Beverly a tight lipped smile as she leaned further into Will, lying one arm across his shoulders boredly. “Freddie insisted,” he replied simply with a weak shrug, taking another mouth-drying sip of beer in hopes to dull his desire to strangle the girl before him.

Beverly laughed out loud at that, her face lighting up entirely as she shared another knowing look with Will. “Of course she did.” The girl grinned as she plucked the cigarette back from Will's lips to place it between her own. “I think she's got a bit of a crush on you,” the girl whispered through giggles as smoke bellowed from her mouth.

“Oh, dear,” Hannibal replied, sucking a breath between his teeth as his eyes diverted to the fire before them, a pitiful grin growing on his lips before he downed the rest of his godawful beer. Freddie Lounds having some hopeless obsession with him was the last thing he needed.

“I don't think that's exactly the case, Bev,” Will said as he retrieved Hanibal another bottle from the cooler beside his feet.

Beverly rolled her eyes, taking one more drag from the cigarette before placing it back between Will's lips after the boy had opened the bottle once more with his teeth. Hannibal watched the action all so intently as he had the last two times the boy had done so. “She finds you intriguing,” Will corrected, his voice muffled by the cigarette that sat perched between his lips as he passed Hannibal the bottle who accepted it gratefully.

“Is that so?” Hannibal asked, taking a generous gulp as his brows quirked with question.

Will shrugged, placing the cigarette between his pointer and index finger to remove it from his lips after taking in one last drag, killing it off on the armrest of his chair. “You two have the same interests,” Will presumed. “The killer an’ whatever.” He shrugged, downing the rest of his beer. “You’re the only one that really listens to her.” And god, if that couldn't be more wrong.

Hannibal had only really talked to Freddie in hopes to get some information about Will in return, things the boy had yet to feel comfortable sharing with him. It was entirely impersonal and yet Freddie had taken it entirely personally. He supposed he’d give it its run while she lasted. He wouldn't have to keep it up for too much longer considering his lasting desire to end the girl.

“Yeah, she's like totally a weirdo,” Beverly slurred, grabbing Will's bottle from his hands as she spoke before taking a long drink from it. “And you kinda gave her the benefit of the doubt or whatever.” Will rolled his eyes as he smiled up at his drunk friend, promptly plucking the bottle from her hands as he presumed she'd had more than enough.

“I suppose I did,” Hannibal lied, lips pressing against the mouth of the bottle with every word before taking a large sip. The taste seemed to dull the more he drank.

Matthew approached them then, a calm grin on his face as he regarded Will, holding out a joint pinched between two fingers in offering. Hannibal peered at Matthew as Will happily accepted his offer, finding that the alcohol did little to dull his hatred for the man. His eyes diverted to Will then, eyeing the purse of his lips around the joint and the slight hollowing of his cheeks as he took in a deep drag, disregarding Beverly who remained perched upon his lap for the time being.

Hannibal looked up then, detaching his eyes from Will's face for a moment when his eyes caught those of Beverly’s who'd been staring at him with knowing eyes and a smirk. He gave her a small tight lipped grin before looking away once more, heat growing across his cheeks from the act of being caught and hoping she had far too many drinks in her system to remember. He couldn't recall when he had become so obvious. He took one last sip from his beer and held the bottle in his hands, nearly tight enough to break the glass, his hands shaking in exertion.

“What's up, man?” Matthew greeted as he retrieved the joint back from Will’s fingers and it took a few moments for Hannibal to register that the man had been talking to him.

He looked up at Matthew with peering eyes, noticing that the joint was now being offered in his direction. Hannibal eyed those around him before replying with a simple “I’m good,” and accepted the man's offer. Matthew looked at him eagerly as he took a pull, likely assuming that someone as posh and stuck up as Hannibal had never partook in the usage of Marijuana.

That assumption wouldn't be horribly wrong though it wasn't entirely true either. His father had smoked and occasionally, when he and Chiyoh were feeling rather rebellious, the two would pilfer from his stash that had been left in his bedside table. Though, it wasn't exactly a common occurrence.

The smoke washed over his tongue, earthy with a hint of spice that clung to his teeth. It wasn't of the best quality, he could tell. His father’s had been much better, however it just might do for the night. He tried to search for the taste of Will in the drag, though, to Hannibal's dismay, all it really tasted of was beer and burning, bitter leaves and paper.

Hannibal took one more drag before returning the joint to Matthew, a brief fog washing over his mind before settling out. Beverly snatched it from the man's fingers then, foregoing a proper offering as she tucked it between her lips with a smile.

“You’re lookin’ for that killer with Freddie, right?” Matthew asked him, rolling his eyes as he peered down at Beverly who took full advantage of the stolen joint in her mouth. Hannibal replied with a simple nod, watching as Beverly then placed the joint between Will's lips, a grin on her face as she regarded the boy, her gaze diverting momentarily to smirk at Hannibal.

“How’s that goin’?” Matthew questioned, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

Hannibal shrugged as he relaxed backwards into his seat, one leg folding over the other as he eyed the man standing before him. “About as good as it can,” he replied easily. “I don't think we will ever find the killer, though I find it interesting observing his work.”

Matthew nodded, a smile growing on his lips as his eyes swept over Will's face. “His work is quite beautiful,” he agreed, his eyes not leaving Will for a moment as he spoke, as if he wanted the boy to acknowledge his staring. Hannibal wanted to rip out the man's heart, stomp on it until it mixed with the dirt beneath his foot and let it go entirely to waste.

“Murder is beautiful?” Beverly piped in, her words nearly jumbling into one and eyes watching eagerly as Matthew reached over her, plucking the joint from Will's lips and placing it between his own.

“It can be.” Matthew shrugged boredly, his eyes not landing on Beverly for more than a few seconds before returning back to Will’s face. “Will you walk with me, Will?” he asked then, somewhat abruptly. “I have something I’d like to ask you.”

Will eyed both Hannibal and Beverly, the latter shrugging subtly before standing up from his lap to allow Will to stand himself, the boy giving Matthew a brief nod before following him off towards the woods.

Beverly sat back down in Will's chair, legs tucked beneath her as she regarded Hannibal intently. “You should follow them,” she whispered, as if there were an audience surrounding them that she wished to keep her words hidden from. “Make sure they're not up to no good,” she giggled.

Hannibal agreed with the girl, standing up from his seat and giving Beverly a weak smile before retreating in the same direction the two had just moments ago, leaves and twigs crunching under his feet.

A fog rolled over his head once again as he trekked, though this time it didn't exactly seem to fade. His legs moved far too easily beneath him and his steps weren't nearly as quiet as he desired them to be, though the nearby blasting music helped conceal his noisy stride.

He caught a glimpse of the two through the scattering of trees, the flame of the lasting joint flickering amongst their faces in the dark as their muffled voices became more coherent. Hannibal took a few more steps, making sure his pace was especially quiet now as he neared on them, though not close enough to be caught, which took quite more focus than typical considering his inebriated mind.

A rumble of laughter came from the bonfire, giving Hannibal the advantage to take a few more steps closer to the two while his steps remained inconspicuous. He could hear their voices far more clearly now and he listened intently.

“You’re the killer, aren't you, Will?” Matthew drawled, a crazed smile growing on his face as he regarded Will, taking a few steps closer to the boy. “I saw the way you tensed up when we were talkin’ about it.”

Will shook his head and laughed in disbelief. “Why the fuck would I be the killer?” he huffed, taking a step back as he did so, his brows beginning to furrow as he peered at the man stood before him.

“It's okay, Will,” Matthew said, his voice soft as he closed in on Will once more, a hand reaching out to graze his cheek. “You can trust me,” he assured, his tone growing soft as his hand swept over Will's jaw. “People like us, we need to stick together… We understand each other, Will.”

His hand on Will’s skin made Hannibal want to pounce though he refrained, albeit reluctantly. Instead, he dug his fingernails deep into the plush tissue of his palms, the ache leaving him biting at his bottom lip and fists shaking at his sides.

