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London has never been a favorite city for Hannibal, although it does have its charms. There is certainly culture to be enjoyed here that is missing from his everyday life. The Proms may veer a little too mainstream for Hannibal's tastes at times, but they are a vast improvement over popular music in pubs.
The bustle of city life feels almost abrasive to him now. It's strange to think he's lived with it daily for most of his life. The last few years have been a pastoral dream, simple and placid and inextricable from nature. Boring? Sometimes. Though not nearly as boring as incarceration. The simple change in venue that London provides will last for maybe a week until monotony settles in again.
Will and Hannibal shuffle along with the well-dressed crowd pouring out of Royal Albert Hall and into the night. The afterglow of music still hums pleasantly in Hannibal's chest, a palate cleanser to the psyche. Every new street they turn down brings with it another symphony of city sounds and smells.
"I hate the city," Will is saying. He had reluctantly dressed for the concert, allowed Hannibal to drag him up and down Oxford Street until they blended in seamlessly.
"Because of the crowds?"
Will shakes his head. "On the off chance that somebody has followed our trail of blood from Maryland and tracked us down at last. It's only a matter of time."
"The FBI has higher priorities than the capture of two erstwhile employees gone AWOL.”
"People like to nurse vendettas until the time is right. Or until they can’t tolerate waiting anymore and have to lash out." Will does look anxious, a nearly alien look on him after so many years. The murky light of lamp posts and neon storefronts only enhances the effect.
"That is not impossible," Hannibal allows. "Although if we were to be accosted at this precise moment, eluding capture would be easy."
"Yeah, I know."
"And unless the trap being laid for us is elaborate indeed, they either haven't found us or aren't looking. I tend to believe the latter - there is only so long that bureaucrats will approve funding for fruitless investigations."
Will walks beside him silently. Hannibal watches the tension beginning to drain from his shoulders.
"Is it possible, Will, that you are attempting to convince yourself that the other shoe must drop soon precisely because our scent has yet to be picked up?”
"Is it an anxiety of anticipation? Sure. But it’s not entirely negative.”
"Oh?"
"It's exciting," Will admits. "The idea that coming to London is maybe a little risky. In fact it's probably the most daring thing we've done in years."
"A healthy dose of wariness is vital in our situation," Hannibal says. He considers the things Will has found exciting in the past. Bloody things, and Will’s helplessness to resist them. There is a warmth to the idea that lingers at the forefront of Hannibal’s mind. "Tonight was meant to be entertaining, not distressing."
"I liked the Elgar," Will says. "And it is nice to have a change of pace. Big cities become dazzling when you've abstained from them."
"He wrote Variations in tribute to his friends and family. I’m not typically partial to Elgar, but some of the variations show a range of expression I don’t associate with his other work."
“Yeah, it was no Pomp and Circumstance,” Will is smiling faintly. "We should go to more concerts. Bath isn't a complete cultural wasteland, you know.”
“Would you enjoy that?” Hannibal asks. “Or would you simply be going for my sake?”
“It’s always nice to try out something new to keep the boredom at bay,” Will shrugs. “And besides, you never take me out dancing anymore.”
“Mm.” Hannibal has always been motivated by pleasure-seeking, but as soon as he had shared in that pursuit with Will at its most extreme his experience of pleasure had changed. Having it reflected back by another person has become crucial. It’s an escalation of sorts, as serial killers are famously prone to, so perhaps it’s no surprise.
The crowd is beginning to thin now, everybody dispersing to seek their ride shares and Tube stations. The cramped little souvenir shops they pass are crammed with Meghan and Harry merchandise, and Will clutches Hannibal's sleeve to keep them from running into a young couple exiting one of the shops. The woman does a double take at the sight of besuited Will and Will can't seem to help inspecting the hemline of her dress.
The floodlit facades of famous landmarks look down on them as they walk, and after few hectic intersections they’ve reached their destination. The statue outside South Kensington Station catches Will's eye. "Bartók. Which one’s he, again?”
“The Miraculous Mandarin. Amid the streets of a bustling city a girl is dancing. She entices various passersby while her accomplices lie in wait to rob whoever she can seduce. They get more than they bargain for when a man who desires her cannot seemingly be killed despite her accomplices’ attempts. At last the girl submits to him, after which he succumbs to his wounds.”
“Oh, that old chestnut,” Will says. “The villain who satiates his lust and loses the desire for life.”
Hannibal cocks his head. “Is that the moral, do you think?”
People surge into and out of the station, but Will doesn't move. He has a look on his face that Hannibal identifies as Will wanting to say something but knowing he should bite his tongue. Hannibal is both irritated and entranced by his inability to guess at Will’s thoughts.
Will catches him looking and a smile tugs at his lips. “You hungry?”
“Always,” Hannibal says, checking is watch. “There is still time to have dinner in town before we leave."
A passing bus splashes Will with its headlights and leaves his hair fluttering. “Okay, as long as this isn't going to be another Fat Duck."
"Scout's honor."
They change direction.
*
Hannibal has never been as enthusiastic about steering as Will, but he’s come to appreciate the flow state of guiding a boat down a river. Like the muscle memory that comes with long practice at an instrument, it has become second nature, and he navigates the familiar green-brown currents with ease. This particular stretch of river is straight and steady and requires little of Hannibal’s attention. He leans back against the railing and props a book on his knee to create a flat surface. Manuscript paper is a hassle to locate in the countryside, so he’s drawn staves freehand on a blank sheet in order to explore new variations on the Enigma Variations. They were so brief that little development had been possible for Elgar. Or perhaps Hannibal might simply pen his own - there are certainly enough interesting people with whom he has crossed paths. Water sloshes gentle encouragement to him against the boat.
Even the flashiest narrowboats seemed only to have red accents alongside primarily earthen tones, but the one Will had discovered at auction was entirely red. Mostly maroons and muddier reds, but the piping along the roof and sides are freshly opened wounds of color. Will had attested to the boat’s suitability and seaworthiness, but Hannibal has to admit that he had mostly been taken with the yellow script scrawled across her bow proclaiming her The Wyvern.
Even as Hannibal has warmed to the task of steering, Will has seemed to tire of it. They often begin the morning with breakfast inside but take their coffee out to the stern. Will only steers until the sun has warmed the sky before climbing up to the roof to read or bask or whatever it is he does up there. Relaxation suits Will rather well, and Hannibal is glad to see it beginning to anchor him. Certainly there is a lovely view on one’s back on the roof: treetops, the sky’s pinnacle blue, and warring breezes of warm wildflowers and cool canal water.
The boat wobbles very slightly then, followed by the telltale clack of claws against the floor. A wet nose nuzzles against Hannibal’s leg, acutely concerned that Hannibal does not have both feet safely on the deck. The dog is a Brittany Spaniel mutt with a delicate dusting of brown across her muzzle like cocoa powder. Will had wanted to name her Tiramisu.
“Good morning, Persephone,” Hannibal tells her. She’d escaped from hell, as Hannibal had pointed out, to which Will had rolled his eyes and quipped, Or been dragged into it.
The dog lies down on the deck by his feet, content for now. The boat begins to sway again as Will clambers off the roof and inches along the port side to join them at the stern. Will is as canine as Persephone in his ability to sense her whereabouts.
Will crouches down to scratch behind her ears. The skin of his bare back is unevenly tanned - a result of his mornings spent shirtless on the roof until the sun begins to sting and he fetches the nearest shirt available to shield himself. He rarely bothers to put on shorts over his boxers until at least 10AM, and the isolated humidity of the canal during summertime excuses any impropriety. Hannibal favors a lightweight hat and cool loose linens to battle the heat.
Will bestows Persephone with one last pat before rising and leaning against the cabin to face Hannibal at the tiller. He smiles into the sun beating down on them. “I think I dozed off up there - is it lunchtime yet?”
