Archive of Our Own

"Research indicates that even individuals with psychopathic traits are affected by social exclusion and rejection." Professor Lecter said, pacing slowly between the rows of desks.

"Although they process emotional experiences differently from the general population, many still possess a desire to belong." He paused, letting the words settle. "Their behavioral patterns however make forming genuine, lasting relationships exceptionally difficult."

A hand rose near the front of the lecture hall.

"They call the Chesapeake Ripper a psychopath," the student said. "Does that mean he wants acceptance too?"

Professor Lecter inclined his head ever so slightly.

"The Chesapeake Ripper is undeniably violent," he replied. "He kills in solitude, but whether he desires acceptance is another matter entirely. At present, we simply don't know."

"He doesn't."

The quiet interruption drew every eye in the room.

Will barely looked up from his notebook, Professor Lecter's gaze settled on him, a subtle amused look on his face.

"And why do you think that, Will?"

Will lifted his head.

"The Ripper has a moral code." His voice was calm, almost detached. "It just doesn't align with society's. He isn't killing because he's isolated..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "He's killing because he's curious. Whatever drives him comes from inside himself, not from a need to be understood."

The room remained still.

Professor Lecter studied him for a moment longer than was probably necessary. Then, a faint smile touched the corner of his lips.

"An excellent deduction, Will."

Professor Lecter turned back to the board as if nothing unusual had happened, picking up the lecture exactly where he'd left off.

Will lowered his gaze to his notebook, trying to ignore the warmth spreading across his face. He pressed his pen a little harder against the paper, forcing himself to focus on his notes instead of the quiet praise still echoing in his mind.

The rest of the lecture drifted by.

He heard every word. He always did.

But more often than not, his attention wandered back to the man at the front of the room.

Hannibal Lecter was unlike anyone Will had ever known.

Everything about him seemed effortless. Even something as ordinary as writing on the board looked elegant.

Will had been in love with him for nearly a year.

It wasn't a schoolboy crush, nor admiration. It was something deeper... stranger.

He wanted to understand him. To be understood by him.

Sometimes, he imagined what it would be like if Professor Lecter looked at him, not as another student seated somewhere in the back of a crowded lecture hall but as someone worth knowing.

Then he'd force the thought away. It was impossible.

Hannibal was his professor.

Will was simply another name on a class roster. That was all. 

It had always been easier this way, to hide and watch. Will had spent most of his life doing just that. 

Teachers forgot he was in the room. Classmates remembered his name only because it was called during attendance. People were kind enough to smile at him, but their attention always drifted back to someone else.

After a while, he stopped trying to change that.

Loneliness was easier to live with once you accepted it.

So he kept to himself. Kept his distance. Kept his thoughts where no one else could hear them.

Especially those thoughts. 

The ones he hated.

Sometimes, all it took was a passing stranger.

Before he could stop himself, his mind would begin filling in the blanks, imagining things he never wanted to imagine.

How much force would it take to fracture the bones around their eye?

If they fell down that staircase, would their neck break instantly?

How long would they—

Will blinked hard.

The thoughts disappeared as quickly as they had come.

He looked back down at his notebook, swallowing the knot in his throat. He never let himself follow those thoughts to the end.

He couldn't.

The fact that they appeared so naturally was enough to make him feel sick. It terrified him how easily his mind crossed that line, as though there were some part of him constantly reaching toward something he refused to become.

Perhaps that was why the Chesapeake Ripper fascinated him so deeply.

Not because of the murders but because of the mind behind them.

Every crime scene felt like a question waiting to be answered. Looking at the photographs released to the public, Will's imagination couldn't help but reconstruct what had happened.

It was a gift.

One he often wished he didn't possess.

The Chesapeake Ripper didn't seem like someone burdened by loneliness.

He killed alone, worked alone, disappeared alone. He needed no audience.

At least...that was what Will believed. But did that mean he wanted no one? Or had he simply never found someone capable of seeing him? Someone who understood without recoiling?

Will frowned at the thought.