“I don't know what you're talkin’ about,” Will stated, his voice stern and head shaking erratically as he took a step back, leaving Matthew’s hand to fall from where it had been smoothing over Will’s temple. Hannial’s fists released from where they'd been vibrating, his nails retreating from the pits they'd drawn in his flesh.

“We’re hawks, Will.” Matthew smiled, not returning the space between Will and himself this time, but instead gazed at the boy intently. “We're predators,” he stated. “Our nature is to hunt… Sure, we're solitary creatures, but we could work together – Imagine how powerful we’d be.” Matthew smiled maniacally as he spoke, inching closer and closer towards Will, leaving the boy to take another step backwards. A partnership Matthew had proposed. With Will.

Will shook his head once more, raising his hands in defense. “I’m not a killer, Matthew,” he replied, his voice growing breathy enough for Hannibal to notice, even from afar.

“It's okay, Will,” Matthew assured with a grin, his hands lifting just to be placed atop Will's shoulders. “You tell me when you're ready. I'll wait.”

Hannibal's rage filled him at a nearly numbing pace, tasting nothing but blood in his mouth as it poured from his bottom lip. His teeth must have unknowing pierced through the flesh as he had held hack from strangling Matthew right then and there. He could nearly picture the man's death in his head. He'd draw it out, slow and painful, making sure Matthew knew exactly why he was being killed. He'd harvest his organs and feed on his flesh until he was satiated. He'd wait, though he didn't know how much longer he'd be able to hold himself back.

Chapter Text

Hannibal’s body ached all over, a pulsing, plummeting reminder of last night's hunt. He'd known the man was likely to fight back when he struck, though he hadn't anticipated just how badly Matthew had wanted to live.

The man had kicked and punched and clawed and bit. Matthew’s nails left their touch on the surface of Hannibal's body. Red and scabbed over scores laced Hannibal's neck and back, one stroke adorning his left cheek and jaw. One rather impressive strike sliced the bridge of Hannibal's nose from his brute force, one more left a good sized gash across his forehead and another bruised a few ribs at his right side, a deep purple splotch splaying over his torso that ached with every little movement he made.

He limped down the stairs that morning, pain gnawing at both his legs. One stabbed in the upper thigh with that of a pocket knife and the other brutally kicked a number of times as his hands had been wrapped around Matthew's neck. Hannibal's fingers grasped around the railing, his knuckles paling as he slowly crept down to the first floor.

His hands still smelled of blood, crimson likely wedged beneath his finger nails and stuck to the backs of his teeth that he swept over with his tongue, getting another taste of last night's brawl. His teeth in Matthew’s neck. The man’s cries in his ears, ringing and reverberating. The reminiscing sent a thrill down his spine despite the pain he was in, a warmth that made every ache and throb worth it.

Hannibal wandered into the kitchen, his stomach rumbling and throat sore and in dire need of some hot tea to soothe his aches, like he had in the cold snow the night before. Sinking his swollen and bloodied fists into its icy embrace. The throbbing in his extremities had fallen frozen for a few meager moments as he sighed and dirtied the pure snow with the crimson that poured from his broken skin, his breaths coming from his lips as plumes of fog.

His footsteps were soft as he padded across the tile floor, though apparently not as quiet as he'd hoped as the scrape of chairlegs against the wooden floor alerted Hannibal of his mothers presence in the next room over. He hadn't been gifted even a moment to disappear before she was striding into the kitchen, arms crossed at her torso and face stern.

Her eyes widened promptly as they grazed over her son's battered figure, her feet shuffling closer as she did so until her warm hands framed Hannibal's face, her touch soft and soothing over his bruised cheekbones. “Oh, mon chéri,” His mother muttered softly with a tut of her tongue.

Hannibal rolled his eyes at the coddling, attempting to pull his face away from her grasp though her fingers tightened around his jaw and forced him to face her directly. The pads of her fingers against his bruised and torn skin ached and made his mother’s stare all the more demanding. “What did you do, mon amour?” she ordered, Hannibal's chin pinched tightly between her fingers and her voice stern and commanding as her eyes peered into his.

He bit at his bottom lip before responding, his gaze momentarily diverting from his mother’s fiery eye stare. “It was just a fight, mama. It looks far worse than it is, truly,” Hannibal assured, returning his eyes to his mother’s, softening his face to further persuade his lie.

“Ah,” His mother replied with a tut of her tongue as her fingers settled from their grip amongst Hannibal's chin. “Just a fight.” Her eyes rolled ever so slightly before she peered at her son, her arms crossed as she took a severe stance before him. “You need to clean up your act, mon fils,” she warned. “Your tėvas would not be proud.”

The mention of his father left Hannibal faltering. The freshly fallen snow and the blood on his breath had done more than enough to remind him already. The taste flooded his mouth once more, burnt and bitter, though there too was a savory tang that he’d gladly allow the chance to linger, a flavor that had left him wanting more.

Though, beyond just the taste, despite how delectable, there was the pain that came alongside the memory. The empty pit of his stomach as it ate him alive. His infantile cries for his mother as he shivered and swaddled himself with his own unpacifying arms that he wished were hers.

Hannibal had felt like his father last night. Fierce and powerful. Fighting tooth and nail. For once, he felt himself disagreeing with his mother. His father would have been quite proud.

He saw his fathers face for a split second as Hannibal looked back towards his mother. His father smiled, that toothy grin that he so rarely showed, the same smile that Hannibal had grown to acquire himself. Though, his face disappeared as quickly as it seemed to present and Hannibal was soon met with the scornful eyes of his mother once more.

His mother sighed, her eyes sinking into something softer as she did so before she lifted her hand to swipe at the hair that fell before his forehead. Hannibal flinched away at the touch, her fingertips sweeping over one particularly deep gash upon his face.

“Did you clean these up?” She asked, her tone far calmer now as she grasped at his chin, turning Hannibal's head every which way to take in his injuries. Hannibal nodded, thinking of the piles of bloodied gauze amongst his bathroom vanity and the sting of antiseptic in his nostrils and raw, split skin. “Enfin, let me take one more look.”

Each burning swipe of gauze was a testament of Matthew’s unsuspected power. Hannibal wished he'd walked into the hunt all the more expectant, though he'd failed to see the boy as anything more than an obstacle that was getting in his way when it came to Will.

Hannibal had followed Matthew home a few days after the party. He had felt restless for once, eager to simply get it over with despite the risks that came with. He acted on impulse, which he never did. Impulsivity was something he often found himself to frown upon. Yet, it too seemed that it was something Will was beginning to bring upon him. And so, he followed Matthew without much thought put into his plan, the hunt had simply become something he couldn't shake off and decided that he would just do it. He couldn't wait any longer.

He walked excitedly, a thrum of anticipation warming his extremities and pulling a smile on his face, though Hannibal kept his stride apt, quiet and careful as to remain inconspicuous to his subject. Matthew trekked unwarily, careless and calm as he made his way through the poorly shoveled sidewalks and snowy side roads. Hannibal kept close, though nearly not close enough to be seen.

His boots crunched softly in the snow, small flakes clinging to the leather before they melted and streamed down to the slushy floor. It would have been hard to keep his steps quiet if it weren't for his practice, though his weeks in the snow-ridden forest had been more than enough, walking toe-to-heel as he fled from the others that he feared had been out there.

Hannibal had begun to grown restless once more, the journey to Matthew's home taking far too long. Though, the two had made their way into a particularly empty stretch of fields which Hannibal deemed as good enough. And so, he grabbed the knife from his pocket and released the blade with a click as it met the frigid air.

He’d approached Matthew slowly, knife held at his hip, steps remaining quiet and steady. Hannibal lifted his fist, fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of the knife and readied to jab the blade into the back of the man’s head when Matthew pivoted quickly. He faced Hannibal then, though before Hannibal got the chance to register his failure, a punch was planted firmly into Hannibal's nose, leaving him to take a few stuttering steps backwards so as to not fall into the snowy grass beneath.

Warmth began to coat Hannibal's face then, blood seeping through his parted lips as they let out small puffs into the chilled air and the bitterness washed over his tongue. Hannibal's fist lifted once more, the blade aiming for Matthew’s temple, though the man dodged the swipe, the knife simply sinking into his cheek, painful, though not nearly fatal enough for Hannibal’s liking.