Hannibal shakes his head. “It’s maybe half ten now, although by the time we get to the next village it will be lunchtime. I have some errands to run, however . . . ”
“Sounds good.” Will’s hair had been cut short at the beginning of the summer, but has begun to curl again around his ears. They bounce when he nods at the paper in Hannibal’s hand. “Sketching again?”
“Composing, actually.”
“Without a piano?”
“Beethoven went deaf,” Hannibal points out. “It hardly stopped him from producing beautiful music, as evidenced by the 9th Symphony.”
Will scoffs. “Oh . . . you’re Beethoven now.”
Hannibal finds Will’s good moods to be infectious. He lets it show. “When it is completed I’ll play for you at St Joseph’s and you can certainly compare its quality to Beethoven if you wish.”
Will snorts. “Okay, I’m gonna go shower,” he says before disappearing into the cabin. Persephone trails dutifully behind him.
Rushock-upon-Kennet is a thatched roof town that presses right up to the canal. Shabby motorboats are docked at the tiny pier and a fisherman waves to them as they tether the boat. What had once resulted in bumping into the pier and each other has now become a familiar dance. Will leaps from the boat with Persephone in tow and they head toward Berrigan’s farm. They don’t say goodbye to each other.
Hannibal towels the sweat from his neck and forehead before walking into the village. Heat rising from the cobblestones keeps its shady lanes from bringing much relief. The air just hangs there, still and thick. Windowsill petunias and the deep scent of freshly mowed grass lead Hannibal to the grocer’s.
Diana spins around at the sound of the bell above the door. Her face breaks into a smile as soon as she recognizes him. “Christopher. Speak of the devil.”
Hannibal raises an eyebrow and approaches the counter. “Were you gossiping, Ms Hunt? Rather a crude habit.”
“Ah, well. We shall have to keep it between us.”
“I assure you it will be our little secret,” Hannibal smiles. “Now, I believe you have something for me?”
“Not a social visit, then? You are a heartbreaker, Mr Papin.” She retrieves a paper-wrapped bundle from beneath the counter for him.
Hannibal pays for the ingredients she’d collected for him, plus a little extra. She protests at first until Hannibal insists, “Consider it your retainer, ma’am,” to which she blushes.
That evening Will returns to the narrowboat smelling of hay and an amethyst wave of salvia and dog. Persephone’s paws are dusty and she runs up and down the boat while they prepare dinner.
Will filets the carp he’d caught on Wednesday and Hannibal improvises with Diana’s contribution of local fruits and herbs. Persephone begs at Will’s feet to no avail but Hannibal sneaks her a crust of bread when Will isn’t looking and she trots stealthily into the other room to eat the evidence.
They slide into their customary spaces on the little bench at the dining table and Persephone curls up patiently at their feet, silent but eternally vigilant in case anything falls on the floor.
“Not as many eggs as last time,” Hannibal comments.
“Berrigan’s having trouble with the hens lately. Apparently some of them keep pecking each other, not to mention that - and I think you’ll like this - one of the newer hens has in fact eaten her predecessor.”
“And a born entrepreneur she must be.”
The conversation stalls while Will chews a buttery forkful of fish. “I was thinking omlettes for breakfast with those leftover mushrooms, unless you have other plans for them?”
“Fine, although I really ought to do more with eggs aside from breakfast and baking. Next time, though. Diana had some assorted local meats for us as well, which I was going to grind into sausages.”
“Mmm. You know, I can’t remember the last time we had really good sausage.”
“Perhaps after Persephone’s previous owner went missing?” Hannibal strokes her carefully with his shoe beneath the table. “At least he ended up being good for something after all.”
“Not really,” Will says sharply. He distracts himself with another bite of food and bends to scratch behind Persephone’s ears. “We should’ve made it last longer with that disgusting man, huh girl?”
Hannibal’s pulse doesn’t quicken, exactly, but it certainly considers it. “Shall we watch the stars come out, tonight?”
After dinner they relocate to the bow and drink water infused with cucumber ends. The sky is black overhead and glowing blue at the horizon. The moon is hidden behind trees for now, allowing the bright pricks of starlight dotting the sky to dominate. Crickets and their invisible insect brethren create a chorale as warm and sweet as the humid air.
Persephone never joins them, after dinner. To her, bedtime is a sacred ritual that must be observed on time and she retreats to Will’s bed to dig into the covers and wait for him. It’s because of this that Will sleeps in the ‘master’ bed at the very back of the boat while Hannibal takes the lower bunk in the berth. Hannibal wonders sometimes if Will is aware that Persephone will always on some level be a trophy.
The silence on the bow is comfortable, interrupted only by their aah’s of contentment after taking a drink and the slosh of the river against Wyvern’s hull. Will and Hannibal have explored every possible conversation during their time together, have psychoanalyzed each other to the point death. The intimacy in that is a constant soothing hum woven into Hannibal’s brainwaves, and it seems unbelievable that he had lived without it for most of his life. He’d fed off of Will’s mind and his energy from the moment they’d met, but there is nothing left to stoke that fire - no conflict, no deception, no insecurity with regard to each other. It is a state of contentedness, for the both of them. Finally.
Hannibal is bored out of his mind.
*
There is a room in the halls of Hannibal’s memory that resembles his Baltimore office. The colors are warped, however - sunlight shoots violently through the windows and obscures the titles of the books on their shelves. The ceiling is missing, dissolved into white, and there are no doors.
Hannibal sits before the empty fireplace, breathing and listening. Right now the music in the background is sprung from the Elgar but has morphed into something else. He can hear the traffic outside.
Papers fall soundlessly as snow and obscure Will from view. Will isn’t there physically, but the feeling of him is. He is the hollow call of the clarinet or the soft careful thrum of timpani tones like vibrating heartbeats. In Hannibal’s mind’s eye, Will is sculpted of shadows and buoyed up by hot and cold emotions.
Will and Hannibal have been many things to each other during their history. Deceiver and deceived, saboteur and savior. They’d inflicted horrors onto each other that paled in comparison to their crimes: intimacy, betrayal, abandonment. But somewhere along the way Will had snuck under Hannibal’s skin and tampered with his foundations. Slipped an errant gene into his DNA.
The way Will invades him is by turns horrible and exciting.
A frantic glissando of birdsong jolts Hannibal back to the real world. The sun has peaked overhead and begun its descent and the air hangs heavily beneath it. Hannibal sits on an overturned crate at the bow. He looks back to the tiller and can just glimpse Will’s head peeking over the roof of the boat, eyes intent on the shoreline and oblivious to Hannibal.
Hannibal heads inside to finish cleaning up after lunch. He had washed the dishes, of course, but sauce had splattered onto the burner and the tiny garbage can needed to be emptied before Persephone became too curious. Eventually Will calls Hannibal outside to help with docking, and after some maneuvering around another wayward boat, they finally disembark and go their separate ways - Will with Persephone and Hannibal with his papers.
St Joseph’s is a tiny church with a serviceable piano that the vicar encourages Hannibal to use whenever they stop in Archet. The instrument is nothing special: just an old upright off to the side of the sanctuary but its brassy timbre reminds Hannibal of a harpsichord.
There are no stained glass windows, but the church feels no less holy for it. Stale incense permeates the chapel and an enormous oil painting of the King of Kings looks down on him. Hannibal has always found the mood of places of worship - whether they are opulent or humble - to be meditative.
Hannibal doesn’t follow through on his notion of writing new variations. It occurs to him that doing so would constitute a trophy collection of sorts - each piece a musical imprint to neatly summarize a person’s entire life. As much as Hannibal enjoys creating, he enjoys perfecting even more. All the avenues he might explore with Elgar’s music as a starting point seem to bloom in his mind like wildfire. Having a piano to use accelerates the process, and fragments of a rhapsody are taking shape now and echoing through the empty pews.
Footsteps add a percussive counterpoint to the baseline. Hannibal continues playing all the same, enjoying the rare opportunity for performance as Will emerges beside him at the piano. Hannibal adds a dramatic Picardy third to the end of the piece to elicit a chuckle, which it does.