Perhaps even monsters grew tired of speaking only to themselves. Perhaps they, too, wondered what it might feel like to be seen.

The lecture ended with the scrape of chairs against the floor.

Students quickly filtered into the aisles. Professor Lecter remained at the front, gathering his papers.

Will waited. He watched Hannibal take his bag before disappearing through the classroom door.

Only then did Will stand.

"Will."

He turned.

Beverly was already beside him, swinging her backpack onto one shoulder. "You coming to lunch?"

Will glanced toward the hallway where Hannibal had vanished moments ago. "I've got somewhere to be."

"You always have somewhere to be."

"I'm busy."

She narrowed her eyes. "Did you even have breakfast? Come on, Will. I need company."

Will offered a faint smile. "Sorry, Bev. I'll make it up to you."

Before she could question him further, he slipped into the hallway.

By the time Will stepped outside, Professor Lecter was already making his way across campus. Will waited a few seconds before following.

He stayed well behind him, blending into the flow of students moving between buildings. To anyone watching, they were just two people walking in the same direction.

A year ago, he'd told himself it would only happen once.

He'd only wanted to know where Professor Lecter lived. It was harmless, he told himself. Just curiosity.

One afternoon became another.

Then another.

Before he knew it, it had become part of his routine.

Will had never thought of himself as reckless. If anything, he was careful to a fault.

He knew which streets Hannibal preferred to walk, which routes were busiest so he could disappear into the crowd without being noticed. If he thought Hannibal might recognize a jacket, he wouldn't wear it again the next day. 

Watching from a distance felt... safer.

Safer for Hannibal, who would never have to know. Safer for Will, who would never have to face the fact that the man he loved could never love him back.

There was something strangely comforting about loving someone who didn't know you loved them. It asked for nothing and expected nothing in return. It couldn't end in rejection because it would never become a confession.

Over the past year, Will had learned Hannibal's routine almost by heart.

He left home at seven every morning.

He arrived on campus just before eight, always carrying the same briefcase, always impeccably dressed, looking as though he'd stepped out of a magazine.

His days followed a predictable pattern. Lectures, office hours, departmental meetings. Around three in the afternoon, he'd leave campus for his psychiatric practice downtown. By six, he was usually back home.

Will never followed him after that.

Partly because he had a part-time job at a café. Mostly because there never seemed to be much reason. As far as Will knew, Hannibal rarely went back out once he was home.

He kept to himself.

People respected him, and students admired him. But friends...

Will couldn't think of many.

He knew Hannibal hosted dinner parties occasionally or invited his 'friends' over for dinner. But they were nothing permanent. 

Will remained across the street until Professor Lecter disappeared behind the doors of his office. Only when the older man was completely out of sight did he finally turn away. 

The walk back to his apartment was quiet.

His apartment sat about fifteen minutes from campus, tucked between an old laundromat and a convenience store that never seemed to close.

The familiar creak of the apartment door greeted him as he stepped inside.

Will dropped his bag beside the couch and shrugged off his jacket before wandering into the tiny kitchen. 

His parents had disappeared from his life long before university.

By sixteen, he'd already learned how to forge signatures, pay electricity bills, and survive on instant noodles when money ran thin. There had been no dramatic goodbye; he wasn't abandoned. 

Abandonment required expectation. 

One day they were there. The next, they weren't.

Social workers came and went, the teachers asked questions. Eventually, everyone stopped asking.

Will learned that people lost interest surprisingly quickly. He'd spent the better part of his life alone.

But Professor Lecter had a way of looking at him that no one else ever had. During lectures, his questions almost always found Will, as though he knew there was something different about the way his mind worked. 

Their conversations never lasted long and rarely strayed beyond psychology, but Will always walked away feeling as though Hannibal had seen a little more of him than anyone else had.

It was unsettling as much as it was addictive.

Hannibal seemed to understand people with ease. He listened carefully, noticed the smallest details. 

It often felt as though he could look at someone for a few moments and understand them better than they understood themselves.

Will wondered what the older man saw when he looked at him.

