Archive of Our Own

Will Graham hated parties, really, he did.

But he also sorta fucking loved them too.

On the rare occasion that Will did allow Beverly to drag his sorry ass from his house to the Cherrywood Reservoir, was only ever due to one of two possible things. The first potential catalyst was most likely just the fact that Will was fixing for a night out. Most of this time this followed a fight with his father that ended in harsh words, slammed doors, and broken glass. The room itself was never big enough to hold the temperament of both Graham’s at once and the house itself was built on shaky foundations. Will wondered if they ever even stood a chance to begin with. Maybe the support beam never existed, maybe the Bayou had been sucking them into her mud for years. Maybe he was half dead as it stood. Sometimes he needed a reminder that he wasn’t. Which brings up the second potential catalyst.

Will knew what he was to an extent. 

He knew his name was Willoughby—named after his great-grandfather—but his daddy never called him that because he hated the reminder. He was the son of Beau and Amelia Graham who had eloped under the eyes of an ever despondent God. They both were the only children born to their parents so Will didn’t have family like other people did. He also knew with the same startling clarity with which a child may recall their primary school lessons, that for some unknown reason after a year of knowing her son, Amelia left and didn’t look back. Will was aware his daddy blamed him for this.

Will knew he inherited his mama’s looks and daddy’s temper and both only got more prominent when you added liquor to the mix. Will knew he liked the feeling of a flat chest and farmhand muscles beneath his hands alongside the dull burn of facial hair on his cheeks. He knew the reason he had a display of old wounds on his body and animal bones in his closet. He was aware of the thrum thrum thrum that echoed in his blood and stained his eyes red when he was in the mood. The twitch of his fist and the hunger for digging his claws into flesh and tearing. The gnashing ache of dog teeth in his mouth begging for the game, the excitement of blood. Crimson flows of life leaking like a stream and giving him a sense of power and pain. He knew and he caged it like a starving beast. 

Will wasn’t all that sure what motive aided his endeavors tonight. Too much had happened during the day to quell any semblance of reason within his mind. He already had the shakes, goddamn nerves aching at his wrist bones, twining through his knuckles practically begging for a reason. He’d been staring at the manor all morning. The way the light hit the windows through the old willow tree. The bedroom window was left open, the curtains brushing in the wind. The house was ways off the road, back far enough that you could only really tell it was there if you looked for it. Will never had to look. He’d lived across the cursed thing his whole life. His was the lone house in the surrounding acreage, all inherited from Great Grandpa Hector Bordeaux. The man was rich enough to purchase the land but too poor to do anything of use with it. Now all the Graham’s got was a dilapidated house-trailer, a rickety fishing boat, and an assload of unspoken curses to match. 

Will felt the sun browning his skin over the first sunburn of summer. He knew he’d be more spotted than a ladybird within the month. He always was, Bevvy told him he needed to take better care of his skin. Will always said he didn’t intend to stay long enough in the southern sun to worry about it. She hated it when he said that. Pissed her off well enough to make her spit nails but he couldn’t lie to her. They both knew as soon as he saved enough he was dust in the wind.

But that was a worry for later, Will would tell her and she would roll her eyes and pretend she wasn’t worrying in the first place. And so the game went on. 

Will squinted in the humid silence of the afternoon sun. He could faintly smell the wetness of the wood from the swamps as it permeated towards him. The rot of it stuck to everything, made home inside him before he even had a name for it. He wondered how much of himself he would have to cut out just to call somewhere else home. He wondered if there was a knife sharp enough to even do that.

“Fuckin’ hell.” Will groaned, leaning back and eyeing the road. It was so hot steam rolled off the cracked pavement and the water bottle he’d been drinking was nothing but malleable plastic. 

Not for the first time, Will wondered who lived in the manor. He had yet to really see whoever did, the whispers around town were of no help. Rumor had it the girl worked at the General Store, which Will avoided like the plague, and the boy at the old Hobbs Butchery which Will never really went to in the first place. He could snoop, of course, and Bev would encourage it, but Will figured part of him knew his daddy was right about one thing. Whoever lived in that house probably wasn’t at all interested in Will and if they were it was likely charity. The last thing Will needed was to feel like charity - more than he already did. He was reminded of this charity every time he pulled up to the Salvation Army or church drive picked through the old flannels and asked Mrs. Katz to sew up the salvageable ones. No, he thinks if some posh rich asshole looked at him sideways he might break their jaw. So, best to stay away.

Like normal, Will heard Beverly approaching before he saw her. Her old pickup truck was a sleek black model, a hand-me-down from her older cousin, Richie. Much more put together than Will’s, and had twice the sound system. Something that Beverly continuously liked to remind the general public. Some pop tune was blasting through the speakers loud enough to vibrate the air around her. Bedazzled on the license plate read “Bevvy K”, surrounded by a plethora of car decals. It really was a horrendous thing but it was Bev’s horrendous thing.

“Willoughby Beau Graham! But a damn shirt on! Come on! Hussle! I still got my curlers in!” Bev screamed over the melodic guitar from the speakers. Will cringed at the sound of his full name and quickly put out his cigarette before grabbing his shirt and racing towards the parked truck.

“Is that what you’re wearin’?” Bev raised a brow. Will looked down at his bare chest and held up the dark t-shirt in reply.

“And this—What?” He scowled.

“You’re killin’ me Willie, you’re really killin’ me. Fuck, c’mon we’re gettin’ you somethin’ to wear. I won’t have you ruinin’ my image.” 

Will raised a brow and got into her truck, barking out a laugh.

“What image, Katz? You ain’t got no image.” Will rolled his eyes and Bev flipped him off before turning up the radio.

It was an oddly out-of-character mercy for Beverly to grant Will. Most of the time she would press him until he cracked about what happened. She was often insistent that Will talk about whatever was eating at him and get it out in the open. Side effects of a healthy childhood he guessed. But, for some reason whatever emotion was prominent on Will’s face must have told her enough because after some cursory glances to the passenger seat and a wary smile, she dropped it entirely. It was no secret the kind of shit Beau dished out so Will guessed it was no secret why he was upset. Part of him wished she would ask, he could feel himself teetering on the edge of that familiar rage that aided his bite. He felt it and knew little could be done about it. 