Will trills idly between the lowest two notes. “We could get a keyboard, you know.”
“It’s not the same. The weight of the keys, no matter how painstakingly crafted, is never quite right. And the sound a garbled nightmare in comparison to the music in this space.” It’s still reverberating. “What time is it?”
“Almost six.”
“Ah, you’ve come to tell me you’re headed to the pub.”
“Your analyses are unparalleled as ever, doctor. Come and find me if I’m out past my bedtime, all right?”
“If I don’t, then Persephone will.”
Hannibal doesn’t stay in the church much longer. The sun isn’t anywhere near to setting, but its heavy slanted beams still signal the waning of the day and persuade Hannibal to go outside. He tucks the rolled sheets of music into his pocket, closes the piano, and leaves the church behind.
Hannibal explores the town, relishing the opportunity to stretch his legs. He keeps to the side of the cobblestone streets to avoid the cars that jostle by. Dogs bark and laundry is strung across balconies and alleyways. Every open window he passes seems to frame the same people watching the same football game at top volume.
Archet is bigger than most of the towns they stop in on the way to Bath, and there are at least three pubs here that Hannibal knows about, but Will favors The Otter Martyr. It’s close to the canal and has become the home base of local fishermen because of this. By the time Hannibal is approaching the pub, the sun is sagging heavily in a rosy sky.
He passes a couple with a cheerful beagle trotting ahead of them. The dog diverges to sniff Hannibal’s shoes for a moment and Hannibal is reminded of Persephone’s arrival the year before. When Will had returned to the boat bloody and cradingly an animal Hannibal had of course known what happened. Hannibal had been delighted, of course, but also jealous he’d been denied participation. Will had needed his help to dispose of the body, however, so Hannibal had taken care of it while Will tended to the traumatized dog.
The little beagle favors Hannibal with one last sniff before hurrying back to his owners.
Hannibal knows the pub is near when the truly awful music it favors reaches his ears. Everyone inside is crowded around the bar and the television, shouting in unison whenever something good or bad happens to their team. The less sport-minded patrons are gathered on the sidewalk on aluminum picnic tables. Trees and buildings block the sun and tinge them all a twilit blue.
Will stands in a circle of people between the pub and its outdoor seating. There’s a mug of dark beer in his hand and a telltale flush up his neck. A woman in jeans and a wheat colored blouse is hanging onto his free arm.
Music throbs unpleasantly in Hannibal’s head as he approaches, but he knows it’s not entirely to blame. And neither does the fault lie in the woman’s carelessly presumptive hand on Will’s forearm. It’s in the unwavering focus that Will is favoring her with. In Will’s unstoppable grin and their kinetic conversation.
Hannibal is hardly aware of making the decision before he has sidled directly up to Will with one arm slung possessively around his shoulders. Will’s reaction is a second delayed, and when he turns to Hannibal in confusion Hannibal presses a kiss swiftly to the corner of his mouth. “So this is where you’ve been hiding, Lee.” Hannibal addresses Will’s companions, pointedly avoiding the woman: “I hate to drag him away, but we really must be getting back to our boat.”
Hannibal pries the beer out of Will’s grip and sets it on a table. Will leaves with him out of surprise rather than true acquiescence. He isn’t stumbling, so Hannibal lets him shake Hannibal’s arm off as soon as they round a corner.
Will won’t look at him. “Last time I checked, shore leave didn’t have a curfew, Chris.”
But Hannibal doesn’t have a reasonable explanation, so he stays silent the rest of the walk back.
Aboard The Wyvern Will is distant despite the inevitability of being on top of each other in a narrowboat. Persephone requires a full five minutes to greet them and Will spends it on floor with her getting his face slobbered on. He feeds her while Hannibal looks through the cupboards and the refrigerator.
“What were you thinking for dinner, Will?”
“Oh, er . . . “ Will affects informality terribly, averting his eyes and folding his arms. “We all had fries like an hour ago, so I’m good. Chips. I think I’m gonna turn in. ‘Night.”
Hannibal watches him leave the kitchen, stalled with the cupboards akimbo and a sudden loss of appetite. Persephone paws at Hannibal’s leg in concern, and Hannibal tells her to go to bed. She trots after Will into the hallway.
*
Will and Hannibal are not the only full time boaters on the Kennet and Avon Canal, but a large percentage is comprised of tourists who inevitably cause traffic jams and other minor catastrophes around the locks. Although Will gravitates toward fellow fishermen and has even struck up casual friendships with a handful of villagers along the canal, he avoids the tourists like the plague. This has the unfortunate side effect of thrusting Hannibal into banal interactions with Americans and public school types play-acting at quaintness. In fact, it was on one such excursion that Hannibal had first encountered Persephone’s former owner, among other ill-fated acquaintances.
Today, however, Will had practically leapt from the breakfast table when he’d spotted the small army of tourists haplessly tackling the lock ahead. He’d left a piece of toast half eaten, hopped onto land, and gone right up to them.
Hannibal is left alone at the tiller. He grows bored of scouring his piece for errors and finds himself doodling in the margins of the manuscript paper. A scene takes shape and it isn’t until he begins to shade it that he’s sure he’s drawing Will, again. This time embattled with the lock like it’s Excalibur and he the valiant knight.
After docking for a silent lunch they leave the boat to take advantage of today’s cooler weather: windy, overcast, and autumnal. The air temperature isn’t actually much lower, but the absence of the sun is a blessing this deep into August. It’s become an unspoken rule that cooler summer days mean a stroll through whatever town they happen to land in. Today Will brings Persephone along, which means he’s planning on going for a run, too. He leaves Hannibal in the dust at the earliest opportunity.
Hannibal picks up a local paper when he buys the groceries and reads it on the grass under a maple tree near the Wyvern. The American president is pontificating and the new Mission Impossible film is number one at the box office again. The crossword is boring, and the news stories are predictable. Hannibal gives up on reading and closes his eyes to savor the atmosphere. Birds are chattering to each other in the woods behind him and the air carries notes of soil, rotten leaves, and distant car exhaust. And dog, now.
Persephone canters up to Hannibal, panting and delighted to tell him through sneezes and dirty paws about the places she’s been today. Will isn’t too far behind, hairline damp and T-shirt clinging to his chest with sweat. He usually goes shirtless when he runs, and the extra piece of clothing feels jarringly out of place. His attempt at modesty has had the opposite effect - the shifting outlines of clavicle and muscle as his chest heaves is more visually provocative than mere nakedness.
When they return to the boat Will guzzles water from a giant bottle in the fridge. He leans against the counter while Hannibal puts away groceries and begins the task of dicing for a mirepoix.
Hannibal has learned to read Will’s silences as well as his body language, and right now Will is composing a sentence with extra care. At length he points out, “You know, the last time one of us put their arm around somebody, you tried to kill the guy. Should I be worried?”
Will isn’t really worried. He’s reaching for levity and trying to ground them in their history, but it hasn’t dissolved the tension. “Romantic entanglements with the locals are dangerous.”
“Maybe I was just having a pint with my ‘mates’, Hannibal.” Some bitterness, now.
Hannibal is curious, so he warns, “Even platonic friendships could be threatening to our freedom . . . ”
Will becomes unreadable. “Uh huh. Well, I think I’m gonna try to get in some fishing before the sun goes. Get me when dinner’s ready.”
When they meet again for dinner Will is much more genial. Fishing always seems to clear his mind and recharge his batteries. He compliments the soup, talks about the pair of deer he’d seen on his run, and holds up his end of the conversation.
Hannibal does, however, feel Will watching him more intently than usual. Hannibal even catches him once, and Will’s fingers slip a little on his spoon.
*
“It really does look black in the moonlight,” Will says, reaching out blindly.
Hannibal goes to help him up but Will only collapses to the ground again, dragging Hannibal down. The pain as Hannibal lands hard on his knees is a welcome distraction from the bullet hole in his side.