Whatever it was, it was enough to make him feel visible. That feeling alone was enough to keep him awake some nights.

Still, he knew better than to let himself hope.

Lately though, it had become harder to think about anything except the Chesapeake Ripper.

The city couldn't stop talking about him.

Every television above a café counter seemed to be playing the news. Every newspaper carried another headline about another victim. 

Will understood the fear.

He felt it too. But alongside it, he was curious. 

Every new crime scene became another puzzle he couldn't stop trying to solve.

Why this victim?

Why this location?

Why arrange the body that way?

He found himself studying every photograph released to the public, thinking about details most people couldn't bear to look at. 

The bodies weren't simply left behind. They were positioned with care, every choice seemed to carry a meaning only the killer understood.

It was grotesque. It was horrifying.

And somehow... it was beautiful.

The thought made him feel sick.

What kind of person looked at something so violent and noticed its symmetry before its horror?

Every time another victim appeared on the evening news, Will caught himself asking the same question.

Not how had they died.

But why had the killer done it this way?

What had he been thinking as he stood over the body? What had he been trying to say?

The thought dragged an old memory to the surface.

Will couldn't have been older than eight.

He had been walking home from school when he'd found a small bird lying beneath a tree, one wing twisted awkwardly beneath its body. It was still alive, its tiny chest rising and falling in frantic, uneven breaths.

Any other child might have rushed to save it, cupped it gently in their hands, searched for an adult.

Will had simply stared.

How easy would it be to end its suffering?

He remembered standing there, frozen, terrified not of the dying bird but of himself. He hadn't touched it. He hadn't harmed it. He couldn't.

Instead, he watched as the bird's desperate movements gradually slowed until they stopped altogether.

Then he walked home with a heaviness in his chest that no child should have to carry, convinced there was blood on his hands despite never laying a finger on the creature.

That was the first day Will had wondered whether there was something fundamentally wrong with him.

Whether monsters were born quietly, whether they began as children who thought the wrong things.

Will exhaled slowly, pressing the heels of his palms against his temples until the thoughts began to loosen their grip. 

He stayed like that for a long moment, eyes squeezed shut, he couldn't afford to lose himself in them.

Drawing a steady breath, he pulled his textbooks toward him and buried himself in coursework instead.

By the time he finished the last assignment, the afternoon had slipped into evening.

His shift at the café would be starting soon.

Will stretched the stiffness from his shoulders before rising from his desk. 

He exchanged his university clothes for the black shirt he kept neatly folded in the wardrobe, ran a hand through his unruly curls, grabbed his keys, and stepped back into the cool Baltimore evening.

The café was only a fifteen-minute walk from his apartment.

By the time Will pushed open the door, the evening crowd still hadn't arrived. The bell above the entrance gave its usual soft chime.

"Look who finally showed up."

Will looked over to find Matthew behind the counter, halfway through tying his apron. He grinned.

"I was starting to think you'd quit."

"I thought about it," Will replied, reaching for his own apron.

Matthew laughed. "Really?"

"No."

"I was going to say, that sounded a little too hopeful."

Will slipped the apron over his head and tied it behind his back. "I still like eating."

Matthew let out a quiet laugh. "Figures."

Will slipped the apron over his head, fastening the strings behind his back.

"Are you okay, Will? You look exhausted."

"I always look exhausted."

"True." Matthew tilted his head, studying him for a second. "You look exhausted even for you."

Will busied himself arranging clean cups beside the espresso machine. "I was studying."

Matthew raised an eyebrow. "I don't buy that."

Will merely offered the ghost of a smile.

Matthew had long since learned that pressing Will for answers was like trying to squeeze water from stone. If Will wanted to talk, he would. More often than not, he didn't.

"Anyways," Matthew said, deciding to let it go, "Beverly told me Bloom absolutely destroyed Randall in class today."

Will looked up from the coffee grinder. "What happened?"

"He forgot to cite one article."

"That's it?"

Matthew nodded solemnly. "She made it sound like he'd committed murder."