Matthew had let out a weak cry before a knee was sent bashing into Hannibal's ribs, sending the air from his lungs to jostle out from his throat in a ragged gasp. His feet lost their balance from the force, though Hannibal took his inevitable fall to his advantage and grabbed at Matthew’s shoulders, taking the man down with him.

The two had fallen to the ground with the crunch of snow beneath them and startled coughs leaving their mouths that plumed like smoke in the cold air. “You?” Matthew asked, his fingers wrapped around the handle that stuck out from his bloody cheek, pulling it from his flesh with one firm throw and a wince that he hid behind a clenched jaw. Blood splattered across Hannibal's face from their close proximity, his eyes glued on the knife in Matthew's hand as the man's blood swept down Hannibal's lips. He swiped at the small droplets with his tongue, eyes on Matthew’s as she did so before the handle of the knife was promptly plummeted into Hannibal's forehead, lashing the smile from his lips.

Hannibal grabbed at Matthew’s wrist as the man went for another throw, weaving his fingers between Mattehew’s palm and the handle of the knife, both their hands shaking from exertion as they fought over control of the blade. Using the distraction, Hannibal lifted his other hand and wrapped his fingers sternly around Matthews throat, shoving his thumb deep and powerfully until he met the man’s vocal cords.

Matthew coughed above him, his grip around the knife loosening until it fell to the ground though his free hand grabbed at Hannibal's face as Matthew straddled him, his nails digging into the flesh just beneath Hannibal's left eye. Hannibal's fingers dug through the snow, searching for the knife as they began to lose feeling from the cold, his skin tingling though warm from the fallen blood and anticipation.

“You don't have to,” Matthew had gasped, his lips becoming a pale blue. “I’m one of you,” he choked, his nails piercing the skin of Hannibal's hands that clung around his throat. “We need to stick together.”

Fingers curling around the knife, Matthew had clutched at Hannibal's wrist then, keeping him from lifting the knife any further. Hannibal released his hold from Matthew's throat for a moment, throwing his fist into the man's face until he was thrown to the ground beside him. Hannibal secured his grip around the knife then as he threw a leg over Matthew’s torso so he was now the one straddling the man.

His fingers had adjusted around the handle, positioning his hand to aim the blade just before Matthew’s forehead, though as he began his strike, the man's hands wrapped around the knife, the blade slicing through the flesh of his palms and fingers as he pivoted the blade, thrashing it into Hannibal's upper thigh with just enough force to pierce his skin and ever so slightly puncture through tissue. Hannibal hid a wince behind his clenched jaw.

Finished with the fight then, Hannibal forgot the blade, leaving it wedged in his thigh as he secured both hands around Matthew’s throat, pressing hard with his thumbs as he felt the satisfying crunches beneath his grasp. Matthew gasped, his face growing red as he fought for air and his hands raked over Hannibal's neck, though he wasn't nearly powerful enough.

With Matthew’s hands falling weak then, plummeting to the ground beside him as he gave up, Hannibal removed his own grasp and held the man down by his shoulders as he lunged for his throat. His teeth caught Matthew’s cold skin and he clamped down, raking a garbled cry from the man as he felt the pulse fasten beneath his lips.

Matthew, with soaring adrenaline then, kicked and clawed at what he could, jabbing Hannibal once more in the ribs with a knee and bashing at his calves with the heels of his boots. His fists lifted, still weak as they hit, though undoubtedly leaving bruises in their wake as they plummeted over Hannibal’s chest and sides.

Hannibal had clenched his jaw, laving in the blood as it filled his mouth with a bitter warmth before he pulled away, teeth still fastened in the man's flesh as it ripped from his throat, leaving one more garbled scream stuttering from Matthew’s mouth before he quieted. The man's arms fell back to his side, his legs going weak beside Hannibal's own.

Matthew lay pale beneath him then, blood spurting from the ragged gash in his throat and a slow trickle coming from the stab amongst his cheek. Hannibal swallowed the meager chunk of flesh that sat amongst his tongue and licked at his lips to collect the remainder of Matthew's blood.

One harsh swipe at his forehead brought Hannibal's attention back, a sharp breath escaping his lips as his eyes met his mothers. Her brows were furrowed as she regarded her son and her fingers gripped at his chin once more as she placed down the bloodied gauze. “No more of this,” she ordered, a scornful look taking over there face. “I will clean you up and love you quand même but this must end, mon fils.”

Hannibal gave his mother a sullen nod, knowing there would be no end to his act and too aware that his mother was not knowledgeable of how the extent of it all. If she were, she would not love him all the same. His mother was naive but he needed her that way, unless he wanted her to resent him.

The classroom was oddly quiet as Hannibal walked through the threshold. Eyes peered at him before quickly diverting as they noticed his yellowing bruises and scabbed over scrapes. Will’s eyes, however, they lingered amongst his face as Hannibal took his seat beside the boy, sweeping over his face as if to catalog each blemish and graze. Though, Will remained silent, his gaze falling from Hannibal as the teacher stood before them at the head of the room.

Hannibal wondered if Will was mourning Matthew, despite how disgusting the truth of that would be. They had been friends, he supposed, from what he'd observed of the two, therefore the possibility would not be implausible. Though Hannibal still hated the idea of it. Matthew didn't deserve space in Will’s mind, he didn't merit any care from the boy. Any time spent on him was time wasted in Hannibal's eyes.

The class remained dull and melancholy, though Hannibal supposed that wasn't odd, they'd lost two classmates in just a few months, that warranted for some worry and sorrow in any typical individual's eyes. However, Hannibal did not feel pity for either of the boys, their rudeness had deemed them worthy of their given demise. The world was a better place without them, he supposed, or his life at the least.

Lunch was similarly quiet. The typically thrumming cafeteria was unnervingly silent as everyone debated whether it would be rude if they continued as normal. Freddie sat beside Hannibal, her shoulder brushing against his as she seemed to be mulling over the same considerations as everyone else.

“So,” Freddie began slowly, eyeing everyone carefully as to make sure she wasn't being inappropriate, though Hannibal doubted she cared all that much. “What do we think?” she initiated warily and Hannibal knew exactly what the girl was leading to. “Was it the Fresco?” Freddie asked quietly.

The table eyed her, Beverly looking entirely shocked that the girl might stoop so low as to bring up their fellow classmates death so soon, especially as a suspcted victim to their killer, framing Matthew as some sort of meager interest rather than a person.

“I mean, obviously,” Beverly stated quietly, peering at Will who sat beisde her. “Who else would it have been?” she shrugged, her lips pressed into a pitiful frown. “Right?” she asked, her gaze pointed at Will, seeking confirmation from the one person she seemed to trust.

Will shrugged, regarding Beverly with a tight lipped look. “I don't know,” he admitted, taking a brief look towards Hannibal as he spoke before diverting his gaze back to Beverly. “A fight was clearly put up,” Will pointed out. “Fresco’s kills are graceful. This one was very much… graceless.”

Hannibal craned his neck to look down at his lap as to hide his smile. Though Will was wrong, his interpretation if his kills was quiete right. He knew him so well. Hannibal found himself proud of the boy. Perhaps Will would know him entirely one day.

“What about the organs?” Freddie asked. “His heart was missing, his lungs, kidneys – even his eyes. The tongue hanging out of his throat too. I mean, it’s far more disastrous than his others, but it has to be him,” she argued. “Maybe he’s… evolving.”

Chapter Text

Hannibal paced the floors of the living room, his heartbeat growing faster in his chest, his hands tingling where they hung by his sides, and shook with the nerves that were beginning to take over his body. Mischa hadn’t come home from school. She should have been home hours ago.

He worried for his sister. It was growing dark outside, and the temperatures were below freezing with over a foot of snow amongst the ground. It wasn't safe outside, nor was she safe with Abigail, whom she walked home with. That point made Hannibal worry all the more.