“Will.” Hannibal waves a hand before Will’s unfocused gaze. “Will, can you see me? Can you see?”
“This is . . . ”
Hannibal pulls aside Will’s shirt to inspect the gash in his shoulder, running a mental inventory of emergency supplies in the house. There is a tightness in Hannibal’s chest separate from his wounds, and his heartbeat is starting to black out his ability to think. He feels horribly close to simply going blank with panic.
Will smiles, then, and the contortion of his face hastens a stream of blood from his cheek. “It’s beautiful . . . ” He reaches for Hannibal again, finds his shoulder and flexes shaky fingers in the fabric of his shirt. Painted with blood and shadow and exhilarated by the kill, Will looks otherworldly.
“Arms around me, now. Come on, up we go.” Will isn’t much help but Hannibal manages to transfer Will’s weight onto his shoulders enough to lead him back inside the house.
Hannibal deposits Will on the sofa to bleed while he trashes the kitchen and bathrooms for bandages. When he returns Will is threatening to slide off the cushions, and when Hannibal sits down next to him Will clutches Hannibal’s arm. “I wanna make this last forever,” he mutters. “I wanna die and . . . just keep everything like this.”
“Hold still, please.”
“Don’t go without me, this time . . . ”
“Of course.” Hannibal touches Will’s face on the uninjured side, sticky with blood and rough with stubble. Underneath all the carnage of battle, he still smells like Will. In prison Hannibal had forgotten to miss it.
Will’s eyes struggle open. “I don’t speak Italian, Hannibal.”
“The Commonwealth, then.”
“I want a boat,” Will says, starting to drift again. “And a dog.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t go without me.”
“I promise.”
. . . . The bland white expanse of paper blossoms back into view, now. It’s 7 AM, and he is on an English canal. The memory retreats, but has left Hannibal a little breathless.
Hannibal abandons the Elgar variations, for now. Instead he elaborates on the sketch of Will with the tourists, adding some trees to frame and overhang the scene. Willows dip their leaves into the water on either side as Hannibal guides the Wyvern onward to Westcomb where the town grocery should have a shipment of wines for him. Traffic on the canal is unusually heavy, forcing Hannibal to wave or tip his hat politely at their colleagues as the boat sails past.
“Morning,” Will says, jogging up the steps to the stern to join him. “Getting an early start?”
Hannibal nods. “I was hoping to get to Westcomb before lunchtime.”
“Oh, good. Yeah, we are running low on that red you like.” Will seems guileless enough, but it’s unlike him to bounce back from a foul mood so quickly. Then again, it’s been years since Hannibal’s seen Will truly unbalanced, and perhaps he’s evolved in the interim.
Will retreats into the boat but reemerges soon on the roof with a paperback. The longer locks of hair at the nape of his neck swish back and forth in the wind. The rest of the morning passes in silence.
When Westcomb peeks out from the trees ahead around lunchtime Will seems to sense it without looking up. He climbs off the roof and stows the book inside before hopping onto the bank to help tie the boat up.
Once the boat is secured Hannibal goes to the kitchen to start prepping lunch. He has the water heating up and Persephone helping with any dropped pieces of pasta dough while Will thumps around outside. When Will comes into the kitchen he tousles Persephone’s floppy ears to appease her before sidling up beside Hannibal at the sink to wash his hands.
“Potatoes?” Will asks, nodding at Hannibal’s cutting board.
“Gnocchi, eventually,” Hannibal says. “About ten minutes.”
“Right. I’m gonna hop in the shower.”
Hannibal turns his attention to the salad, chopping beetroot and the last of the cucumbers and whisking a vinaigrette together. Once the water reaches boiling he plops the little dumplings in and leans back against the counter to contemplate a sauce. They don’t have the supplies for something meat-based. Sage and butter is a popular choice, but he’s sure they have more interesting spices in the pantry . . .
He rounds the corner too quickly, and smacks solidly into Will.
The cramped little hallway slots them together like sardines, and Hannibal can feel Will’s damp hair and skin, see his slick naked torso, and smell his arousal. Will seems to know all this because he tries to slide past him but unfortunately this movement only drags his erection across Hannibal’s stomach. The towel around Will’s waist is precarious.
Hannibal watches a flush creep up Will’s neck and seizes the moment - he twists his wrist around awkwardly to feel the skin above Will’s hip, down over the rough towel and across to squeeze the hardness jutting out there to which Will tenses, sighs, leans further into him and curses under his breath. When he catches Hannibal’s eye his pupils are blown. “It’s just, I usually . . . you know, take care of this in the shower. But I was hungry today and I thought it would go away on its own, but, er - “ Will won’t elaborate. He’s grinding his hips unconsciously.
“Just a release, then.”
“Yeah,” Will says shakily. Then adds, “Please?”
Something gives way. Whatever frozen lake they’ve been walking across has cracked at last and crashed them into its waters to drown. Hannibal hadn’t even realized there was anything left to shatter between them.
Hannibal shifts sideways to make room. He knocks Will’s towel aside and wraps his hand around him, stroking lightly and finding slickness at the head. “All right?”
Will nods, eyes squeezed tightly shut.
Hannibal fishes vegetable oil out of the pantry with his free hand, doles out a drop and spreads it over Will’s cock. Pumps it faster, now, and Will’s head falls back against a cupboard which exposes his throat exquisitely.
“Fuck fuck fuck. Nobody’s touched me in forever, it’s not gonna take much.”
Hannibal is no virgin, but there is a difference between sexual arousal and sexual desire. In the past he’d affected desire as easily as he’d affected any other emotion required of a situation. He has never felt such a pull toward a sexual partner, however. He’s never responded physically before without physical stimulation, but his cock is straining against his fly.
Will tenses up, digging nails into Hannibal’s forearm and thrusting disjointedly into his hand until he comes. He bows his head almost immediately, avoiding Hannibal’s eyes and curling in on himself. He’s still panting as he mutters, “I gotta clean up. Sorry,” and heads back to his room.
Hannibal only remembers belatedly to check on lunch. The gnocchi has boiled over and spilled to the floor, and the pan he had been heating butter in now contains a charred sticky mess. He turns the burners off and washes his hands.
When Will walks into the kitchen he’s dressed and perfectly casual, and routine clicks comfortably back into place. “Ah. Takeaway it is.”
*
It rains hard the day they arrive in Bath, making docking somewhat more harrowing than usual. Persephone stands vigilant in the doorway to supervise as Will guides the narrowboat and Hannibal signals directions from the bow.
Clothes have to be changed and unattractive parkas donned before they can venture out into civilization. The puddled streets will wreak havoc on Hannibal’s tailored trousers, but he’s not about to pass up the opportunity to dress well. Will holds the umbrella while Hannibal locks the boat and they jog across the pavement to the shelter of a massive oak.
Will’s hair is plastered to his head. He whistles and Persephone comes splashing over to them. “She’s got her grooming appointment at two. You going to the Roman Baths?”
It’s a redundant question because Hannibal always does, but the ritual of asking has been ingrained. “Yes,” Hannibal says dutifully. He bends to scratch Persephone behind the ears. “You might as well skip her appointment, Will. She’ll be muddy again in no time.”
Will shakes his head, sprinkling rainwater. “She needs her nails clipped, too. Hey, can you get more toothpaste at the Sainsbury’s? You know, that one with the - ”
“I know.” Hannibal smiles a little, and they part ways.
Bath’s architecture has an abundance Roman influences, and Hannibal is fond of that ambiance set amid the drearier English weather. It’s a very white and powdery town, even Parisian in its effect. Hannibal feels as at home as it’s possible for him to feel, here.