A quiet laugh escaped Will. "That sounds like something he'd actually do."

"Remind me never to hand anything in late."

"I think it's already too late for that."

"It definitely is."

They shared an easy smile before getting back to work.

The café remained unusually quiet, a few university students occupied the tables nearest the windows.

Will was wiping down one of the empty tables when a familiar phrase drifted through the café.

"...the Chesapeake Ripper has claimed another victim..."

His hand froze.

The voice came from a phone propped against a sugar dispenser. A girl from the university sat watching the evening news while absently stirring her latte.

"...investigators have yet to establish a connection between the victims—"

Will's eyes caught the headline before he could stop himself.

"Will?" Matthew's voice cut cleanly through the noise.

Will blinked. "Hm?"

"You gonna clean that table or just stare at it until it cleans itself?"

Realizing he'd been standing perfectly still, cloth motionless in his hand, Will looked away from the phone as though it had burned him.

"...Right."

He resumed wiping the table with a little more force than necessary.

The reporter's voice continued in the background, Will forced himself not to listen.

By the time Will's shift ended, he walked around and reached Professor Lecter's neighborhood.

The city had gone dark. The streets were quieter here than they were near campus, lined with elegant townhouses. Will slowed his pace as the familiar house came into view.

Nothing appeared unusual at first, until his eyes settled on the unfamiliar car parked neatly beside the gate.

Will stopped.

He recognized it immediately. Professor Bloom's.

His brows drew together almost instinctively.

He crossed the street and settled beneath the broad oak tree opposite the house like he had a hundred times before. 

Will leaned ever so slightly, searching for another glimpse. Nothing.

The curtains obscured almost everything. He let out a quiet breath through his nose.

It could mean absolutely nothing.

Professor Lecter entertained guests from time to time. Not often, but enough that Will had learned to recognize the pattern. Every few weeks, another colleague or acquaintance would arrive carrying a bottle of wine or a bouquet of flowers for dinner.

Will had heard more than one professor rave about Hannibal's cooking. Apparently, his dinner parties were a luxury. 

Will couldn't help wondering what it would be like.

To sit across from him beneath the warm glow of candlelight, to listen to him speak without the distance of a lecture hall between them.

To have Professor Lecter ask him how his day had been, not as a lecturer making polite conversation with a student but because he genuinely wished to know.

Still... this was Professor Bloom.

Will had watched her for months.

She was discreet, professional enough that no one seemed to question the way she stayed after faculty meetings or found reasons to stop by Hannibal's office.

But Will noticed the details other people overlooked. The way her smile softened whenever Hannibal addressed her directly. The almost imperceptible brush of her hand against his sleeve as they walked together down the corridor. 

Alana Bloom had feelings for Hannibal.

He was certain of it. And if he had noticed... surely Hannibal had as well.

It was difficult to imagine Professor Lecter overlooking anything. There was no way he hadn't seen the affection in Alana's eyes.

The question that gnawed at Will wasn't whether Hannibal knew, it was whether he welcomed it.

Will's gaze drifted back to the dining room window, searching the shifting shadows for some answer they refused to give him.

Will kept his eyes fixed on the darkened window, willing himself to see something that might reassure him, nothing came.

Professor Lecter had never given him reason to believe there was anything serious between him and Professor Bloom. If anything, Hannibal seemed almost impossibly detached from romance.

There had been people before her, Will knew that much. A dinner here, an evening together there. Hannibal entertained affection, but never seemed to return it with the same depth. 

Perhaps Alana was sitting at his dining table now, wine cradled delicately between her fingers while Hannibal plated another impossibly beautiful meal. Perhaps he was smiling. Perhaps she was listening to his voice without thirty rows of students separating them.

Will hated how vividly his imagination supplied the images.

He hated even more that they hurt, his vision shimmered unexpectedly. He blinked hard, forcing the sting from his eyes before the tears could gather.

This was ridiculous.

He had no claim to Hannibal.

Will shoved his hands into his coat pockets and forced himself to turn away.