His breaths became choppy, nearly painful as they rose from his chest and escaped from his parted lips. He felt an ache in his chest from Mischa's absence, all the terrible possibilities racing through his mind. Without a second thought, Hannibal grabbed his coat from its hook and laced up his boots before he headed out the door and in the direction of Abigail's home, remaining hopeful for the time being. Though his heart picked up its pace as just the meager walk down the road to Abigail's house had left him shivering, and he worried for Mischa all the more, imagining the small girl freezing, her body raking with chills that shook her weak frame, her cheeks and nose pink and beginning to turn eerie shades purple from the cold. He couldn't lose his sister. The worry alone of such was making him weak. He couldn't imagine if it were the truth.

Hannibal's boots crunched in the snow, though he kept his steps careful and soft. A chill swallowed his hands, leaving him tucking them deep into his coat pockets for warmth. With every shiver that raked through his body as he trekked, more and more worry began to ache in Hannibal's chest. If he were this cold a few meager minutes in, how cold must Mischa be?

Abigail's house came into view, though her yard ran dry of any tiremarks or footprints. Hannibal's heart sank all the more as he let out a shuddering breath. He approached the front door with soft steps, steadying his breathing as he did so to the best of his abilities, though his hands shook as he pulled them from his pockets, raising one fist in the air and laying it into the wooden door. There was no answer. Hannibal imagined all the ways he was going to dissect Abigail. Perhaps he would remove her lungs from her body while she was still conscious. Blood eagle.

With a sigh and a slow blink as to ease his fiery anger, Hannibal pivoted on his heels and stepped from the Hobb’s front steps. He supposed he'd follow the girls' typical route after his failure, a shortcut through the woods that the two had found, though had been avoiding lately due to the snow. He presumed it was his next best bet. Perhaps they'd gotten distracted on their walk home. Or perhaps Abigail had led Mischa out into the woods to kill her.

Walking down the Hobb’s shoveled driveway, he noticed a trail of small boot prints, and there was then the possibility that all could be hopeful. Hannibal followed the trail with soft steps as he so typically did, careful to make sure he kept alongside the prints if he ever needed to retrace his way. Trees began to close on him then, becoming thicker and thicker as he was led into the woods by the sets of bootprints that his eyes remained glued upon. The steps kept close together, never straying more than a foot or two apart as they progressed. Though from afar, Hannibal noticed a change. A new set of foodprints appeared, those of a bigger size and a few meters away. Hannibal's heart sped up once more, and his pace fastened along with it.

He felt as if he was back in the woods all those years ago, tracking footprints and listening carefully for any predators, keeping his breath calm despite them reverberating against his chest. The cold chilled him to the bones, and his breath caught in his throat, icy and burning as it fought to fill his lungs. The heaviness of shackles could be felt around his ankles, the metal boring into his skin, bruising and drawing blood that trickled down to his feet. His stomach ached, empty and begging as his throat burned, weak from his cries and screams. It was so cold, debilitatingly so. His body throbbed; a black eye, a split lip, and broken ribs. He was so weak. He couldn't have stood, even if he hadn't been shackled to the floor; his legs had shaken beneath him when he’d tried.

His own cries could be heard from afar, so distant yet they rang in his ears and crawled down his spine so painfully. Every breath he took ached, and each one wasn't enough; his lungs begged for air it simply couldn't get, and each that he'd managed to had burnt like ice down his throat and chilled the backs of his teeth.

He needed his father. Where had he gone? He'd seen him lying on the floor moments ago. Though he couldn't be entirely sure how long it had truly been. His face had been bloody, teeth broken and missing, bashed into the floor. Blood pooled around his limp head, his neck giving out, his entire body weak. His face had been unrecognizable, eyes swollen shut, nose broken and bloody, a large gash streaming down the bridge, his lips split and parted with silent cries, drooling blood into the already swarming pool. Hannibal stared through teary eyes, blinking them away though nearly daring not to, this would be the last time he'd see his father, he needed to get all that he could of him before he was gone.

The air was filled with the scent of blood, so acridly so, yet it made his mouth water all the same. He was so, so hungry. Hannibal bit at his peeling lips, dry from the chill in the air, and swallowed down what his teeth could manage to procure.

His chest too was heavy, every breath burnt through the air that was so achingly cold. His legs were weak beneath him, his knees nearly giving out as coughs raked through his aching throat, the taste of blood on his tongue. Hands were wrapped around his shoulders suddenly, something warm and tangible, unlike what had been swarming his mind. The grip around him tightened, shaking Hannibal's body as his breathing sped up all the more, fighting between his mind and reality. He couldn't make it back; he couldn't get out.

A sharp breath raked through his lungs, and he was shaken back to a brutal return. When his eyes finally managed to focus, blurry as they were, they landed upon that of Will's face, whom Hannibal peered at, confused. Will let out a relieved sigh at Hannibal's return, taking a crunching step back as he released his grip from Hannibal’s shoulders.

Hannibal cleared his throat as his eyes swept over Will’s face through blurry blinks, tears warming his icy cheeks. “Have you seen her?” he asked, his voice breathy and appearing as smoke in the cold air. His past had dismounted from his shoulders for the time being, yet his worry for Mischa remained, and his hands shook where they hung at his sides, eager to wrap around his sister's body, or perhaps Abigail's throat; whatever the outcome may permit.

Will took a step towards Hannibal, the snow crunching beneath his foot. The boy's eyes scanned his face with furrowed brows, and his bottom lip caught between his teeth. “Who?” he asked, the word coming out as a plume of fog from between his lips.

“Mischa,” Hannibal replied, his eyes not focusing anywhere in particular, though he noticed Will's rosy cheeks and nose; the boy must have been in the cold for a while.

“I haven’t,” Will said with a curt nod of his head, his brows still furrowed with confusion and his face scrunched, though his eyes were warm in the chilly air as they washed over Hannibal's face warily. Beneath the thick layers of Will’s clothing was the boy's natural scent, pine and earth and rain, though there too was a bitterness to him, a citrusy tang not dissimilar to worry, and the staleness of fear too was present.

Regaining more of a footing, Hannibal swallowed, the taste of blood washing from his mouth. “Why are you out here, Will?” he asked, peering at the boy. Will’s shoulders shivered ever so slightly from the cold, and plumes of fog came from his parted lips as he breathed once more.

“Followin’ you,” Will replied with a weak smile, pulling at his lips, though Hannibal could smell the bitterness of a lie in the air. Hannibal let it slide.

“You haven't seen her?” Hannibal asked once more, his voice shaky as he spoke.

Will sighed, not unnerved or defeated, the sound coming from something of worry. “No,” he responded. “But there's footprints. They seem to go this way,” Will said, his arm thrown in the air, pointing towards the line of two sets of footprints in the snow.

Hannibal nodded in a silent reply, succumbing to the cold, though still restless and eager to find his sister, or what he feared might remain of her.

“I’ll walk with you,” Will replied warily, eyeing him once more before leading the way, careful to not step upon the present footsteps but instead beside them. Hannibal followed slowly, his arms wrapped around himself in an attempt to generate some warmth amongst his shivering body. Will looked back every so often to make sure he was still following. Hannibal was always right behind.

After a few moments, the scent of blood could be detected in the air, which set off Hannibal's heart to race. He should have done something about Abigail after all. He should have protected his sister. This had all been his fault. His pace sped up, passing Will in the direction of the smell that clung to the roof of his mouth. Bloody footprints began to appear in the snow, the odor growing acrid in his nostrils, burning at his lungs. With a gasp coming from beside him, Hannibal looked to Will, noticing then the bloody handprints across the tree trunks that stood behind the boy and the violent splatter of crimson in the snow a few feet away. Hannibal's breath grew heavy once more, his chest aching as he fought for air, coughing up what he could.

His pace fastened once more, striding through the snow deliberately, no longer careful of the footprints nor making any unnecessary noise. He needed to get to his sister. He needed to protect Mischa.

The smell of blood became nauseating, and his stomach lurched, though Hannibal kept himself from gagging; that would only hold him back. He kept his footing, racing through the weaving trees and snow until he saw it. A great splatter of blood, a pool in the melted snow as a body lay amongst it, torn to pieces. Two small figures stood around it, and Hannibal gasped, his heart fastening in eagerness rather than worry.