“You wanna talk ‘bout it?” Bev finally spoke, not looking at Will—knowing he needed a moment to steel himself. It was a loaded question. He probably should talk about it, he knew it would help if he did, but that didn’t mean he wanted to. Talking about it made it real and he wasn’t all that keen on doing that, not today at least. Or maybe he liked the ache, the anger, maybe it fueled something in him he didn’t want to look at. He licked his molars and hummed.

“Not really.” A half-truth.

“He put his hands on you?” 

Will shrugged and got out a cigarette, he lit it at the next red light. Puffing it softly and trying to ignore the burning sensation that began to flower where his daddy had gripped him and shoved him. Tried to forget the look on his face, the venom in his words. The truth in them. 

“He got his point across.”

“You hurt?”

“Not in a way that matters. M’fine Bev. Promise.” Will closed his eyes, dragging the nicotine through his teeth, feeling it sting his lungs before the cool release through his chapped lips. He knew Bev wanted to say more, she always did. She wanted to make it better and be the hero. But that wasn’t how this went, not really. 

“It all matters.” 

“Just…can we drop it? Okay? I just want to enjoy tonight.” Will begged, feeling the itch in his ribs. He momentarily debated the possibility of diving from the car, seeing how much he could break his own body on the pavement and get back up. See if he would win. He envisioned it, envisioned the hurt of it. 

“Fine, but promise me you won’t go lookin’ for a fight, tonight, okay? Hittin’ somethin’ won’t hurt your daddy, but it’ll hurt you.” Bev gave him a look at the next red light. Her dark eyes searched for any sign that her words had an effect, that he was contemplating them seriously. He couldn’t promise her this, even if he wanted to. Will knew himself and he knew well enough not to lie to Beverly. It was always an odd thing when the tables got flipped and it was Bev prodding at his bone marrow. When she saw all the little cracks in his facade. It made him feel naked and ache with something worse than starvation.

“I don’t need a babysitter.” He bit out probably more harshly than he originally meant to, it wasn’t that he was angry, it was just that damned charity case-look again. The one that made Will feel like everyone knew something he didn’t.

“Never said you did, Will.” Bev spoke curtly and before Will could apologize she turned the radio back up and the rest of the ride was silent. 

Bev eventually pulled into the local thrift store and killed the engine. Will knew well enough by now that he was in for a scolding, Bev rarely tolerated Will’s attitude. It’s why they were friends. 

“I ain’t mad at you. I’m just tired of your daddy making you into somethin’ you’re not. You understand?” Bev looked at him, dark chocolate eyes searching his. And the thing is of course he understood, even if he didn’t want to. His nature required that he assume the world's view in some scattered mental image of his own. Nothing about the world belongs entirely to Will.

“Yeah, yeah. M’sorry.” Will rubbed his cheeks, feeling the small prickles of facial hair that were beginning to come in.

“We’re good, Graham. Now c'mon we gotta find somethin’ sexy for you to wear. Apparently, the new kids are comin’ tonight.” Bev clicked her tongue and shut off her truck.

“The new kids?” Will asked, putting on his shirt and stepping out with her.

“Molly invited them, not sure if they’ll show but I been servin’ that guy, Hannibal, over at Edie’s. He always brings in Hobbs' little girl for lunch. Total Dreamboat, I haven’t decided whose team he’s playing for though. He’s European so who the hell knows, ain’t they less weird about that stuff?” Bev looked nothing short of absolutely ridiculous at the moment. She was wearing one of her daddy’s t-shirts that fell well past her knees, a pair of joggers, and flip-flops. Her hair was in curlers, pinned to her head, making her look like a damn grandma. The worst part is that Will knew when it was all said and done she was gonna be the talk of the town. 

“Don’t matter what team he plays for Katz, you know you ain’t interested.” Will chuckled.

“God forbid a girl play matchmaker. I meant for you, dipshit.”

Bev swung open the door to the thrift store and Will rolled his eyes. It was highly unlikely anyone in this town was queer that Will didn’t know about. Considering there’s all of maybe three other guys and four other girls. One of which was entirely off-limits due to the simple fact that he and Will had a silent agreement to never bother each other again. After what happened, it seemed the best option for them both and Will hadn’t questioned it. Even if it hurt. Even it made him feel like shit. But sometimes Will still dreamed. It was a fun game to play. This time Will’s overactive imagination painted the picture of his mysterious neighbor as someone who could potentially be interested in Will. Someone who would speak in tongues Will didn’t entirely understand but could feel what they meant nonetheless. Warm summer afternoons and the smell of–mahogany? Where the hell did that come from? Will shook his head.

“I don’t need that sort of trouble, Bevvy, besides no use in gettin’ your hopes up, for all we know he could be tryin’ to get in Molly’s skirts.” Will was speaking more to himself than to Beverly but she was gratuitous enough to just laugh and let it go.

“You’d be so lucky, that poor girls gonna be sweet on you till she croaks.” Bev giggled.

Bev clearly had a mission because she beelined for the men’s section and stuffed a handful of shirts in Will’s hands. She pointed to the dressing rooms and motioned for him to hurry as he groaned. Bev got this way sometimes, dressing Will up like a doll. She would sometimes style his hair and go on about his soft features and how lucky he was to have good skin and innocent eyes. ‘Eyes that can get away with murder’ she would say with a mock scowl. 

Will knew it too. He knew well enough that he got away with a lot but that’s only because he took so long figuring out how to. His childhood was spent in the sweltering heat of a Baptist Church filled with people who took his cries and panic as a sign from God. Sticky hands on his thin shirt praying for the devil to leave him alone. Praying that he be free of whatever demon made him the way he was—made him see what he did. But, it was no devil that had a hold on Will Graham. If it was, that meant there was a god to allow it and Will was almost sure that wasn’t true either. He hoped though, on the harder nights, that maybe he could pray off the demon on his back. That he could look people in the eye and not see their pain, hopes, and lost dreams. Not see their anger and pity and all the goddamn loneliness that reeks of piss on them. He wishes. But that didn’t make it true. 