The baths are clogged with flocks of schoolchildren in matching jackets, today. Hannibal settles in a favorite alcove near the central chamber that shields him from their clamouring. Even the shadows here feel ancient. He pulls out his sketchpad and begins to draw but the sound of rain dropping into steaming green water is so melodic that he quickly abandons it. Music rises up from the depths to reveal itself to him: Major One to Minor Three, One to Three, and a neighbor tone to color it the second time. The melody he’d written in the church isn’t a melody at all, but is meant to be stretched out into a baseline. It will be discordant, but compelling. Unnerving but sweet in its feeling. When the rain stops, Hannibal is alone among quiet stones.
The Sainsbury’s is also packed with people and their umbrellas, and the combination of squeaky shoes and abrasive music congests the soundscape. Hannibal is scanning their selection of spices when his phone buzzes in his pocket.
I passed a nice restaurant on the way back to the hotel. It’s BYOB...
Hannibal frowns at Will’s text. He sets down his shopping basket and replies: Is that an invitation?
You never take me to nice places anymore
Because you dislike experimental fine dining.
Trust me this place is no Fat duck.
Nevertheless I will be happy to join you. Where to?
Hannibal continues shopping. He checks his phone again in line at the register. Will has texted him:
I want to surprise you.
The clouds disperse in time for Hannibal to see sunset burnish Bath into gold. The air is muggy and steam rises from the pavement on his route back to the hotel. By the time he arrives eager street lights are beginning to twinkle on in the shadows. He picks up a key from the concierge and takes a tiny caged elevator up to the third floor.
When Hannibal unlocks the door to their room he is greeted first by Persephone, alert and staring up at him with her tail wagging wildly. Hannibal drops the shopping onto the bed and pats her head until she is satisfied and bounds away.
“Hey,” Will says. He gestures at the bed apologetically. “They didn’t have any doubles. There’s some kinda Jane Austen seminar in town and they’re all booked up, apparently.”
“Apparently.” They’ve never run into this problem at this hotel, which primarily serves locals and knows them well enough to allow for the dog.
“The reservation’s at nine,” Will says, walking across the room to get something from the closet.
Hannibal removes his shoes and socks. The shoes should dry well enough with the help of a blow dryer, but he hasn’t any matching socks to replace the dampened ones. “Would it be possible to borrow a pair of your socks for tonight?”
“Uh, yeah. I think I brought some brown ones too.” When Will turns around he’s carrying a charcoal gray suit that Hannibal has never seen before. It’s not glaringly cheap or glaringly expensive. The color choice seems tactical, however.
Hannibal merely raises his eyebrows. “What’s the occasion?”
Will shrugs unconvincingly as he buttons up a favorite dark chambray shirt that compliments the suit unexpectedly well. “I thought you’d approve.”
“I never said that I didn’t.”
Will struggles with his tie for all of five seconds before handing it to Hannibal in defeat. “Help me? I must have blocked out the skill when I stopped having to teach.”
It’s strange to put a tie on somebody else - it feels too light in Hannibal’s hands, like he’s trying to tie the boat up with an unwieldy ribbon. Will stays perfectly still, and their proximity allows Hannibal to study him. Hannibal realizes that familiarity has caused him to forget what Will really looks like. The imago has become a mundane echo, like playing a piece of music unfeelingly, just notes and none of the animation. Now, Hannibal can see again: the particular curve of his mouth and nose, stubble patterns, leaden eyes and the spot where the skin on his neck is the thinnest.
“That’s a little tight, Hannibal, or are we trying to kill each other again?”
“My apologies.” Hannibal loosens the tie and and steps back. “When should we leave?”
Will checks his watch. “The cab should be downstairs in ten minutes.”
They never take cabs, and they’ve only used ride sharing twice that Hannibal can remember. “Fine,” he says.
Twilight descends during the cab ride and soothes the town with shades of blue. The car picks its way through quiet old roads at a leisurely pace, but they still arrive early. It’s only once they’re in the lobby that Hannibal recognizes where they are.
“Feeling nostalgic?” Hannibal asks.
“Yes. But also hungry.”
The host appears and shows them to a booth with a red mosaic lamp overhead. Hannibal uncorks the pinot noir he’d brought and pours for them both. When he looks up again Will has folded his arms on the table and is looking around the restaurant.
“I thought you were hungry,” Hannibal says.
“I know what I’m getting. I feel like I have to.”
“More nostalgia?”
“Something like that.”
The menu doesn’t seem to have changed much, and Hannibal quickly finds what he’s looking for. The waiter who comes to the table is sour-faced and clearly harassed by having to take their order on an otherwise slow night. Hannibal wouldn’t be surprised if he’d written it down incorrectly.
“You ordered the same thing as last time,” Will points out.
“And so did you.”
Will has used some kind of pine-scented hair gel from the hotel to slick his hair back, revealing the scar on his forehead that has only become more visible with his suntan.
Hannibal unfolds a napkin to lay across his lap in anticipation of the meze. “So Will, why here, and why now?”
Will snorts. “Well, detective, I guess because it rained today and reminded me of the first time we ate here. It’s kind of fuzzy ‘cause I was jetlagged as hell and probably high on narcotics but it was just . . . really comforting, and warm, then. And it sounded like a nice way to end today.”
“That was the first decent meal I’d had since being incarcerated.”
Will nods. “It felt like a new beginning.”
The waiter brings kısır and fried squid and their conversation lulls. Will drowns the squid in too much sauce and eats it with closed eyes and a sigh.
Hannibal skewers one for himself. “And is this another new beginning?”
Will wipes his mouth with his napkin. “Are you really satisfied with the way things are now? Drifting up and down the same river for all eternity like ferrymen of the Underworld?”
Hannibal waits until he’s sampled the wine to answer. “I enjoy the beauty of the countryside. That rusticness. Granted, the boat is a smaller living space than I’m used to, but it is enough. Fresh and seasonal ingredients are easy to come by. We are missing-presumed-dead, at least officially. There is time to compose music and to draw, and there is, simply, nothing to complain about.”
The flash of anger that darkens Will’s face comes and goes swiftly. “I’m not your patient, Hannibal.”
“Meaning?”
“Tell me the truth.”
Hannibal clears this throat and pauses to sample the kısır. “I sometimes find it . . . tedious. The monotony.”
“So what do you propose?”
Hannibal eyes him. “You have something in mind.”
“Only an observation.” Will pauses for a drink of wine. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to be . . . well, happy.”
“But?”
Will leans forward a little, conspiratorial. “I should’ve expected it - that addiction that creeps up on serial killers. It’s not that I want to kill somebody, exactly, but I have been chasing the high of our Dragon slaying for a long time. And no amount of pastoral peace and quiet can hold a candle to that kind of satiation.”
Hannibal waits before replying, “You haven’t spoken to me about violent fantasies since our final hours in America.”
Will raises an eyebrow. “That would be a little redundant, don’t you think?”
“And now you are, literally, chasing the dragon.”
Will laughs. “You never can resist, can you?”
Hannibal smiles back.
“It’s funny. I remember a time when all I wanted was to keep my mind at rest. I wanted it desperately, and I resented you for prolonging chaos at practically every turn. But now that we’ve settled here and I feel more comfortable than I ever have in my life, probably . . . I miss the excitement. And uncertainty. Hell, I even miss uncertainty about you.”
“Life is suffering, as they say.”
“And there’s no excitement fishing for goldfish out of a tank,” Will says.
“The same goldfish, at that,” Hannibal says. “Over and over again. Still, it can’t be helped if we intend to maintain our freedom.”
“Even if you find it tedious?”
Hannibal is so well-practiced at keeping his cards close to the vest, but there is a certain thrill to be had by revealing them, too. “To be in your company has provided for variety even in monotony. I missed that, in the times we were apart. You have become . . . inextricable from what I need to feel satisfied. You’ve become necessary.”
That makes Will smirk around the eyes. “So you do ache for me, then?”
Hannibal studies him. “That’s an interesting way of putting it.”
“But not inaccurate.”
“No; not inaccurate.”