He ran to his sister, his arms wrapping around Mischa's frame as soon as their bodies collided. She was warm beneath his touch, leaving a relieved sigh to heave from his chest. He whispered his name under his breath as he kept her close and held his chin to the crown of her head. She, too, wrapped her arms around her brother, her breath stuttering at the rattling of his heart against her cheek as they embraced.

“Are you okay?” Mischa asked as she pulled away from Hannibal's tenacious grip to look her brother in the eye. Her brows were furrowed low in confusion, and her eyes peered at him cautiously.

“I thought you had died,” Hannibal confessed, pulling his sister to his chest once more to feel her warmth and heartbeat against him, reassuring himself of her livelihood.

Mishca peered up at her brother, lips pursed. “I’m okay,” she assured with a weak smile.

“He’s not,” Abigail butted in, and as Hannibal pivoted his head, he noticed the girl who poked the mangled and bloodied body with a stick. The girl's brows were knit together as he peered at the body, though her eyes were this bright blue beneath her lids, eager and intentful as she gazed upon the mess.

“Did you do this, Abigail?” Hannibal asked the girl, one hand kept on Mischa's shoulder as if she were a lifeline, though he watched from the corner of his eye as Will approached them.

Abigail looked at him with wide eyes, the stick dropped from her hand as she regarded Hannibal with her lips parted slightly in consternation. “Me?” she asked incredulously.

“You don't seem to be too bothered by the dead body right in front of you,” Will supplied in defense as he stood beside Abigail.

The girl rolled her eyes. “My dad’s a hunter, I see dead animals all the time,” Abigail defended. “This isn't much different,” she said with a shrug.

“What are you two doing out here?” Hannibal asked instead of fighting the girl's troublesome statement. He knew she was a killer; he didn't need to get into that right now. Not in front of Mischa. Though he and Will did share a knowing look with one another as they stood before the girl.

“Abby and I heard screaming," Mischa replied, her voice small as she spoke from beside Hannibal. His heart was still racing in his chest, making it hard to hear anything over its rampant thumping. “We wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

“I guess not,” Abigail said with raised brows as she looked down at the mess of the body before her. The man's arms were ripped from his body, the wounds gnarly with frayed tissue hanging from the bloody stumps. His left leg was in the same disorder, and his torso had been thoroughly ransacked.

“It don’t exactly look like an animal did this,” Will observed as he peered at the body, his bottom lip caught between his teeth and arms folded at his center. “I suppose it's been made to look that way, though.”

“You think a person did this?” Abigail asked with raised brows, poking at the shoulder of the body with the toe of her boot.

Will shrugged as he mulled over the possibilities. Hannibal found the boy’s scrunched brows and lip biting quite endearing. “An animal would have eaten its kill. This man is just torn to shreds. Nothin’s been taken.”

“Unless the animal has gone mad,” Hannibal supplied, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth in thought. “A rabid animal attacks its victims at random and doesn't eat any part of them.” He thought back to the few times he'd hunted with his father. The man had walked beside him with a gun in his hands as he talked quietly about animals, how similar humans still were to them. His father had not particularly favored hunting; however, it was tradition in their family, and it too was his duty to teach his son.

Mischa stilled beside Hannibal, her grip around his forearm tightening ever so slightly. “A rabid animal?” she asked, looking up at her brother, her eyes wide with worry and her voice breathy.

“We can't be sure,” Will assured quickly as he gave Mischa a warm look. Hannibal's chest tingled at the sight, warmth settling behind his ribs at the boy aiming to comfort his sister. “I still think it might be human,” he stated.

“Well, what do we do now?” Abigail asked, her arms crossed as she took a few steps away from the body to stand beside Mischa.

Will shrugged and scratched at the back of his neck before he replied. “We should probably call the police.” Mischa stilled beside Hannibal once more, and the boy seemed to notice, his shoulders falling in a sigh as he regarded the girl. “Or I can call Jack,” he offered. “His team can come take a look,” he said before he looked towards Mischa. “Jack knows me, he won't make a big deal out of it if it's nothin’,” Will assured the girl.

Hannibal nodded as his grasp tightened around Mischa's shoulder in assurance. “It will be alright, Mischa. You won't be in trouble,” he promised his sister softly, his thumb smoothing over her coat in an attempt to soothe her worries.

The fire crackled from beside where they sat amongst the floor, quilts nestled atop the hardwood just before the fireplace. Hannibal had led them all home once Jack and his team had shown up, and Will insisted that he start a fire, grabbing a stack of logs from the yard as they walked inside. Mischa and Abigail sat a few feet away, bundled in blankets, where they sat just beside the hearth, chatting and giggling in whispers as their noses and cheeks slowly gained some warmth.

Hannibal looked towards Will, the boy sat closely beside him with his knees drawn up to his chest, and his chin rested atop them as a quilt was perched around his shoulders. He was clearly deep in contemplation and thought, his teeth picking at his bottom lip and his brows deeply furrowed as he stared at the space before him. After a few moments, he'd caught Hannibal's gaze and peered back at him, his brows raising in question.

Smiling briefly, Hannibal looked down towards his lap as to hide the pull of his lips from the boy. “I think it may be human as well,” he told Will, watching as the firelight flickered over the boy's freckled face and gave his dark curls and golden hue as they hung over his forehead and around his ears. He was quite beautiful.

Will smiled then, his teeth piercing through his parted lips as he regarded Hannibal. “Good,” was all he said, the words slightly muttered as he too diverted his gaze to the floor.

Chapter Text

School was considerably calmer now that the shock and grief of Matthew's death had washed over. Though considerably more boring too in Hannibal's opinion. He liked seeing the eyes of those around him glossy and red-rimmed from a death he'd taken hand in. He liked evoking that shock and devastating emotion from people without their knowledge. He walked the halls with those very same people, shared the same lessons and cafeteria as them and they would never know who he was. What he's done. What he's enjoyed doing. It was quite an addictive game to him. It was nearly more thrilling than the kill itself.

The death of the mauled man in the woods had been ruled to have been done by that of an animal, according to the FBI, though, presumably by an animal who had been trained by a human. There had been a handful of similarly mauled livestock found recently, and so the FBI proposed that must have been practice before they took upon the real thing. Hannibal thought that was stupid. The most riveting part of a kill was the feeling of it in your hands. The blood and warmth that wept in the fight and the pressure solely generated by your own limbs that would ultimately end in the death of the other. The control you had over another. It was quite wonderful. He was sure the same joy mustn't come from watching another do all the work, especially that of an animal, a creature which was already so acceptably violent. Hannibal still wasn't entirely convinced.

Humans are far more similar to animals than people liked to acknowledge. We are animals, after all. Humans have more complex cognitive abilities, of course, though we still have those innate animalistic instincts ingrained in us that we find ourselves acting upon. Protecting ourselves, protecting our own, and of course, simply having fun. Animals kill for the game all the time. They enjoy it. Though they too feel empathy and recognize the emotions of those around them. The good and the bad about us, it's all that makes us so human. It's what makes us animals, too. Why should we stray so far from our origins? Why does not doing so make us wild? What was so wrong about being wild?

Humans, too, have forward-facing eyes, a common characteristic that predators hold, one that often differentiates them from prey. So why shouldn't we act in accordance to the biological traits we've been graced with? Why must we not act upon the predatory instincts that flow in our veins? It's like denying yourself from who you're meant to be.

The cafeteria was awfully rowdy this afternoon. Hannibal's ribs were still healing, and they ached as he sat upon the plastic folding table. Will sat opposite of Hannibal, eyeing him as Freddie rambled on about the maulings that were now plastered over the news. It wasn't exactly the talk of the town, considering the killings weren't being regarded as those of a serial killer, though Freddie was interested all the same.

“So what do y'all think about these kills?” Freddie asked, her chin rested in her palm as she spoke, looking around the table with a sideways grin as her red curls fell to frame her face. “I mean, me personally – I'm not entirely sure I believe that it's the work of an animal,” she stated as she twirled a finger in her hair. Hannibal supposed Freddie was less so interested in the kills because of the depth behind it, but more so because she found death and killing in general entertaining. Her mind seemed to just graze upon the surface of the psychology behind it, though her interest wasn't nearly on the empathetic side, more so edging on an engrossment towards the behavior, though, neither in disgust nor pure compassion. He wasn't exactly sure quite yet; the girl was harder to read in many aspects than he'd expected.