Will stripped down to his underwear and grimaced at himself in the mirror. He looked a right fright. His curls were still damp either from his shower or the damned heat which meant they were going to be frizzy as all hell later. He still had nasty dark circles under his eyes and a somewhat uncharacteristic light growth of facial hair from neglecting to shave over the past couple of days. He didn’t entirely hate the facial hair, just more so who it reminded him of, who it made him look like. His eyes unwittingly strayed to the scar on his stomach. It was faded now, so many years had passed that he couldn’t tell where the hell it came from. His daddy told him he’d tried to climb the old wire fencing around their land when he was a kid, didn’t see the nail sticking out and damn near disemboweled himself. It sounded right, he thinks he can remember the pain of it. But that could be another reflection of his daddy’s caramel eyes. The most he can remember is a hospital, the sensory nightmare of his stitches, and the faint smell of whiskey when he tries to recall the memory. Beau’s version always felt a bit off though, like a veneer, though Will wasn’t sure for what exactly. Just that it felt fake, another stone left unturned in the long path towards Will’s identity. 

He rubbed along the scar, the thin white smile above his belly button was long and jagged and all suffering. Pale with time but raised and smooth with a shine of numb cells and forever traumatized tissue. He sighed.

Will turned and grabbed the first shirt Bev picked out. It was simple, small mercies. A pair of well-fitting blue jeans and a graphic t-shirt that was about a size too small, though he knew Bev did so on purpose. He managed to put his belt back on and tuck the shirt in. It cleaned up nice. The Levi’s were well-worn but hugged where they should, which is probably why Bev chose them. The shirt was from a local brewery with a faded logo on it, nothing crazy but it did show off Will’s arms. Arms that had grown with him this past year as he picked up more manual labor for cash. He hummed and put his boots back on, eyeing himself with a slight shock. He looked good, better than he thought he could, given the circumstances. 

“Graham! What is takin’ you so long? Hussle!” Bev banged on the door with a giggle and he rolled his eyes. Quickly, he made sure everything was okay before opening the door to get Beverly’s final judgement. Will stood in front of his friend with a hesitant smile. 

“Can’t rush perfection, darlin’.” Will winked and Bev whistled, motioning for him to do a twirl.

“Your ass looks great!” She beamed, “We’re definitely gonna get our answer about Lecter tonight. Anyone who can resist that bite of candy apple is as blind as my grandma.” Bev giggled.

Will blushed and shook his head. He was used to Bev’s teasing but it was always so genuine, the undercurrent of a true compliment was always there. He rubbed his cheeks and hurried back to the fitting room. He didn’t bother trying on the second outfit she picked out, it looked like mostly a joke anyway. Will carefully folded the shirt and jeans and put his own back on. He supposed seeing himself now he could understand what Bev meant. He did look rough. 

He hated how much he looked like his dad when it was like this.

Will shook those thoughts away, dangerous as they were, and headed to the checkout with Bev. He had the party tonight to get out whatever beast he needed in whatever way he could get away with. He was starving—for anything—affection, attention, confrontation, it would be a damn miracle if he avoided any trouble tonight. It would be even more of a miracle if he didn’t. He wondered who he was praying to when his fist pounded into the jaw of whatever asshole came looking. Perhaps it wasn’t God at all. Maybe that was the point. 

“6.48.” Tammy Tregar looked at Will with a smile that said everything her curt little words didn’t. Will couldn’t even fault her for it either, if his sister was dating the dad of his former classmate— Jesus— yeah, he’d be a bit sore about it. This was the part of it all Beau didn’t get, he didn’t understand. The man had stained Will in ways he didn’t even have a say in, marked with a humiliating association to Beau that didn’t go away. Beau was the town drunk, a fist full of fire on a good day with a tendency to make more trouble than he was worth. It didn’t help when he dated if it could be called that. Will wasn’t sure what it was his daddy did, but he knew it wasn’t proper. Wasn’t love. Wasn’t respect. He knew it made everyone in town look at Will like he was dirt, like he was no better than his father when he hadn’t done a damn thing to deserve that. So, it only made sense Tammy was twisted up, everyone looked at Will like that.

Will handed her a ten and waited for the change. Tammy popped her gum and slowly began forking over Will's coin and cash. Will braced himself, knowing a comment was on its way. Knowing Bev would get hot over it.

“Thanks.” He mumbled and grabbed his things. They’d nearly made it out when Tammy spoke. Nearly.

“Tell your daddy to keep his filthy goddamn oil-covered hands off girls half his age. He’s a fuckin’ perv.” Tammy had a way with words, that was certain. Will winced. There wasn’t much to say, he didn’t want to fight with Tammy and he sure as hell didn’t have anything nice to say about his daddy right now. 

“I’m sorry.” Is what he managed in the end, though what for he wasn’t certain. Probably all of it. Most of it. Whatever part of it was tied to him.

“Will–” Bev began and he shook his head and kept walking out the door.

“You don’t have to apologize for existing, you ain’t your daddy.” Beverly grabbed his arm and searched his eyes. Will didn’t have much for her, he didn’t know how to tell her how untrue that statement was, he didn’t think he could handle her face if he did. Silence passed and Will heard Beverly sigh.

“C’mon, Willie, let's go home.” Bev took his hand gently and squeezed it.

________________________

“It’s a party, Chiyoh, I don’t imagine it means much of anything.” Hannibal was finishing his cigarette out the front entrance of the Foster General Store. Hannibal had dropped Abigail off at the butcher shop and clocked out for the day much to the little girl’s chagrin. She’d stuck her tongue out at him and promised a vow of silence they both knew would last about five whole minutes. Abigail would get over his supposed “betrayal” eventually when her curiosity won out. Like it always did.

“Why did she invite you then?” Chiyoh took the cigarette from Hannibal and he rolled his eyes before taking out a fresh one. He noted absently he needed to roll a few to last them the night. Chiyoh didn’t smoke often but she wasn’t one for parties which meant she’d need something to soothe her annoyances. 

“She said it was an apology. I don’t see why we shouldn’t go.” Hannibal had been debating the idea of going to the party with his cousin for the better part of half an hour. They’d wanted to keep a low profile here, after Italy. That meant certain restrictions and social isolation but they’d grossly underestimated the appeal of two foreign teens to the town. Now, isolation was out the window. Probably, if they were being honest, never really was an option to begin with. They both were far too interested in the game of language and culture to stand on the sidelines. 