Will picks up his spoon and tries some of the kısır, detached while Hannibal is unbalanced. “You know, I never let myself think about the nature of my feelings for you after I knew what you were. But that was a long time ago, and uh, at this point . . . pretty hypocritical.”
“You think too much, Will. Or rather, you attach emotion to your thoughts in a manner that can become destructive.”
“Ha, yeah. I’m aware. I should really get a therapist one of these days.”
Hannibal asks, “And before?”
“What?”
“Before you knew what I was - in what ways did you think of me, then?”
“I - “
The waiter interrupts them, wordless and yet excessively loud as he puts the plates down.
Hannibal clears his throat. “Excuse me, sir, could you please bring by more water, when you have a moment?”
The waiter sighs. “Oh, of course, sir. I have literally nothing else to do right now but top off your half full glass of water.”
Hannibal glances around the empty restaurant and smiles. “I see. Well, no rush then.”
The ramekin with Hannibal’s sauce spills a bit on its journey to the tabletop and the waiter leaves without taking their appetizer plates.
Will glances meaningfully after the waiter. “A promising candidate, no?”
“Perhaps. If we didn’t come to Bath regularly.”
“You’re assuming we would be suspected,” Will says. “Why? Have you lost your touch, Dr. Lecter?”
“I suppose I’ve lost the desire to jeopardize what we have.”
“We wouldn’t be if we’re careful.” Will’s eyes are a bottomless blue despite the reddish overhead light. “If we’re good at it.”
Hannibal watches for microexpressions and finds nothing useful. It’s both infuriating and delightful to be unsure of him, again. “Are you enjoying this, Will? Tempting me like this? Does it help you to believe that the balance of power has shifted in your favor?”
“We’re evenly matched,” Will says airily. “I think I’ve proved that a couple of times . . . ”
“A worthy opponent always makes for a more satisfying game.”
“Hm.” Will is still inscrutable. He begins cutting the meat on his plate.
“In any case such things take careful planning,” Hannibal says. “You should know. How many would-be serial killers have been caught because of disorganized kills?”
“Maybe,” Will says, “serial killers are an evolutionary necessity that evolved after humans eliminated all other predators. In order to continue thinning the herd. You ever think of that, Hannibal?”
“Often.” Hannibal nods to Will’s plate. “Your dinner is getting cold.”
Will’s dish is garnished with leeks and baby potatoes but he bypasses them for now. He pierces one of the bite sized chunks of lamb he’d cut and closes his eyes with pleasure at the taste.
“Thank you,” Will says after swallowing.
Hannibal raises his eyebrows.
“For coming with me. I’ve been craving this for ages.”
“Yes,” Hannibal says, following the glint of Will’s fork. “Yes, so have I.”
Back at the hotel they fall into ritual again. Hannibal uses the tiny hotel pool well past its technical hours to swim soothing laps back and forth. Upstairs, Will soaks in a bathtub - the sort of luxury that doesn’t exactly come standard on narrowboats.
When Hannibal returns to the room he finds Will watching television (another luxury) and Persephone snoozing across Will’s outstretched legs. Hannibal pulls out a book and sits beside him on the bed, only halfway paying attention to the bland 90’s action movie Will’s got on. Will mutes the commercials but they don’t speak to each other during them.
Once the credits are rolling Will extracts himself from Persephone and heads to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Persephone scooches over until she is pressed against Hannibal’s side instead. Hannibal pats her head, marks his place in the book and joins Will in the bathroom to brush his teeth as well. Will lays a steadying hand on Hannibal’s lower back when he passes behind him and into the room.
“Well, goodnight,” Will tells Hannibal once they’ve both slipped under the covers. It’s another thing they don’t say to each other.
“Goodnight, Will.”
Hannibal turns off the light and feels Will squirming around to get comfortable. Persephone leaps up onto the bed with a jingle and settles at their feet. Hannibal stares up at the ceiling, relishing the huge sweet stillness of being on land, and is soon sinking gratefully into sleep.
He wakes again suddenly. The reason isn’t immediately clear to until Hannibal breathes in through his nose.
Sharp, musky arousal tangled up in Will’s underlying scent. And when Hannibal glances over Will is writhing, most of his chest and hips pressed into the mattress and his face turned awkwardly away from Hannibal against the pillow. By the rhythm of his breathing Hannibal is sure he is asleep.
It’s much different than watching Will under hypnosis or during a seizure. The idea of Will being aroused enough to have a wet dream gives Hannibal a voyeuristic thrill. Did this happen to Will all the time? Or was it a result of their conversation, tonight? Their recent physical intimacy?
A tiny moan escapes Will’s lips and travels directly into Hannibal’s bloodstream to pool in his groin. It isn’t the sexual display itself that affects Hannibal - it’s the application of it to Will, specifically. Hannibal has thought of everything, but in the moment he feels short-circuited.
He presses fingertips to the thin T-shirt that Will wears to bed and traces the jut of shoulder there, chases Will’s body heat up to his bared neck. Will’s hair is softened from his bath, residually damp among the curls closest to his scalp. Hannibal strokes, and Will’s body relaxes further into the mattress.
The room is saturated in the fuzzy blue of nighttime except for the shard of orange streetlight across the curve of Will’s back. The covers quiver with Will’s lazy gyrations against the mattress.
Hannibal’s hand slithers beneath the covers to settle over Will’s hip and pull him up onto his side, closer but still facing away. The sudden proximity of Will’s hair brings a wave of juniper shampoo and the faint acridity of sweat. His body heat is radiant. Hannibal’s hand hasn’t moved from Will’s hip and he holds his breath while waiting to see if Will awakens. He doesn’t.
Hannibal nudges against the back of Will’s neck to inhale his scent again and Will shivers. Hannibal breathes hot air across the nape and Will sighs.
Hannibal lets his hand wander around to Will’s front and encounters Will’s palm pressed ineffectively against his erection. Hannibal removes Will’s hand and grips his half-hard cock carefully through his boxers, not even sure whether he wants Will to wake up or not. Hannibal strokes gently, just feeling the softness of the fabric, but Will’s cock twitches and fills Hannibal’s hand. Fluid seeps from the head through Will’s boxers and Hannibal has had it with them - he fumbles to pull Will’s cock out through the flap and it’s at this moment that Will makes a noise in the back of his throat, falling back against Hannibal a little. “Nice, mm,” he mumbles. “Feels nice . . . ”
“What were you dreaming about, Will?”
Will’s body jerks, erection flagging a bit. “Wait a . . . isn’t this a dream?”
“It can be. If you want it that way.”
“Oh,” Will says again, more alertly. His cock pulses in Hannibal’s grip. “Oh . . . “
Persephone, who Hannibal had momentarily forgotten about, grumbles to herself and hops off the bed.
Will is thrusting forward a little, now. “Hannibal. You don’t have to.”
“Are you asking me to stop?”
Will laughs, then gasps. “I didn’t say that.”
Hannibal presses his body closer, compelled by the note of desperation in his voice. Hannibal’s lips brush Will’s neck and his nose delves into fragrant curls.
Will leans back against him, trapping Hannibal’s own erection with softness and heat. Hannibal can feel Will’s thighs tensing, can practically taste the expression that must be on his face.
Will grunts in frustration abruptly. He seizes Hannibal’s hand, dragging it up to spit inelegantly into his palm before guiding it back to his cock. He squeezes Hannibal’s hand tighter, using it to pump quicker and rougher but it must be good because Will’s body shudders and vague vocalizations run loose between his harshening breaths. When Will comes it’s messy and bursts through Hannibal’s fingers into Will’s and all over the hotel sheets. The hand covering Hannibal’s doesn’t relax even when the rest of his body slackens. It’s not until their breathing has collectively slowed that Will’s thumb strokes listlessly along Hannibal’s tendons before releasing him.
*
The weather clears for their departure from Bath, but the rain has sucked out much of the humidity. Temperatures drop and the air feels crisper. Still summery, but the sun has cooled and some trees are turning to yellow. Will starts wearing jackets in the mornings and Persephone stays curled up in his bed a little longer.
