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The small house on the outskirts of Bear Point creaks with each blast of wind. The sky has been gray for hours, but night has finally sunk in and with it, the snow storm has started. The news has been predicting it for days now, and what’s worse is that it’s a day behind schedule, but the clouds had been so oppressive that most people were staying inside regardless.
They’ve stayed in today too, less because Will wanted to and more because Hannibal was on edge. This was like a divine punishment, he was practically crawling up the walls with anxiety over the incoming storm, and Will didn’t want to put any more pressure on him than necessary. It would be bad for his recovery to stress him too much.
All Will’s done today is take some extra steps to ensure everything will be fine during and after the storm, patching up anywhere that might cause a draft, reinforcing their greenhouse, covering his saltwater ruined truck and putting Hannibal’s motorcycle in the workshop out back.
The backup generator was dead though, something he wasn’t aware of when he bought the house – but any person only wanting to take cash for a house they consider a family home probably wasn’t the most reliable with information anyway – so he had to go into town yesterday, and then out to Yarmouth just to find one that would do for the time being.
That was bad, too. Everywhere was packed, busy. It seemed like everyone in the providence was out trying to buy last minute supplies. Will was happy enough that he could get away with balaclava due to the frigid temperatures, and that Hannibal stayed home. Only one of them is currently labeled as an international threat, and it isn’t Will.
They’re both thankful for the storm though, regardless of how unsettled it makes Hannibal. The man who sold them the house, a lanky 30 something year old named Caleb with the social graces of any other pig, had met his end three days prior and had been picked clean. Left in the woods, not art, not anything.
He was a problem, the kind of person that can’t exactly help he wasn’t raised right, but nonetheless, a local menace who let poor raising become an excuse for all sorts of disgusting behavior. He always had something to say about someone, didn’t just sell houses with shitty generators but also busted cars, and had left more dogs tied up in his yard to die than anyone cared to admit but his most damning crime was how weird he was to kids–teenage girls.
So, they strung him up in a tree in the woods behind his own home, like he was some kind of wild animal, and bled him out against the dirt and the leaves. His blood screamed to a god he swore he loved, but no one answered, and Will slit his throat from ear to ear and watched the frozen ground refuse to soak him in.
There was no art to it. Just a means to an end, two birds with one stone. That doesn’t mean they didn’t have their fun, his tongue was cut out and his eyes were removed and he still didn’t get to die for nearly four more hours.
It was so cold that day, cold enough Hannibal went and sat in the truck once he told Will what to put in their cooler. Cold enough that both of their hands cramped from how stiff they got, and Will’s eyes watered and Hannibal was mute for a few hours after.
He cut him down once he was done, took the rope to burn, and then left him there for whatever scavengers to pick at before the storm would freeze him solid and bury him under inches of snow. He wondered, briefly, how long it would take anyone to really notice he was missing after the storm. If anyone would even report it to the police.
Most of what they have of him is kept outside in their deep freezer, but Will’s got a piece of jerky in his hand that’s seasoned just right (all his own doing, Hannibal has strong feelings against dried meats in this form) and Caleb may have been skinny, but that didn’t take away from the natural flavor of his meat.
Will stands at the back door for longer than he should, watching the snow coat everything like it’s in a mad dash. In the morning, when the storm has passed and the sun comes out, the snow and the ice on the windows will catch the light just right and it’ll get Will out on the porch with a cup of coffee and a blanket. It’ll make him feel old, settled, and he’ll listen to the sounds of Hannibal in the kitchen. Right now though, he feels like a speck, his soul screaming out to god in the midst of hellfire.
He chews on the last bit of his jerky, savoring the smoky flavor against his tongue before he closes the back door and pads into the kitchen, his socked feet making the old floorboard whine as he finally pours the hot water from the kettle into a mug. He stoops a teabag in it and then stirs in a spoonful of honey the way Hannibal told him to.
It’s a small gesture, and he’s hoping it’ll be enough to calm him.
“How do you feel, sweetheart?” He asks as he walks through the threshold between the kitchen and their cozy living room, handing Hannibal the cup with delicate fingers. “Careful, it’s hot.”
He takes it from him as Will sits, blowing the steam from the top before sipping it. For a moment his eyes close and his shoulders dip down. “Very well. Thank you, beloved. This is perfect.”
“The news said it’s unprecedented. Close to a real life blizzard. It’s fucking horrible.” Will laughs quietly, moving the blanket Hannibal has draped over his lap so they can share. “Luckily, it’ll be gone by the morning though.”
Hannibal already knows that; he's been listening to the news religiously, but Will says it regardless. He hopes it reassures him, he hopes that it makes it seem more real to him that this isn’t as bad as the little boy in the back of his mind insists it is.
“I haven’t seen snow like this since I was a young boy,” Hannibal glances over his shoulder to look out one of the windows, but the curtains are drawn to hide it from them. “Even in Baltimore.”
“I’ve never seen snow like this. Wolf Trap got snow but this is something else.” Will gentles his voice, leaning into Hannibal, “my dad never moved us anywhere cold during the winter. Alabama, Georgia, South Carolina.”
Hannibal’s eyebrows go up at his little list. There were other states too, he’s sure, in the West, but Will rarely talks about them and Hannibal has learned some things are better left unsaid. “Florida?”