“Fine.” Chiyoh flicked the ash on the ground and her calculating eyes veered into the skyline. She sighed and looked at Hannibal, “You are playing dangerous with the Graham boy. Don't think I haven’t noticed.” Her warning came with the usual cool affection Chiyoh dealt out. She was too caring, too soft sometimes. Hannibal would forget she worried, forget what he’d done to make her worry. He didn’t regret it, but he did faintly feel a twist in his gut whenever she got this way.

“He’s our neighbor, interactions are inevitable.” Hannibal shrugged.

“Interactions are limited.” Chiyoh warned.

“What makes you think he’d be interested?” Hannibal laughed, raising a brow at his cousin.

“What makes you think you would stop if he wasn’t? Your interest in Will is something new for you, as fleeting as it’s likely to be.” 

“So little faith?”

“Patterns, cousin. You’re full of them.”

“Then what makes this new?”

“He doesn’t find you memorable. You’ve seen him twice now and he’s completely forgotten you. That’s new.”

With that, she snubbed out her cigarette and went back to work. Hannibal knew she was right to a degree. He had a pattern. He’d always had a pattern. In Italy, he would find his newest ‘project’ as Chiyoh called them and play house for a few weeks. It was a dangerous game, played to win the knowledge of how to make people tick. He’s dated older, richer, poorer, men, women, it didn’t matter. It was experimentation, not just for himself but for others. How to get what he wanted, how to calculate emotions, and display the correct ones to get his desired outcome. But Will was a mystery. Something interesting and new and exciting. Will, who had met his eyes once, revealed so little and left such an impression. Who didn’t remember Hannibal at all, and if he did certainly didn’t care to interact with him. And yet, Hannibal wanted nothing more than to know Will entirely. So, perhaps it was a pattern break which was a dangerous thing for Hannibal. 

Hannibal finished his cigarette and headed to the hardware store. He had a few things to pick up before his bike was supposed to arrive tomorrow. He knew it would need some care, it had been in storage under different hands for a few weeks. He’d always preferred to care for his motorcycle himself, finding the work soothing and satisfying when completed. He was looking forward to the semblance of control as well, and perhaps the way to blend in a bit better to the environment he now calls home. He’d seen several bikes being zipped through the backroads and parked at various bars, restaurants, and other establishments. His own, sleek black motorcycle would fall into line beautifully, if not still stand out for its appearance. 

He smiled.