Will looked over briefly at Hannibal, a grin pulling at one corner of his mouth before he looked away. “Why’s that?” Will asked, diverting his gaze towards Freddie, one brow quirked upwards in question as he did so.

Freddie shrugged, chewing at her mouthful of food before she spoke, folding a palm over her mouth as she swallowed. “Why would an animal do that – right?” she asked. “Totally dismember a body just to leave it? It sounds more like the work of a person… Not Fresco, though. This is someone else entirely.”

Beverly regarded Will as the boy nodded, picking at her food as she considered the conversation silently. Will hummed in agreement as he eyed Freddie and bit at his bottom lip before speaking. “Who then?” he asked with furrowed brows, itching at the back of his neck with one hand as the other picked at his food.

Freddie shrugged once more, quirking a brow as her finger continued to twirl in her hair. “Not sure,” she replied slowly before picking up a carrot stick and biting into it with a snap. “What about you, Bev? What do you think?” she asked with a grin as she regarded Beverly, who’d remained a silent observer as she ate slowly and absorbed everything around her.

Beverly, again, seemed to only agree because Will did. Her opinions relied almost entirely on Will's own, it appeared, when it came to these kills and the Fresco killer. She didn't seem as interested as everyone else was. She was certainly intrigued, yet her interest wasn't nearly as piqued as it was for the others. Though to seem as involved as everyone else, she seemed to mimic Will's thoughts and portray them as her own, despite it seeming that the girl didn't entirely agree. It appeared as if she wasn't eager enough about it to form her own thoughts and opinions.

“Yeah, I guess I agree,” Beverly said plainly with a bored shrug. “The FBI’s clearly just workin’ with theories,” she added. “There’s no proof of either side.” She shrugged once more.

“I suppose,” Freddie replied with a hum. “I wish we'd gotten to see it.” She frowned and sighed solemnly as she looked down at the table. “What was it like?” she asked, looking between Will and Hannibal as she spoke with a growing eagerness in her eyes.

“Bloody,” Will responded plainly, his lips pursed. “It looked like the work of an animal, though it just seemed off… Not many animals kill simply to kill… Humans are one of the few that do,” he said, biting at his bottom lip as he mulled over the kill, the scene seemingly coming back to him, reliving it as an entirety. “It was too intentional. Both arms were removed in the same place, nearly perfectly… The jaw would have to have been far too big for any animal ‘round here to make such a precise cut. Any normal animal an’ it would have been far more ragged. And the intestines too – they were pulled out too intentionally an’ for looks. It wasn't as ravaged as it would’ve been had an animal done it.”

Hannibal nodded as he listened to Will eagerly. “A human wishing he were an animal,” he agreed once Will had finished. Hannibal's eyes remained on Will as Freddie began to ramble on about Will's observations and statements, noticing the small smile that pulled at the boy's lips and the man who walked behind him, far slower than necessary and with peering eyes as he passed the table. Randall. The man eyed Hannibal before he retreated from the table entirely, a grin on his face and eyes lidded as he did so. A bitterness clung to the air.

Hannibal diverted his gaze back to Will, Freddie’s rambling becoming a bleary rumble in Hannibal's ears. Will returned his look as he peered away from the retreating man, his eyebrows furrowed as he did so, the two meeting each other's gaze with matching suspicion.

“Oh! Before I forget,” Freddie exclaimed with a grin, her hands splayed flat amongst the table with a thud. “I’m throwing a party next weekend,” she told everyone, her eyes roving over each one of them as she spoke. “And y'all better be there. I bought a shit ton of alcohol – It's gonna be great.”

Beverly nodded as she took Will's shoulder in her grasp. “We’ll be there,” she replied with an eager smile as she looked towards Will for verification, her eyebrows raised with question. Will agreed silently with a tight-lipped nod.

Freddie faced Hannibal then, wordlessly asking of his expected attendance. “Fine,” Hannibal replied, attempting to appear as if he were relenting, though the simple fact that Will was going to be of attendance was a sure indicator that he, too, would be. Freddie gave him a bright smile in return and assured them all that the party would be great before she promptly stood from her seat and walked off after slinging her bookbag over her shoulder.

The air smelled of smoke, and Hannibal was soon offered the root of the cause. Will's fingers were pinched around a cigarette and held out in front of Hannibal in offering. He hated the taste of the things and the bitter scent that seemingly lingered for an eternity. But, it was Will, and maybe behind the acrid taste there would too be a hint of Will behind it. So, he accepted the cigarette between his own two pinched fingers and brought it to his lips, pulling in a meager mouthful of smoke before he let it plume out from between his lips. The taste washed over his tongue, a bitter smokiness that was much too dense to note any other flavor, leaving no tinge of Will could be detected behind it, to his dismay.

Will walked by Hannibal's side, his steps falling within the same beat as Hannibal's every so often, his shoulders slightly slouched where they hung under his puffy jacket. The boy's hair fell over his eyes, and Hannibal found the way that he'd quirk his head to the side every few moments to move the curls from his field of vision quite endearing.

“So,” Will began, letting the word flow from his mouth slowly as he retrieved the cigarette back from Hannibal's hand. “Randall,” he stated, smoke bellowing from his lips as he spoke.

“Indeed,” Hannibal replied with a curt nod, grinning ever so slightly as he regarded Will beside him. “However, I’ve never suspected anything of the boy,” he told Will with furrowed brows. “Though I have found him quite… odd.”

Will shrugged, taking one more drag of the cigarette before throwing it to the ground and grinding it with his boot. “The best killers are never suspicious," he said, eyeing Hannibal with a slight grin as the last bits of smoke filtered past his lips.

“I suppose so,” Hannibal replied with a matching, tight-lipped grin. “How must he make the scene look as if it were the work of an animal, do you think?” he asked as he watched Will pluck another cigarette from his pack, placing it between his lips as he brought the lighter to the tip of the cigarette.

“He works at the museum,” Will pointed out after taking a pull from the cigarette, the words leaving his mouth with puffs of smoke as his brows furrowed in thought. The boy's step faltered for a moment, and his hand dropped to his side, a sigh heaving from his lungs. “Their cave bear exhibit went missing a little over a month ago – right before the livestock kills started.” Will's voice was breathy as he spoke, clearly shocked by his swift revelation. “Fuck, it really is him.”

Hannibal nodded, watching as Will ran through his cigarette with intent. “He’s making himself an animal. He thinks that's what he's meant to be,” he supposed out loud.

“Why?” Will questioned, his brows furrowed as he shook his head.

Shrugging, Hannibal pursed his lips for a moment, mulling over the situation. “I suppose he doesn't believe he can act out his true desires in his human form. Though he believes that perhaps if he embodies that of an animal it is more… admissible,” he presumed. “Though there too is a possibility that he simply believes he is nonhuman. He's transforming himself into what he fails to see in the mirror.”

“So we've got a killer who thinks he's a wild animal,” Will said, scratching at the back of his neck as his pace settled back out.

“I suppose we do,” Hannibal replied with a brief smile. “Shall we tell Jack?”

Will shook his head and looked down at his feet as he walked, his brows beginning to furrow. “Not yet.”

“No?” Hannibal asked, a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth in intrigue, his brows furrowing ever so slightly.

“I want to see what happens,” Will replied with a shrug, his hands folded into his pants pockets. “Should be interesting, right?” he asked, eyes grazing over Hannibal for a moment before diverting, his eyes falling to stare at his shoes once more.

Hannibal let out a small huff of laughter as his eyes remained on the boy, noticing the slight pinkening of his nose from the cold and the brief lines folded amongst his cheeks from the grin he was likely trying to hide. “I suppose it should be,” Hannibal agreed. It would be quite interesting to see how far Randall might go. His possible evolution, him truly finding himself. Though he too supposed that once it was found to be the work of a human rather than an animal, it might take the spotlight off from the Fresco Killer. That would simply not do.