Over breakfast one day Will asks, “Do you still want to head back toward London?”
And Hannibal stops cutting apart his omelette. “You don’t want to?”
“We always travel back and forth on the same canals,” Will says. “Wandering to and fro on the earth, and walking up and down it . . . “
Hannibal watches Will watching his coffee steam. “And where do you want to wander?”
“I dunno. Maybe the coast, again.”
“Boston? Or father?”
“I was looking over the maps . . . we’ve never done the west coast.”
“Narrower canals, that way,” Hannibal points out. “Uncharted waters.”
“Well, it can’t hurt to try.” Looking to Hannibal now.
“All right.”
Hannibal enjoys the onward march of seasons - the way the backdrop cascades from green to brown to white, although it snows very seldom here. The first of September comes and goes and the Wyvern turns northward. Will joins Hannibal at the tiller in the mornings more often.
“I always forget how cold it gets on the water,” Will says, drinking oolong and wrapped in a fleece blanket beside him.
“August, die she must.”
Will pulls a face. “You really must’ve run out of sage little adages if you’re trying to pass off Simon and Garfunkel lyrics as your own.”
“You had a CD in Wolf Trap,” Hannibal says. “The dogs and I enjoyed listening to it.”
Will chuckles. “Is there any part of my life you haven’t completely invaded?”
“I could ask you the same.”
Will’s smile changes, but he retreats into his tea and turns his attention to the sunrise.
They dock a couple of miles past Bishop Leigh. Will takes Persephone into town to visit a bakery and look for a tackle shop while Hannibal spends most of the day preparing the dinner.
After everything is roasting or simmering Hannibal relocates to the bow and looks over the music he’s written so far. The smell of food and woodsmoke isn’t as dominant out here - it braids itself with the damp metallic river and faint faraway flowers, soil and hay and greenery. Hannibal’s variations had begun too intricately, he now realizes, and he spends an hour erasing and recopying until his hand begins to cramp. Will returns to the boat soon afterward but sits with Hannibal on the bow until he has finished writing.
Will sets the table while Hannibal plates the food. Will laughs when he realizes what is being served. “You’re off by a couple months,” he points out.
“I am aware. But autumn is imminent.”
Will’s smile widens. “So . . . are you going to give me the spiel?”
“Since you asked nicely . . . ” Hannibal steps back from the table and indicates the dishes. “Sausage and root vegetable kebabs, smoked with apple wood. The sausage is inspired by Greek lukániko - it contains fennel and orange peel but I have used beef, in this case. For the salad, bulgar with walnuts and pomegranate seeds. And the turkey, of course.” Hannibal bends to pick up a knife and begins to carve it. “That I tried to keep mostly traditional.”
Will sits down. “Sometimes it feels like I’m back in Baltimore. Traveling back in time.”
Hannibal puts a slice of dark meat on Will’s plate. “Traveling to when, exactly?”
Will sighs. “To a time before we’d gotten around to hurting each other, I suppose.”
“No need to time travel to times of innocence. The pain we have caused each other doesn’t seem to have been much of a deterrent to our relationship.”
“You say that like it’s a good thing.“
“The goodness of a thing generally depends on one’s perspective.”
Will snorts. “You always were a silver lining kind of guy.”
“I prefer not to waste my time with regrets. Not when there is so much else to enjoy.”
The conversation lulls while they eat. Persephone has settled at their feet, perfectly still but wagging her tail violently as the watches turkey travel from their plates to their mouths. The sun begins to pour in heavily from the west facing windows, warming the table with orange and glinting in the hair on Will’s arm and the cutlery.
“This is delicious, by the way,” Will says. “Thank you. It must have been a lot of work.”
“It’s nothing.”
“I wanted to die, you know,” Will says abruptly. “At your house on the bluff. I wanted to kill both of us.”
“I know,” Hannibal says. “You were somewhat delirious and spoke of it. But you have never told me why.”
“It wasn’t about stopping us from killing again, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he says. “It just felt so important to memorialize what we had done - what we shared.”
“But we didn’t die.”
“No. I thought anything after killing the Dragon would be mundane, and I guess it is, but it’s also . . . comfortable. Being with you when it’s not about mind games or murder is still just as comfortable.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Hannibal says. “I have no taste for suicide.”
“Although . . . “
“Yes?”
“Things could always be more interesting. We’ve got away with a lot of things I didn’t expect us to.” Will’s eyes look greenish in the light, otherworldly.
After dinner they take the sangiovese Hannibal had picked up in Bath to the bow. Hannibal sits on one of the crates but Will leans back against the railing, one elbow bent casually there while the other cradles his glass. The moon is low this early in the evening but it is large, peeking through patches of cloud and brushing their undersides with silver. Water laps against the Wyvern and insects chorus in the field they’ve docked beside. A smattering of bats startle and flit away into the night sky.
“Thank you again for dinner,” Will says at length. “It was thoughtful of you.”
“It was my pleasure.”
“Yeah,” Will says, though he sounds distracted. “I know that. Can you hold this for a second?”
Will’s wineglass is thrust into Hannibal’s free hand. Hannibal barely has time to blink before Will encroaches, bending closer and tilting Hannibal’s head back. Will kisses him unambiguously, ungently and sweet with wine and the velvet heat of his tongue. Hannibal is quickly consumed with lightheadedness and a heavy need that rushes from chest to stomach to settle in his groin. Will’s fingers drift through Hannibal’s hair and down to the base of his skull to tighten. He smells entirely ordinary, but the concentration of him has become so pungent. Hannibal thinks he might drop their glasses and not even care.
Will retreats before it can happen, however. Standing in front of Hannibal, still close enough to hear Will’s quickening breath over the other nighttime sounds.
Will laughs to himself. “When we first started therapy I thought you wanted a physical relationship. But then you never did anything, so I figured I’d been wrong and it was just . . .”
“Obsession?” Hannibal supplies.
Will laughs again. “I was going to say professional curiosity.”
“And you would’ve been generous.”
Hannibal places the glasses on an upturned crate and stands as well. Will backs up instinctively and Hannibal just follows until Will is leaning back against the railing again. His eyes are wide now and ridden with moonlight.
“I’m still curious about you, Will.”
Will closes the distance again. It’s a gentler kiss and Will’s breath ghosts over Hannibal’s lips, hot in the cool darkness around them. Hannibal wraps his hands around the railing on either side of him and presses them closer. There’s a hum from Will while the kiss slides deeper. Will’s hands sweep around Hannibal’s body to trace his shoulders, back, hips. Hannibal’s shirt is lifted and Will’s nails dig into the skin there.
Will holds Hannibal’s upper lip between his teeth gently and licks along it, leans into him until Hannibal is forced to take a step backward. His hands seek purchase but Will catches them and presses them into the door when they hit it. Will’s uneven stubble brushing Hannibal’s jaw and cheek while they kiss there. Their height difference is only slight but it’s perfect for this. Sloshing water and late summer bugs contribute to the dizzy white noise that settles pleasantly in Hannibal’s mind.
But it has to break eventually. Will pulls back to catch his breath. Hannibal reaches behind himself to twist the doorknob and they go back inside the boat.
Cooking smells still linger in the kitchen. Will walks backward through the hallway, tugging at Hannibal’s belt to reel him along. Hannibal pries Will’s hand off once they reach the pantry and crowds him against the wall. Will laughs, then moans at the feeling of Hannibal’s mouth on his neck. Cants his hips up into Hannibal’s and clutches at his shoulders.
The growling isn’t coming from Will, Hannibal realizes, and they pull apart to look at Persephone who is shuffling restlessly beside them. Will rolls his eyes. “She thinks we’re fighting. It’s okay, girl,” he tells her, scratching around her ears until she is appeased and trots back toward the bow.
“On average, she would be right,” Hannibal says.