Tonight would be a testament then, the final test. Third time's a charm or it would be time to move on. As bereft as he’d be, he wouldn’t want to waste his time on a lost prospect, not when he had other concerns at the moment. Like who those boots belonged to, why they were hidden, and what exactly—if anything—it had to do with Abigail. But, for now, he would see what became of his curiosity. 

~~~~

God, Will really fucking loved parties.

Bev and Will had decided that if worse came to worst they’d just call Richie to come pick them up, he lived over by the Old Mill Farmhouse with a few buddies he helped run the place. It wasn’t too far from Cherrywood and by the looks in both Will and Bev’s eyes, they needed a night to let loose. Perpetual responsibility had surrounded both of them since they were kids, meaning the grace of youth came tattered and secondhand to the roiling guilt of decision making. But every so once in a while the opportunity struck. Bevvy always had more fun, and luck, than Will. He was half convinced every poor soul in town held a torch for her. Between the raspy vocals, charming attitude and killer smile there wasn’t much Bev couldn’t get for herself. She’d been going steady with Polly Russett last summer before she moved away for college. She took the hit real bad but got back on her feet in time to make the most of this summer. Will, on the other hand, had less prospects. Not that anyone was aware of this besides Bev. If he was another man with other tastes he’d probably be fine, but he was Will. A little broken, a little off-kilter enough to not fit in the goddamned puzzle. To his knowledge, he had Greyson, Clyde, Butch and Mattie. Considering Mattie Brown was well and truly off that list considering how things went with them—that left Greyson, Clyde, and Butch. Butch and Greyson had been attached at the hip since they watched the sheep for the Foster’s last season. And so really Will’s only sad prospect was Clyde who was everything Will detested. Too loud, too damn full of himself in the way a rooster was at the crack of dawn. His jokes were never funny and he was grabby and pervy when he drank. Clyde made a pass once or twice on Will enough that he kept his distance from the guy at parties, for the sake of everyone involved. So, sure, considering how sad Will’s potential for romance was, some small hopeful part of him was hoping his neighbor was a little queer. Hoping Bev wasn’t exaggerating about those cheekbones, or how much of a ‘dreamboat’ the kid was. 

Will could use a good little thing in his life like that. 

The drive to Cherrywood was resolutely filled with Mr. Katz ´ s old cassettes stuffed into the player, the windows down and the summer evening kissing the goosebumps on Will’s bare skin. He could smell the retreating scent of the town, the pollution of life being replaced with the wet murkiness of rot and decay. The wood and sludge and moss that caked against the land like a kiss. Will looked out into the wetlands and saw the telltale shining eyes of night creatures cutting through the otherwise undisturbed greenery. This was home in a way he could appreciate. Outside the noise and routine, there was something wild within them all, something of which one day they would all return. Will's hand flexed on the metallic windowsill of Bev’s car as the dogtooth ache set in his molars. He bit down, grinding his jaw, and licking the outline of the ridges. He tasted blood, he tasted trouble.  

He heard the party before he saw it. Which wasn’t entirely unexpected given just how much room they had out here to stretch. Most of the boys brought speakers hooked up to their trucks and enough mixtapes to keep everyone going until the morning. So, when Will caught a whiff of the first booming bass of a country-rock song, he felt the familiar shake in his bones. Voices soon followed by defined conversation and the bright shine of warm headlights, coolers, pop-up chairs, and bodies. The field was mostly dirt and mud now depending on the season. No water held, which meant nothing grew so no one came out this far anymore. Most of the police had stopped caring which meant fewer interruptions. Sometimes Colter would throw a dust pit race but even those were far and few between. Too loud and risky, everyone had to be ready to bolt at a moment's notice.

“Damn, I don't think I ever seen the Reservoir this packed.” Bev whistled and turned her car into the makeshift parking spots. 

“Molly must have gotten word out good. Fast work.” Will chuckled in delight, leaning back and grabbing the cooler of his and Bev’s beers. 

When Will’s boots hit the dirt he was already cracking open a beer with the sharp edges of his teeth. He gulped down the top and looked back at Bev who was flipping her hair one final time before standing up. She’s cleaned up just as well as Will knew she would. Wearing her signature “B” belt buckle that had—honest to God—a damn lighter built into it. 

“Toss me one!” Bev called and Will obliged, slipping the cool aluminum into his palm and tossing her the can. 

Will and Bev merged in with the crowd and eyed their surroundings for familiar faces. Sure, almost every face was familiar here but there were a few closer than others. 

“Look for Hannibal, he usually wears black. Slick blonde hair, dark eyes. You’ll know ‘em.” Bev whispered and Will resisted the urge to scan the crowd endlessly for the boy in question. He gulped down another drink of his beer. 

“Down girl.” Will chastised and Bev giggled loudly before dragging Will to the left where he saw a small circle of people. It was the closest Will got to friends around here, and even then they were more Beverly’s friends. But, where she went he went.

“Zeller! Price! Holy shit you’re back!” Bev gathered the two boys in a hug with a beaming smile.

Zeller and Price had been in the science league with Bev in high school and both went off for forensic science degrees after graduation. They still returned every holiday but Bev still pretended it was a surprise. Will had never been particularly close with either of them but liked them well enough to stand their company. Jimmy Price was funny, a little bit of a perpetually awkward sort of guy who played off of Brian Zeller’s ever-serious and sarcastic attitude. Jimmy always tried a bit harder than Brian to include Will, but it didn’t matter. Will was always a tad shut off, it was easier to maintain relationships when Will was five arm lengths away. 

“Hey, Will!” Jimmy waved and Will nodded, eyes still scanning the crowd.

Beverly got lost in conversation as she was bound to do and Will bit his lip and nursed his drink. The twitch was becoming a shake and he needed a cigarette to stave off the damn noise in his head. There was a buzzing in his skull like a trapped fly which made everything strange and loud and punchy. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to get whatever thing was clawing at his ribcage to go back to its cave. He’d like to get through the rest of the night without incident. He’d like to, if possible, keep his promise.

“Bevvy imma get another drink.” Will tapped the empty aluminum of his can and took the chance to shrug off the obligatory conversation that was bound to eventually be turned his way. 

“Hey, I’m serious—keep an eye out for Lecter, I saw his car earlier.” Bev winked in her little knowing way and Will shook his head. Nonetheless, he did find the tendrils of excitement wrapping around his mind as he walked to the coolers.

He began to paint a picture of this mysterious boy, how he would act and sound. What exactly Will would say to him given the chance and what a friendship–or more– would look like. The heat of the summer cradling them in the sweaty heat of first love and juvenile excitement. Will’s imagination brought him to the dusty outskirts of town in his old pickup, peeling back the posh layers and digging his nails into the flesh and blood of him, so that he might for a moment do the same to Will. His stomach lurched at the idea of being seen for what he was, to share those dark desires and needs. The hidden sins within the cathedral of his mind where he kept images of his mama and bruises of his daddy. Maybe one day that’s where he would keep Hannibal, or rather the visage of him, as Will had yet to spot anyone who remotely matched Bevvy’s description.