Chapter Text

The fire crackled before him and spread warmth amongst his chilled face. Each snowflake that fell melted quickly amongst the smoking logs, sizzling as they dissipated to mist in the air. Hannibal kept his hands tucked deep into the depths of his pockets, his hands pressed into the meat of his thighs, seeking warmth. Everyone stood around the sputtering flames, bundled in thick coats and hats and mittens as they passed around a jar of clear liquid. The glass was awfully cold as if made it to his hands that he regrettably pulled from their warmth, though the contents as they hit his tongue warmed him immediately, slowly trickling down his throat and burning its way down his chest. The taste was quite dreadful, though as it settled low in his stomach, the warmth seemed to radiate itself amongst his entire body and the cold began to seem as a much more meager threat.

“Fuckin’ gross, right?” Will asked with a cough. Hannibal looked towards the boy with a small smile growing on his face as he regarded Will's lopsided grin and sunken eyes from the alcohol. He was awfully beautiful in the firelight, the flames falling over his face gently, a whooshing orange lighting up his blue eyes and angular bones. “Stole it from my dad,” he told Hannibal, his chin tilted downwards as if he were sharing a dark secret that wasn't to be heard by anyone besides Hannibal. “He’s usually too drunk to notice,” he supplied in defense.

“It is quite dreadful,” Hannibal agreed with a weak laugh, his eyes far too focused on Will's face to ensure that the words actually made it out of his mouth. Will’s scent seemed to be all the more pungent tonight and Hannibal just couldn't stop himself from taking in lungfuls. The boy smelled of wood and pine and warmth that made Hannibal want to bury his face in Will’s neck, latching onto him with no hopes of ever letting go.

Will nodded enthusiastically, his head tilting back in a laugh that rumbled from his chest. “He makes it himself,” he told Hanibal, the words slurring from his mouth ever so slightly. “That’s probably why,” he presumed through another fit of weak laughter that seemed to reverberate in Hannibal's ears. He wished he could hear that sound forever, make the pulse of his heart align to its beat. The boy's smile too warmed Hannibal all the more, like his own personal fire and his shining, fang-like teeth so deliciously tempting. He wanted those teeth sunken into his flesh, wanted them covered in his blood, run his tongue over them and wash them clean. “Also why it’s so fuckin’ strong,” he laughed once more.

Hannibal didn't stay for all that much longer, though he didn't find himself doing much more than gazing at Will and basking in the boy's smell as it filled his lungs and washed over his tongue. At one point, Will had shared a cigarette with him, their touches lingering for moments longer than necessary every time they passed it back and forth. Each graze sent a shock down Hannibal's spine and radiated warmth from his finger and throughout his entire body. All he could think about was Will's saliva on the filter between his lips, though he wanted to retrieve it from its source. He wanted his mouth on Will’s, their tongues swiping over one another, their saliva mingling and drooling from their open mouths as they nearly consumed each other whole. That was when Hannibal decided that he should probably go home.

He said his goodbyes, giving a very inebriated Beverly a hug that she had insisted upon, the girl clinging to his shoulders tightly as she cooed over how much she loved him. Hannibal gave her a brief hug back and a few pats to her upper arm, muttering that he too greatly enjoyed her presence, before he pulled away. Freddie, too was incredibly enthusiastic, thanking him profusely for coming as a smile split across her face and she pulled him into a tight hug. Will, he regarded last, the boy wrapping his arms around his shoulders which took Hannibal by surprise, a weak gasp rasping from his throat as he was embraced by Will. The hold didn't last all that long, though the warmth from the boy’s arms seemed to linger for an eternity and the pressure remained wrapped around him even as he began his trek home.

The snowflakes that fell upon his cheeks and the bridge of his nose failed to bother him as much as they typically did. Nor did the cold smother him and rip his skin like it often seemed to. He had a warmth wrapped around him, consuming him entirely from the inside out and Hannibal was the most content he'd been in a while. He wasn't sure if it was more so on the account of the alcohol or Will, though he couldn't find himself caring. He felt quite wonderful.

Hannibal stuffed his hands into his pockets and kept his stride as careful as possible, one foot in front of the other, listening to each crunch in the snow as it was met by his boots. He was typically much more mindful with his steps though he couldn't find the control in himself or the desire to care for his lack thereof. He was warm and vibrating and Will hugged had him and that was all that mattered. His chest was full and a smile pulled at his lips and he couldn't find himself caring about anything else.

His step faltered and it took him a few moments to register the solid force that had barged into his back and left him falling into the ground before him. Hannibal caught himself with his hands and knees, his palms sinking into the snow and his pants quickly dampening as a gasp was caught in his throat. He was cold once more, as if the shove had ravaged every last bit of warmth from his body.

He tried planting himself on his forearms though a kick was sent to his ribs, promptly flipping him over to land on his back with another choked out gasp rasping from between his teeth. At first, his vision was simply met with darkness, nothing but a stocky figure hovering over him as a rumbling snarl filled his ears. Though, slowly, the figure inched closer, his knees landing with a crunch at either side of Hannibal's legs and his eyes were met with that of a large skull, skeletal and glistening white in the moonlight.

The burly jaw and the gnarly teeth that came with it were perched upon that of a man who remained growling behind his mask as he stared down at Hannibal. Hannibal's chest was met with a large, clawed paw then which promptly shoved him flat to the ground. The snow was crisp beneath him, crunching with the pressure and it slowly seeped into his clothing and the chill soon hit his skin. He found himself shivering when the paw pushed him all the more, the snarling continuing as he did so before it was swiftly lifted and swiped across his chest, digging through the thick layers of his coat though not deep enough to reach his skin.

Hannibal hadn't expected Randall to strike so soon. He thought the encounter would have taken months to ensue. He wished he hadn't been so inebriated when it occurred, not so lost in his head and groggy from the alcohol, unable to decide how to act next.

Randall snapped his mechanical jaw as he loomed over Hannibal, his wild teeth clashing together, rattling as a low growl rumbled from his chest once more. The beast's paw was lifted into the air, then before it was slashed down and across Hannibal, the claws catching in the flesh of his cheek and drawing blood that quickly seeped down his face and fell between his parted lips as a pained gasp left his mouth. It was a warm and familiar taste on his tongue though it did not do much to placate him as the paw was swept over his face once more, slashing at the bridge of his nose. Warmth and pain radiated amongst Hannibal’s face and he stifled a groan behind his clenched jaw, his hands falling in fists into the snow beneath him.

Planting his boots upon the ground firmly, Hannibal tried to gain enough footing to ram his knee into Randall's body. Though, before he was able to accumulate enough momentum, a paw was swiped across his chest once more, drawing blood this time and a pained gasp from Hannibal’s lips. Each paw was then wrapped around his upper arms and Hannibal’s body was lifted from the ground momentarily before he was promptly slammed back into the snow, ravaging another gasp from his chest as the air was brutally stolen from his lungs.

Hannibal struggled to get his breaths in as ragged coughs escaped from his mouth instead and pathetic and pained whimpers slipped from between his lips. He was going to die here. This beast was going to kill him. This wasn't how he wanted to go.

A punch met his face then, slamming his head into the ground and he could tell that the snow beneath him was beginning to become red with the blood that was seeping from his wounds. His body ached so terribly and his teeth chattered together from pain and the snow that was seeping into the material of his clothing. Hannibal let out a weak cry at the blow, too pained and groggy to care. He was dying anyway; there mustn't be much time for him to feel the lasting embarrassment of his weakness.

Hannibal let out a shuddering breath, and a paw was soon wrapped around his throat, the beast’s claws digging into the back of his neck and most certainly drawing blood in their wake. Randall's other paw was plastered into his chest, delving into the wounds he'd already procured, drawing more blood and choked up cries from the man beneath him. The beast's entire weight was pushed upon Hannibal now and it was far more than he could take. The pressure amongst his throat cutting off his air supply, the claws buried into his chest, so, so close to his heart. He settled his head back into the snow beneath him, succumbing to Randall's hunt. The ice chilled his throbbing head and the burning wounds in the back of his neck.

