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The teacup had shattered. There was nothing to be done to repair it, no matter how hard Hannibal tried.
He had been a fool, he realized that now, in the way he had treated Will.
Not regarding the bond that united them; no, Hannibal could never regret that bond.
No, he had been a fool to listen to Bedelia, to heed someone who prioritized her own survival above all else, even the well-being of her patient.
Hannibal could understand that selfish desire, yet it only made him want to find Bedelia and have her taste her own roasted leg, served with a side of boiled potatoes.
Bedelia would find it delicious; Hannibal would see to that.
Will, however, would not savor it, for he had grown weary of the pain Hannibal inflicted, those tender moments were too few and far between, not enough for his mongoose.
Will had valued Hannibal, before Hannibal framed him for crimes he hadn't committed, isolating him completely, branding him guilty in the eyes of those who should have protected him, and betraying the man Will called a friend.
Hannibal should have realized he wouldn't be forgiven so easily, yet he had dared to hope when he saw Will, well-groomed and dressed, at their usual meeting spot; a meeting Hannibal had left open, clinging to some misplaced hope.
He could understand Will’s resentment, but it had wounded him, and he had lashed out like a wild beast rather than a potential partner.
Will had warned him, at the end. He had come to him, clearly not expecting Hannibal to kill him.
Hannibal would never have killed him, though perhaps Will didn't know that.
And now, after Hannibal had nearly sawed off his head, Will had no intention, naturally, of sticking around the madman who was hurting him. Will was right to reject Hannibal, who reveled in violence so much that he would hurt the person he loved.
And who would never know that he had made Hannibal’s cold heart beat, that he was jealously loved by the monster.
Hannibal was in love with Will.
And Will would never know.