 His heart twisted into knots as his eyes cast towards the boundaries of the reservoir. He wondered if the world were to end if it would come suddenly and entirely in the symphonic harmonies of the swamps. Or, more likely, if they were all slowly rotting away, feet halfway sunken into the sludge of the bayou without even realizing it. Sometimes, Will thought he saw something out there watching them all. Patiently grinding the bleeding antlers of itself against the soggy wood in the scraping demand of something otherworldly. He would see it in the peripheral vision, beckoning him to turn and see. But, whenever he found the courage to still his nerves and search out the visage, it was gone–never there to begin with. That wasn’t to say it didn’t still haunt him, or perhaps haunt was the wrong word. To haunt gave the impression that it scared him, that it was rooted in fear somehow when this wasn’t at all the case of the matter.

Will wasn’t afraid of the things he saw on the edges of the swamps. There was no fear of the wet nose dripping copper from the shedding antler of a creature he had no name for. Gramma Katz said the entirety of Willowmarch was haunted, but maybe it was only the people that were haunted, and all the rest followed from the blood soaking into the dirt. Will’s eyes searched out the familiar friend of his fractured mind on the edges of the crowded confines of life that surrounded him. He thought he could hear it. The huffing heartbeat and wet breath of something just beyond his touch, the crunch of gravel beneath hooves, and the hunger of a devouring decay. His hand squeezed his beer can.

This wasn’t working. He needed to do something.

Will beelined for the cooler and grabbed the first beverage that hit his palm before tucking it under his arm. He dug through his pockets pulled out the crushed box of American Spirits and stuck one between his teeth. His hands were still shaking. He lit the cigarette and took a long drag before deciding the only real way he was going to get through the night was if he got on the right line of intoxicated. He needed to be numb enough to forget about it all for a while. Safely a few degrees of separation between him and the world.

He could do that. 

So, with the entirety of this night being a burst of his perpetual idealistic bubble and the temptation to take it out on the first sorry sack of shit that looked at him wrong, his options were extremely limited. This was what he told himself, at the very least, when he took out his pocket knife and stabbed through cool aluminum, shotgunning it down before he could give himself another moment to debate the choice. He felt the cool stickiness of it dribble down his chin and into the light-colored shirt Bev picked for him, mixing in with his sweat. He crushed the can and tossed it, bending down for only a moment to grab himself something a little stronger. He knew the look of Tucker’s Family Moonshine when he saw it. Distantly he heard the voice of someone telling him to put it down, but louder than that was his daddy’s voice. And even louder was the rattling, gnawing of the beast he kept so close to his chest begging for freedom. 

A moment passed, eyes on the shining clear liquid in the small mason jar.

Will twisted the cap off, throwing back the first swig with a wince and cough.

The burn felt like a caress.

When Will resurfaced he was sitting on the edges of a campfire with a group of people he didn’t entirely recognize. He vaguely recalled a few from high school but his alcohol-addled brain didn’t make sense of the other faces. Perhaps the slow shutter blur of the world was catching up with him. He looked down, a monumental task, and saw a can of beer in his hand. He frowned, tipping it to his lips and downing it.

“Woah there, sweetheart slow it down.” A voice Will did, in fact, recognize filled the buzzing in his head. He looked to his right and saw the forest green of Clyde Dunway’s hungry eyes. Will furrowed his brow softly, big eyes glossy with the haze of bad decisions and an ache that went deeper than the skin. 

“Where’s Bevvy?” Will shook his head and tried to stand, feet stumbling softly before catching his balance. He closed his eyes as the world spun and took a deep breath. He reached out for something to clutch balance against and found his hand grasping the warm fabric of a flannel. 

“What was that darlin’?” Clyde asked, voice vibrating through his throat and into Will’s ears with all sorts of warning bells. He wasn’t entirely gone, which was a small blessing, but he wasn’t entirely there either. The Graham part of him knew how to hold his liquor but between the booze and moonshine, it was enough to take a better man than Will down. He could feel his chest flutter as he attempted to find the tendrils of sobriety within his psyche. 

“Fuck off, Clyde.” Will bit and stood straight, fingers twisting into themselves now. He wobbled but could stand on his own, which was progress. Will shoved against Clyde and walked out towards where he vaguely remembered parking with Beverly. He hoped that she might be there, maybe even looking for him, ready to give one of her exasperated smiles of relief before biting his damn head off the whole way home. He’d take that over anything right now.

Will eventually found himself near the edges of the reservoir entirely by accident as his feet seemed to carry him where his mind didn’t exactly desire. He blinked and grabbed the Weeping Willow that was swaying softly in the breeze. His ears were rushing with blood and he knew something was wrong. The world around him warped, fading and painting itself in the color of midnight black tar, the glossy shine of something wet covering his hands. Distantly he heard the echo: soft, welcoming, and entirely familiar. He knew what he would see if he looked up, he knew the glowing orbs of the unnamed creature would burrow into his cornea until he was vomiting up all his poor decision-making. He shivered, hugging his body–noticing vaguely that he had taken his shirt off, bare skin covered in a sheen of sweat. 

“Leave me alone.” Will whispered to the apparition in his peripherals.

“ Rude .” A smooth accented voice came swimming into Will’s ears where he had instead expected the stag's usual huff of agitation. 

“Oh, sorry for not bein’ peaches and fuckin’ cream.” Will felt his stomach roil and he closed his eyes.

“It is not entirely wise to stumble along the wetlands when intoxicated, I thought you’d know this as a native.” The smell of tobacco wrapped around the words of this stranger like a second skin, mixing with a strangely familiar scent of mahogany and teakwood cologne. Something in Will’s mind swirled.

“Yeah, well I didn’t ask, sweetheart.” Will bit back and stood straight as he tried to gather as much dignity as he could.

“Sometimes advice isn’t always wanted, mio amico, but is entirely needed,” a pause and another swaying scent of sweetness and the shining ember in the dark. 

“Where’d you read that one, genius? Some bullshit psych 101 book?”

“I think that vein of advice is more akin to something from the side of a well-meaning cereal box rather than actual psychiatric advice.” The Stranger teased, “Are you alone out here?” The Stranger chuckled but the sound bordered on concern, the smooth rasp-like fingertips along his spine. It ached. 

“Congratulations on your eyes that fuckin’ work, I ain’t gonna give you a gold star for it. Now, if you would kindly fuck off whatever-your-name-is, I’d like to deal with my bullshit in peace–cereal box advice not included.”

There was a soft chuckle that emanated deep from the Stranger's chest and right into Will’s. He felt it rumble warmly into his lungs and he resisted the urge to face whatever boy it belonged to. That gnawing hope for something was a killer and he wouldn’t walk willingly into the knife tonight.

“Hannibal, my name is Hannibal. And I must admit I’m not entirely comfortable at the prospect of leaving you alone out here.”

Oh, you’ve got to be shitting me.

Will winced, earlier conversations with Beverly came swimming back to him as he reluctantly turned to finally face his intruder. Of course, he would stumble across the one object of his search tonight when he was sloshed halfway out of his damn mind. Will could have given God the finger if he could, instead, he settled for finding the cool breeze and attempting to appear as sober as he could. When he finally did turn towards Hannibal the very air was stolen right from his lungs. 