Though a burst of adrenaline soon began to thrum through his veins. Hannibal’s eyes widened and a shaky breath made it past the beast's grasp around his strangled throat. His hands rose from the ground, vibrating as they met with the beast’s jaw, pulling at the bones and wrapping his fingers wherever he could get a stern grasp. Randall's eyes could barely be seen past the mask, and they just barely glowed in the moonlight; just a sliver could be seen around his blown pupils that seemed to take over his eyes entirely.

The beast snarled as he removed his hand from Hannibal's neck and chest, instead wrapping them around Hannibal's temples to lift and then promptly slam his head into the ground beneath him and the beast's mask was ridded from his grasp at once. Hannibal's ears rang and his head felt as if it were full of crashing waves breaking amongst the shore. He let out a weak cry as he settled his head back down into the snow, focusing on the warmth of blood as it poured from his nose, tasting its bitterness as it washed over his tongue and plastered across his teeth. He was okay with it being the last thing he tasted, though he found himself thinking of Will's scent, what he might taste like. It seemed like he might never know and that was far more disappointing than he could process at the moment. He'd never felt this weak and defeated in his life.

Randall was ripped from his place atop Hannibal then, thrown to the ground beside him as a figure copied the beast's prior form, straddling over him as the mask was pried from the beast's head and punch after punch landed into his face. Heavy breathing came from the man that sat atop the beast, his shoulders slouched tiredly as his fists paused their torment, the beast lying motionless beneath him.

Hannibal's head had been too hazy as he recovered from Randall’s hunt, catching his breath in deep gasps as he tried to settle his throbbing temples. He'd been so preoccupied getting his footing back at once that he'd missed the similar scent in the air. Pine and smoke and freshly chopped wood. He looked over at the huffing boy once again where he was crouched over the beast's corpse, taking in Will's bloodied knuckles that now rested at his sides.

Will's head turned then, his eyes meeting Hannibal’s, the blue of them nearly gone as they were taken over by his blown pupils. A grin too was plastered over the boy's face and he slowly stood up from the beast's body, making it over to Hannibal, each step crunching in the blood-stained snow before he straddled him, his knees dug into the snow, as he had the beast just moments ago. Hannibal feared he must be Will's next victim and his breathing sped up once again.

Though Will's face was soon lowered just inches from his own, the boy's breath washing over Hannibal's face as Will’s shoulders rose and fell at a rapid pace. It happened much faster than he could process then, but Will’s lips were pressed to his own, nearly rabid with his frantic breathing as his hands moved to cup Hannibal’s jaw with his bloodied grasp. The touch ached, though Will's hands brought him warmth and he tingled under the touch and his lips moved in pace with Will’s. He was so soft against him, Will’s lips pressing into his own with vigor though so sweetly at the same time.

The boy's tongue parted from his mouth to swipe over Hannibal's bottom lip, his mouth warm as Hannibal granted him permission. He brought his hands up to grab at Will's shoulders as the boy parted Hannibal's lips with his tongue and he could taste the bitterness of his own blood on Will's mouth, the feeling and flavor alone doing wonders to soothe the aching wounds scattered amongst his body. This was all he'd ever wanted, Hannibal soon came to realize.

Will's thumbs smoothed over Hannibal's cheekbones as he swiped his tongue over Hannibal's teeth, getting caught on his canines ever so slightly though it had elicited a hum from the boy. Their breathing had become rampant and their mouths far sloppier, neither parting to take in a breath, rather pressing their parted lips against one another and taking in what air the other had to give, the only oxygen they received being shared. Will’s mouth was so sweet and warm against his, soothing all his aches and pains far better than any drug could.

A gasp came from Hannibal, the sound quickly sucked into Will’s open and wanting mouth as the boy parted Hannibal's legs with his knee and slotted a thigh between Hannibal's own. The friction against his cock, despite being through many layers of clothing, sent a warmth hurdling to the pit of his stomach and he brought his hand up to weave into Will's hair, pulling the boy's head ever so slightly by the curls to get a better angle of his mouth.

Will groaned at the treatment of his hair, his hips lowering to rut against Hannibal below him as he bit at his lower lip, just barely drawing blood that Will greedily sucked into his mouth. His hand grabbed at Hannibal's hair then, right at the crown, and pulled his head down, too, pulling another gasp from between Hannibal's lips that Will captured with his mouth.

Hannibal's fingers in Will's hair grew tighter as he sought for stability and he pulled Will's face into his own, as close as he possibly could, their noses and lips melding together as they messily gasped and moaned into one another's mouths. Will, in return, planted his free hand around Hannibal's hip, his fingers digging into the bone as he ground down into him, eliciting whines from them both.

Will continued his ministrations, rutting his clothed cock against Hannibal's own as they both gasped and bit at each other's open and wet mouths, both their tongues now tasting of Hannibal's blood. He grabbed at Will's hips then, pulling the boy's body down into him as he planted a foot into the snow, lifting his own hips to meet Will halfway, grinding themselves together in tandem.

Their breaths grew far more choppy and ragged, moans slipping from their lips as they rutted into one another in synchrony. Hannibal pulled Will's bottom lip into his mouth, sucking on it deliberately before pinching it between his teeth, putting enough pressure against the flesh until blood began to wash over his tongue. The flavours of them both mingled in their mouths now as he released Will’s lip and allowed the boy to swipe his tongue over Hannibal's teeth once more, seeking for the taste of them both the same as Hannibal had, just as greedy as he was.

Will removed his lips from Hannibal's, loosening a whine from Hannibal's throat, though they were swiftly placed back to the corner of his mouth in a quick press, a trail beginning down Hannibal's cheek and to his jaw, until the boy's lips stopped just below his ear. The warmth and wet, sucking pressure left Hannibal gasping and he grabbed Will's hair once more as he continued rutting his cock up into Will's own, the two decidedly matching the pace of Will's mouth on Hannibal's skin.

The boy's lips left Hannibal's neck for a brief moment, a hot puff of air coming from Will's mouth that soothingly washed over his wet skin before Will's teeth moved onto his earlobe, pulling ever so slightly and then moving on to suck at his pulse point. Will's tongue darted out to lave over his skin, so warm and smooth, before his lips clung onto him, sucking in tandem with his hip’s movements once again.

Hannibal's fingers pulled at Will’s hair, twisting himself into the boy’s curls as he gasped into the cold air, his lips never closing as silent whines and moans worked their way up his throat. His other hand grasped at Will's shoulder, nails digging into the plush material of his coat though he wished his nails could have been raking across the boy's skin, drawing red, angry lines in his wake.

The noise in his head had settled though the thrumming throughout his body had become all the more violent. His hands shook as they grasped for Will and every breath that raked through his lungs was stuttered.

Will bit into his neck then, just enough to elicit pain, though without drawing blood, before his mouth was removed from Hannibal's skin, his lips simply hovering above Hannibal's own. He looked into Will’s eyes, his pupils still blown and only leaving a sliver of blue in their wake. Hannibal was sure his eyes were in a similar condition.

The boy's lips were parted and red, blood trickling weakly from Hannibal's bite. His nose and cheeks were rosy from the cold, and he looked so awfully endearing despite the fact that he had just killed a man with his bare hands. That reminder left a moan slipping through Hannibal's open mouth, his hips settling their movements as his back arched into Will, their chests pressing against one another as Hannibal came, his mind running fuzzy as he gasped into Will's mouth and his fingers tightened in the boy’s hair and around his shoulder.

Will followed closely behind, his mouth biting at Hannibal's neck as his pace slowed and eventually came to a stop, allowing his body to slouch over Hannibal's. He tucked his face into Hannibal’s neck as he settled into him, his nose digging into his skin, taking in a deep breath as Will placed his hands on either one of Hannibal's shoulders. Hannibal tilted his head, burying his nose in Will's hair as the boy took in deep, gasping breaths against his skin. He smelled of his typical factors, and now present was the musk of his sweat, though Hannibal felt himself drowning in it, his mouth watering at the scent. He didn't think he'd ever be able to get enough, though he'd take it while he could.