“The Keys,” Will specifies.
The entire house goes quiet for a moment and then he hears the generator kick on. Beside him, Hannibal is tense and Will pulls the throw blanket off the back of the couch and adds it even though they don’t need it at the moment.
“The water is beautiful there.” He says around the rim of his mug, his knuckles are holding it so tightly that they’ve bleached and Will’s worried he might shatter it. “I went once, for a week.”
Will hums and Hannibal leans his head against his shoulder, settling the mug in his lap and aiming for something like comfort.
“Did it snow a lot, when you were a child?” He glances down at Hannibal.
Something dark comes over his face for a moment but as quickly as it comes, it’s gone again. His eyes cast down toward his tea, and he presses just a bit closer. “The castle was warm, that’s what I try to remember the most. We had a grand fireplace.”
Will turns his head, kissing his hair, and breathing him in. He saw pieces, he knows some. The dilapidated ruins of what was once a great house, one that will die with Hannibal. It must have been something in its day, he imagines Hannibal as a child, running through the halls, watching the snow from beautifully crafted windows.
“As a small child, my father used to take Mischa and I to lay by the fireplace during the cold nights. When they turned part of the castle into an orphanage, all the children would lay by it the same.” His voice shakes on the last few words and he brings the tea up to his lips again.
He curls into Will, an action of vulnerability that they’re both still getting used to. The first time this had happened, Will flinched away, but now he knows this is a marker in their relationship, something that tells him that he feels safe here. In turn, Will takes his legs and moves them so they’re over his lap and he kisses Hannibal tenderly.
“The first time I saw snow and it stuck, we were in North Carolina. It stuck for half a day, less than two inches but it was magical for a kid so used to the Southern heat. I went out with no shoes on and by the time I came back in I was way too cold, but it was amazing.” Will breathes a laugh at the memory of it. He was too old to act that way, 15 or so, but he didn’t know better. “Hurt like hell to get in the shower after that.”
Hannibal makes a noise, something like a laugh but it doesn’t quite get there. “Your father let you go out without shoes?”
Will hesitates, debates. “He was too drunk to know. It was in February, the anniversary of my mom’s death.”
Not that Richard Graham wasn’t a drunk every other month of the year, February always felt justified in Will’s mind, even though it had been ten years since his mother died. Maybe it was just to cope with how much worse he got, how much more volatile.
“I apologize,” Hannibal clears his throat and takes another swallow of his tea. “I didn’t know.”
“Don’t,” Will tucks his arm around Hannibal’s shoulders, “tell me more about those good winters.”
Hannibal blinks, thinking about it. Throughout the years of his adult life he’s tried to distance himself from those memories as best he could. Even now, it’s hard to bring anything to the front of his mind that doesn’t remind him of the cabin out in the woods and the taste of stew.
“I would make snow angels outside of my mother’s room, and she would say that they were her little guardian angels.” He leans forward to put the mug on the coffee table and then settles back against Will.
Will’s eyebrows knit together. “Your parents had separate bedrooms?”
“Nobility often did.” He tells him, but he hadn’t known about the others. Or if he did, he didn’t remember them. That’s just something he read once, and it made sense to him. “When Mischa was born, I did the same outside of her room.”
“Not your dad’s?” He already knows the answer to the question but he thinks it’s right to ask anyway. It shows Hannibal that he cares, that he’s paying attention.
That’s been their biggest issue, or, it was Hannibal’s. He’s questioned the validity of Will’s feelings more than once since they fell off that cliff. It took a lot for Will not to take it to heart, some of it was his own doing after all and some of it was probably because of some mental damage from the fall, and now he’s working on finding little ways to reassure Hannibal that he’s an active participant in this. A willing one.
“He was a stern man, very serious. He would have only appreciated it in the way a parent does. No extra thought.” Hannibal says, “I knew from a young age who would appreciate those efforts more.”
Will hums at that. “Did Mischa ever make snow angels with you then?”
Hannibal’s throat clicks. “I once attempted to convince my tutor that she should, he disagreed, she was still so small. The last winter we spent together…” There’s a distant look in his glassy eyes. “She was just old enough, the cold was unforgiving, however.”
Tucking the blanket a bit more tightly around Hannibal, he allows them to fall into silence for some time. They’re both together, warm, and having Hannibal in his arms like this makes Will feel like he’s finally come out of the wilderness after wandering for so long. A punishment he brought upon himself.
Eventually, Hannibal’s body relaxes more, the tension bleeding out and moving to settle himself completely into Will’s warm embrace. The thought crosses his mind that Hannibal probably took a valium before he brought him his tea and that it’s probably for the best.
“I imagine everything’ll be frozen in the morning,” he whispers softly, one hand brushes some of Hannibal’s hair back. “Tree limbs everywhere. Good for me though, saves me on wood I’ll need for the burn barrel.”
“Yes,” Hannibal curls more into Will when a particular hard gust of wind shakes the house. He’s heavy, close to sleep, but even whatever he’s taken can’t protect him from the memories of a childhood he craves to forget. Not like Will can. “Good for you.”
Will wraps his arms around him, listening to whistling wind for a few minutes longer and the way the soft breaths of his husband mixes with it. He presses one more kiss against his hair before scooping him into his arms and carrying him to their bedroom.