Fuck.

He was gorgeous, and not like the kind of gorgeous Will had seen in magazines. Not the kind of traditional masculine lines of muscle that paraded underwear shoots and cheapened Hollywood romances. No, Hannibal was gorgeous in the way a freshly sharpened antler handle pocket knife was, covered in blood and slicing with effortless casual neatness across flesh. He was gorgeous in the way old paintings were, otherworldly though not ethereal. Never ethereal, not with those eyes. Crimson and thirsty, hungering for something that Will couldn’t see entirely. There was a wall, a comfortable block that made his eyes a void in the dark as they caught the glimmer of the full moon above them. His hair was pushed back, but long enough to curl around the name of his neck in a tempting invitation to touch and caress and pull. His sharp teeth caught his plush lips and a small discernible smile overtook his expression, so amused yet entirely curious. He held a leather jacket in one hand, his self-rolled cigarette in the other. The dark shirt he wore was tight, hugging his muscles and yes, Will could imagine without much difficulty the way those muscles cut through the muscle of meat daily. He shivered.

“Oh.” Will managed which was about as smooth as he was getting at the moment considering the wires between every damn communication in his body were severed or crossed.

“And you are?” Hannibal asked, an accent like a tickling song.

“Willoughby, but everyone calls me Will. Think I’m your neighbor, damn, I’m sorry it’s been a shitty night.” Will winced and Hannibal shrugged, taking another drag of his cigarette.

“You can make it up to me, another time of course.” Hannibal put out his cigarette and sighed, eye raking up Will in a way that reminded Will he was entirely shirtless at the moment. Hannibal seemed to notice too as not even a moment later he was handing Will his jacket with a smirk, “For now, though, let’s get you home, yes?” 

Will didn’t have it in him to argue. Didn’t want to argue as he wrapped himself in the danger of Hannibal’s leather jacket and took a sweet smell of the scents that made up the leather. Hannibal’s cologne, tobacco, and something else under that. Something coppery and sweet like blood and chocolate. Will hugged it around his torso tighter and tried to ignore the flush to his cheeks as he followed Hannibal. The boy's muscles flexed beneath the moonlight and Will found himself momentarily mesmerized, aching with twitching hands to reach out. It was a naive thought to have, a dangerous one but Will let it settle and make a place in his imagination. 

“Here,” Hannibal paused by a cooler and handed Will a water, startling him softly. Their eyes met as Hannibal handed him the plastic bottle, hands brushing. It was entirely too intimate and yet not intimate enough.

“Thanks” Will whispered and downed the bottle in one swig, aware he was graceless with it but too grateful for the slow return towards reality to care.

It didn’t take them long to find Beverly, she was exactly where Will thought she might be. She was on the phone with Richie sitting in the bed of her truck, eyes scanning the crowd with that typical concern she wore. When she spotted Will she beamed and jogged over to him quickly. Will let her eye him curiously before landing on Hannibal. There were all colors of mischief on her face that Will knew meant trouble but was too tired to care.

“Will, where the hell were you?” Bev asked with a raised brow.

“Got lost, drank too much, I think. Hannibal found me.” 

“Oh, well then, thank you, Hannibal.” Bev smirked as she crossed her arms playfully. Internally, Will groaned. 

“Are you feeling any better?” Hannibal turned his attention to Will who, for all his usual brash nature, melted slightly under the concern. He nodded softly.

“Yeah, thanks, uh, for finding me. Here,” Will went to take off the jacket but Hannibal stopped him.

“Keep it, I’ll get it back from you tomorrow. We are neighbors, remember?” Hannibal whispered that last part, as if it was some secret between him and Will never to be shared. Will felt his knees wobble as the smell of sweet alcohol and tobacco hit his senses and he allowed momentary eye contact with Hannibal. He smirked softly, feeling bold for a moment.

“How could I forget?” Will backed away and towards Beverly who had been watching the whole interaction like it was the newest steamy soap Gramma Katz would make them watch on Saturday mornings. 

“Goodnight, Will. Beverly.” Hannibal took out a silver cigarette case and put one between his lips.

“Night, Hannibal, and thanks again for takin’ care of ‘em.” Beverly dragged Will back with suppressed giggles as the boy waved one final time and disappeared back into the party crowd.

It wasn't until Richie had them in his truck that Beverly let out a squeal of excitement that Will couldn’t help but match with his own shy smile. He leaned his tired head against the window and let the night sky pass in a blur of scattered stars that twinkled through the black. And he found with a terrifying realization that some sort of seed had been planted in his chest, reason flying like a hook in the water, floating against the stream. It was shiny and new, acknowledged in Will’s vision but still too far away to make sense of, to approach. 

And he felt, for just a moment, like how he imagined most kids his age might feel. The anticipation, the taste of something new and foreign. 

He closed his eyes and let sleep take him, the sharp canines in his mouth prodding at his lips to suppress the foreign feeling of his own smile.

_________________________________

Hannibal does not recall a moment in his life since his boyhood where he had to truthfully suppress his urges. There was a point, many years ago, where vengeance and anger fueled much of his desires leading to a period of red-stained button-downs and visceral words. But now, having conquered his words and even more so, his own body, he was the portrait of control. 

Will Graham tested this fact.

Hannibal awoke the next morning with the anticipatory nerves of a child on Christmas. His chest was vibrating with a curiosity that settled and sat with him like a second companion throughout the entirety of his day. Chiyoh had the mercy not to question his behavior, her stiff regalness was broken through the slight tilt of her head and the twitch of a knowing smile. She announced she would be setting up her shooting range on their acreage for the day and all but entirely disappeared through the woods by ten in the morning. Robertus had made what little small talk he felt required of himself to obtain the illusion of a familial relationship before he too disappeared. Murasaki was a ghost to Hannibal, a fact he had not attempted to amend in respect to her wishes, voiced the night before they moved.

The house was silent, fractured only by the subtle melodies Hannibal had playing from the record player in the main room. Something soft and old that melded with the atmospheric tunes of the land around them. He had opened many of the windows for reasons he was unwilling to look at too closely. The distraction of his usual hobbies was somewhat useless, all attempts at sketching led him to cerulean eyes and Botticellian curls. All attempts at music made harmony with rosy cheeks and a raspy brash voice. He was consumed, Chiyoh would certainly find it entertaining.

But, he managed to contain himself until one in the afternoon when whatever tether of self-control snapped.

Hannibal heard the rumble of the truck that likely belonged to Will’s father leave the driveway and hurriedly, but not embarrassingly so, found the front window. He saw the dusty tail end of the black truck disappear down the main road and the flutter returned to his chest. He could go now, of course, though that would appear desperate and obvious. No, he thought, he would get dressed and work on his bike for an hour. It had arrived that morning and desperately needed work. Then, when it got too hot he would go over to Will’s, get his jacket, and catch a glance at that beautiful boy in the sunlight. 

All in all, it was a good plan. It was the execution that was poor, Hannibal knew himself well enough that any whiff of Will Graham being awake would mean his plans would be void and null.