Will raises his eyebrows. “There’s still time.” He kisses Hannibal again before slipping past him into the dark hallway. Hannibal follows, measuring the steps by memory and avoiding the shelf that juts out after the bathroom. Will sparks back into being when he flicks on the light in his bedroom. Illuminated like something holy.
Will must hear Hannibal approaching but he does nothing to stop it. Hannibal’s arms encircle him from behind. He mouths the skin at the nape of Will’s neck and breathes in the scent of his hair and feels Will shiver against him.
Will turns and captures his mouth again. He grabs at Hannibal’s shirt, trying to pull it off but their inability to stop kissing makes it difficult. “Goddammit,” Will says. “Just take this off.”
Hannibal has to step back to rid himself of it. Then he takes hold of Will’s collar and kisses him again before starting work on the buttons of Will’s shirt. Will kicks his shoes off and keeps bumping into Hannibal while he wriggles out of his pants and boxers. Will’s hands tangle with Hannibal’s in the confusion and it drives Will’s palm against Hannibal’s fly. Hannibal gives up on Will’s remaining buttons and just presses Will’s hand more firmly against himself with a sigh. Will’s hand curls around the outline of Hannibal’s cock and Hannibal thrusts forward without meaning to.
Hannibal looks up - Will’s pupils are beautifully blown and his lips are bruised. He has to kiss them.
Will growls into it, leaning and leaning them closer to the bed. Hannibal lets him, but uses the momentum to flip them and pin Will to the mattress instead. Beneath him Will is panting and annoyed and delighted. He gives up struggling against Hannibal’s grip and cranes his head up to find his mouth. Hannibal kisses back too hard, needing to feed on the wantonness of him. Will’s shirt rides up with their undulations and Hannibal helps it, hands sliding under to catalogue Will’s ribs and shoulders. He yanks its final buttons apart and the fabric entirely off.
The motion propels Will up onto his elbows. Then he curls the rest of the way up while scraping teeth across Hannibal’s chest, neck, chin, tilting up to his mouth. Hannibal supports Will’s head with his hands and Will mutters, “Thanks,” between kisses. Hannibal has to spread his legs a little wider to continue straddling Will comfortably. The soft heat of skin against skin melts into the glow of the lamp.
They’re pressed so tightly together but Will’s hand still worms its way between them. He works Hannibal’s fly open with quiet deftness and Hannibal tears his mouth away to exhale sharply. He can feel Will’s grin against his jaw as he strokes Hannibal’s cock.
“Harder?” Will asks. “Softer?”
“Just this.”
Will laughs. “Really, just this, forever?”
Hannibal nods, caught by the red pleasure of Will’s grip on him.
“Hannibal?”
“Yes.”
Will removes his hand and spits into it, returns it to Hannibal’s cock to stroke him more steadily. Will doesn’t kiss him now, just lingering over Hannibal’s mouth and breathing his breath while he strokes him. Hannibal can feel Will’s cock trapped between them. Hovering over Will makes him feel precarious, but want and sensation keep him anchored.
The touch to Hannibal’s upper lip startles him. Will is close and dark-eyed, watching Hannibal’s mouth and tracing it before kissing him swiftly again. He spits into that hand too and shifts beneath him until their cocks are better aligned and he can grasp them both. It’s the sight of it more than the feeling that jolts Hannibal into further depths of arousal - he can feel himself leaking, throbbing almost painfully now. The sound of Will’s sighs and gleam of his slick parted mouth in the lamplight. Bewitching gnarled silhouettes cast onto the wall in black and amber. Hannibal leans his forehead against Will’s and Will’s thighs begin to tense, one hand flies up to grip Hannibal’s arm painfully and he grinds every part of himself into Hannibal as he comes.
Hannibal pushes Will’s weakening hand aside to take over stroking himself. Will falls back onto his elbows again and watches Hannibal with hooded eyes and wrecked hair. He sighs and smiles dazedly up at him. Hannibal follows him quickly over the edge.
*
The first frost comes and goes within the next week, and as they near the coast the leaves all bleed into fresh shades of yellow. It’s been increasingly colder and rainier, and plenty of leaves have been knocked to the ground prematurely. Layered over the metal and silt of the canal is the sickly sweet smell of their rot.
They could’ve pressed on and reached the coast today, but the sunset sneaks up on them and they dock for the night around six o’clock. A depleted pantry persuades them to head into town for dinner. Persephone, who is cozied up in the bed, stays behind.
The sun hasn’t disappeared below the horizon yet, but it has abandoned its post enough that street lights blink on and gild the trees and tarmac. Will leans into Hannibal a bit while they walk - he’s been doing that more. Ignoring the idea of space between them.
The pub they end up in is full of tourists, presumably because of the affordability of lodging away from Liverpool proper. Hannibal can count at least two groups of Americans or Canadians. The table that Will finds for them is adjacent to the bar where throngs of people are standing and joking together.
“It’ll be properly autumn soon,” Hannibal says once the loudest group has finally settled their tab.
“It’s always picturesque,” Will says, “but I do miss the red leaves. There aren’t as many here.”
Hannibal takes another crostini of the cherry glazed duck pâté they are sharing.
“I didn’t think you would deign to eat that.”
“It’s bland,” Hannibal concedes. “But not inedible.”
Will snorts. “High praise coming from you . . . “
Another large group exits the pub and the acoustics begin to mutate. The man leaning against the bar beside them is now audible: “This weather is insufferable, it really is,” he tells the bartender, but Hannibal is unable to hear her reply.
“Well, yes, of course London has its fair share of dreary days but the cold is, ugh, so much more bitter up here. Ah, cheers.” The bartender hands the man a fresh beer and he takes an appreciative sip. “This all you have on tap, then? No, it’s fine. I guess it’ll have to be, won’t it?”
She asks him something.
“Just little old me, I’m afraid. Divorced, oh, four years ago, now? Not to worry - the wife wasn’t interested in me having a decent career, anyway. It’s freed me up a lot. Of course, I didn’t anticipate the firm shipping me up here for some ungodly reason.”
The bartender laughs and says something a little snide back to him.
“Not so bad, eh? You haven’t met my neighbor. This mutt of his barks its stupid head off whenever the bloke pulls into the driveway. And of course it’s one of those vicious breeds. Honestly an animal like that hasn’t any business in my neighborhood, to begin with.”
Will has stopped chewing. He concentrates on the table with a piece of toast halfway to his mouth.
“Have I talked with him?” the man is saying. “Oh, certainly. It’s like talking to a bloody brick wall. He’s as thick as one, anyway. Hasn’t done a bloody thing about the racket. Believe you me, sweetheart, one more pile of shit in my yard and I’m taking matters into my own hands. I’ve a right to defend my own property, haven’t I?” The man takes a drink and shakes his head. “Suppose I should’ve expected this sort of thing moving into scouser country . . . ”
Hannibal clears his throat. “Actually Will, I believe I may be hungry again soon. Perhaps we might have something a little more filling, later tonight?”
It takes Will a minute to hear him. When he does meet Hannibal’s eyes he reacts to whatever he finds there by dropping his voice to reply, “Yeah. I’m in the mood for something else.”
The Londoner suddenly stands and is shrugging into his coat.
“I’m starving, actually,” Will adds. He slaps a £20 note on the table and grabs his own coat before Hannibal can say anything. He reaches for Hannibal without taking his eyes off the man and leads him out onto the street.
Hannibal begins to wrap a scarf around his neck but Will catches hold of it and pulls him into a kiss, warm in the creeping chill of evening and far from chaste. Will slips the scarf off. “It might come in handy, don’t you think?”
“There are countless variations on this particular theme,” Hannibal says. “I would like to see one of yours.”
Ahead, the Londoner pauses in the empty street to light a cigarette. “You sure this is a good idea?” Will asks, a little breathlessly.
“Not at all,” Hannibal says. “But won’t it be interesting?”
*