However, it lasted longer than he thought. 

Hannibal had changed into a tank top and his work pants, a grease-stained pair of darker wash jeans, and boots. The tools he had picked up yesterday morning from the hardware store were supplemented by the ones Hobbs had lent him last week. He took apart what he needed, the engine was rattling slightly and there were a few notches on the gears he wanted to clean up. The familiar scent of oil was a welcomed reprieve to his buzzing thoughts. The work made his muscles ache nicely as he twisted and ground the metal to his will, washing away the dust and dormant build-up of neglected months. It was nearing early afternoon when he heard the squeak and snap of an old backdoor in the far distance. Anyone else wouldn’t have likely been able to hear it, but Hannibal wasn’t just anyone and his ears had been tuned to the sounds of Will all morning.

Hannibal stood and wiped his hands on the rag to his side. He debated going in and getting entirely cleaned up but something told him Will might appreciate the dishevelment of his current state. He knew it humanized him to some sort, softened his edges. Plus, the southern comforts of a working man's hands would probably foster more familiarity than the clean-cut lines of fresh-pressed slacks. Hannibal grabbed a cigarette and dusted off his jeans one final time before beginning the rather long and drawn-out trek down his driveway. 

Halfway there Hannibal heard the snap and whine of the door opening and closing again and knew Will had made his way back inside. He took a deep breath and jogged to the edge, searching both directions of the road, and crossed it. The way both their homes sat, they had somewhat of a driveway that winded up off the road until you actually made it to the home itself. It was part privacy, part design on being situated within a patch of land. So, Hannibal knew if Will was watching for him he would see Hannibal well before he made it to the front door. Part of Hannibal wanted Will to be entirely caught off guard, another liked the idea of Will being just as anticipatory as himself.

It was this thought that made him knock with assured confidence against the wood of Will’s front door. It rattled against the rusted hinges before footsteps sounded on the other side, a few breathless moments passed before it opened. 

Will was a vision in the afternoon light. It caught his curls in a way that brought out the gold that sat in the undertones of the deep chocolate brown like an angel's halo. His blue eyes squinted against the sun, bright and wide like a newborn deer. There was an innocence to his features, feminine and plush like a Grecian sculpture but harsh and dark in expression like some vengeful god upon a throne. Demanding supplication in an unspoken way, never satisfied but entirely unwilling to ask and make clear what satisfaction would bring. It was intoxicating. He wore a t-shirt and boxers, clearly unprepared for company or perhaps uncaring for the way he looked the morning after his endeavours the previous night. Either way, Hannibal found himself drinking in the vision.

“Hello, Will.” Hannibal smiled, a small thing, just enough to show the edges of his sharp teeth. It seemed to take Will a moment before everything caught up with him and he flushed that gorgeous shade of cherubic pink.

“Ah, hell, I forgot you were comin’, I ain’t fit for company.” Will sputtered out and Hannibal waved him off, leaning against the doorway.

“Did I leave such a fleeting impression?” Hannibal teased and Will shook his head and stepped back.

“No, no. I–come in, m’sorry. I’ll grab your jacket.” Will scurried away in a flurry of movement down the wood-paneled halls of his charming home. Hannibal walked in and took in the smell that was entirely Will. The simple decor and thin sheet curtains, evidence of life within the stack of work boots and Carhartt jackets. It made Hannibal smile.

“You have a lovely home.” Hannibal called, walking along the wall of sporadic pictures. One of Will when he was much younger, missing his front teeth and holding up a large fish.

“It ain’t much, but it’s somethin’. Here,” Will held out Hannibal’s jacket, eyes fluttering above his shoulder.

“Not fond of eye contact, are you?” Hannibal chuckled, not unkindly, silently begging for Will to allow him to see those beautiful blues again.

“Not really, no. I got a, uh, thing ‘bout it. Avoid it when I can.” Will motioned nonchalantly and Hannibal tilted his head with a hum.

“Shame,” Hannibal took his jacket and let their hands touch, not moving for a moment. The lingering softness of Will’s hands was a surprise. Hannibal smiled, “You’ve got beautiful eyes, Willoughby.” Hannibal let the name tickle his tongue playfully and the surprise of it had the effect he was after. Will let his eyes dart upwards for a moment, meeting Hannibal’s with a furrow of his brow.

“What are you doing?” Will asked, retreating his hand like Hannibal had burned him. Oh, beautiful boy, come out and play. Hannibal ignored his question and looked back to the wall of photos.

“A tour of the town, I have decided.” Hannibal turned to Will, running a hand through his hair, shrugging. 

“What?” Will raised a brow.

“How you can make it up to me. I’d like a tour of the town, I admit I have seen very little of it. The extent of my travels are my home, the Butchery, and wherever Abigail sees fit to drag me along to.”

Hannibal stepped closer to Will and tilted his head slightly, coyly allowing the charm he knew he could use to come to the surface. He watched as Will assessed his words, trying to find falseness or challenge within them. It seemed after a moment Will decided he found none and shrugged casually.

“Okay. You gonna take us around on that bike of yours or am I supplyin’ travel, sweetheart?” Will crossed his arms and let a charming huff of laughter fill his voice as he turned and walked to his kitchen. Hannibal felt his stomach twist.

“Spying on me, dear Will?” 

Will froze, seemingly realizing what he had said and by proxy what he had given away.

“Easy enough when you make all that racket so early in the damn mornin’, darlin’.”

“You’re generous with your terms of endearment.” Hannibal pointed out and Will raised a brow over the fridge door.

“Don’t get the wrong idea, that's just the south for ya.”

“And what idea would I get?” Hannibal whispered.

Will gripped the edges of the fridge and looked at Hannibal. There was a light behind his eyes, meeting Hannibal directly like two figures across an endless ocean only to realize they were speaking a similar language. A charge and danger filled the air, heightened to a frequency Hannibal wasn’t sure he had ever felt in his life. His hand gripped his jacket, flexing and clenching the leather as it squeaked beneath the pressure. Neither of them said a word, trying to forcibly peel back the steel walls of one another to see if there was flesh and blood beneath, to see if it was worth the sacrifice. Worth the wound.

Will opened his mouth to speak, a god bestowing judgement before the shrill cut of an unwelcome third guest burst through the tension. The phone echoed on the wall, rattling against the wood with the creaky of a twice-done shitty job. Will leaped, blinking and looking away from Hannibal to clear his throat. He shook his head and Hannibal watched him in amusement as he let out a shaky breath. Unsure of what possessed him in that moment, some new emotion, something foreign and bright. He wanted to smash the phone to bits within his grasp.

“Bev? Beverly, hey slow down, slow down. What happened?” Will’s demeanor went rigid as he listened, voice strained and odd. 

“What? When? Oh my god.” Will ran a hand through his messy curls and closed his eyes, “Yeah–of course, no, yeah Hannibal is over here–not…yeah I’ll give ‘em a heads up. I’ll see you later, call me if anything changes. Love you too, bye.” Will hung up the phone and put it back on the receiver. His hands were shaking as he stared for a moment at some vision beyond where Hannibal could n't reach Will.

There was an entirely new tension now. 

“What is it, Will?” Hannibal asked softly.

“Clyde…Clyde Dunway he is– fuck– he was a boy we all grew up with…they found his body this morning,” Will looked up at Hannibal with wide, glassy eyes, “He’s–fuckin’ hell Hannibal he’s dead.”