He had taken only a few steps before his foot struck something hard along the edge of the pavement.

A loose stone, he looked down at it.

Then, almost without thinking, he bent to pick it up.

For a brief moment he simply rolled it between his fingers, staring at Professor Bloom's car parked neatly beside the gate.

He knew he shouldn't, the thought barely registered before his arm moved.

The stone left his hand with a sharp crack through the stillness.

It struck the windshield with a sickening snap, a spiderweb of fractures blooming across the glass before the stone bounced harmlessly onto the driveway.

Without another glance toward the house, he turned and disappeared into the darkness.

When Will reached home, he couldn't recall unlocking the door, couldn't remember taking off his coat.

One moment he was standing outside Hannibal Lecter's home, staring at the fractured windshield and wondering what on earth was wrong with him. 

Next, he was back inside his cold and empty apartment.

The door clicked shut behind him.

It was too loud, everything felt too loud.

Slowly, almost absently, he opened the kitchen drawer.

His fingers closed around the familiar handle of a knife before he was even fully aware of what he was doing.

Then his legs gave way.

Will slid down the cabinet until he was sitting on the cold kitchen floor, his back pressed against the cupboard doors, his knees drawn instinctively toward his chest. His breathing had become shallow.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

It only made things worse.

The darkness behind his eyelids refused to stay empty. Instead, his imagination did what it always did.

He wasn't looking at the scene anymore. He was standing inside it.

He saw crimson where there wasn't any, imagined warmth against his skin that did not exist, and recoiled from his own thoughts before they had the chance to become anything more.

The vision shattered.

Hannibal's face replaced it.

He pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead, trying to force the thoughts back into whatever corner of his mind they had crawled out of.

"They're just thoughts," he muttered, his voice trembling. "They're just thoughts."

But they didn't stop, his breathing grew faster.

His chest tightened until every breath felt painfully incomplete and tears streamed down his face. 

He hit the side of his head with his fists, desperate for the noise inside to quiet, to interrupt the relentless current of images that refused to leave him alone.

Again.

And again.

The thoughts only grew louder.

He felt trapped inside himself, imprisoned by a mind that seemed determined to convince him there was something rotten at his core.

What if one day the line between imagining and doing wasn't enough?

What if curiosity became something worse?

The fear was unbearable.

His gaze fell to the knife still resting in his hand.

He stared at it for a long time. Then, acting on impulse rather than reason, he slashed his forearm. 

The sharp sting broke through the haze. His breathing hitched and relief arrived hand in hand with shame.

He closed his eyes, swallowing hard.

He didn't want to hurt anyone. He didn't want to hurt himself either. He just didn't know how else to silence a mind that refused to stop punishing him.

Curling further into himself, he rested his forehead against his knees, exhausted beyond measure.

For a long while, Will simply sat there, listening to the uneven rhythm of his own breathing.

The storm inside his head had quieted. 

He lowered his gaze. The cut wasn't that deep, at least it didn't need stitches. It was still bleeding profusely though.

A tired sigh escaped him.

He reached blindly for the nearest thing within reach, finding a clean kitchen towel draped over the counter. Pressing it gently against his arm, he watched the bright fabric gradually lose its pristine whiteness. 

The contrast caught his attention in a way he hated to admit. 

With considerable effort, Will pushed himself upright. His legs felt strangely unsteady beneath him. He crossed the apartment slowly, one hand trailing along the wall to steady himself.

The bathroom light flickered once before bathing the room in a harsh, unforgiving glow.

Will looked up.

His eyes were swollen and rimmed with red. His skin had taken on an almost ghostly pallor. His curls, usually unruly enough on their own, had become a tangled mess from repeatedly dragging anxious hands through them. A deep bruise had begun to bloom near his temple, darkening against pale skin.

He looked...

Broken.

Will held his own reflection for only a second longer before looking away.

He splashed cool water across his face.

When he returned to the bedroom, he didn't bother changing his clothes or tidying the scattered books still spread across his desk. There wasn't enough energy left in him for any of it.

He simply collapsed onto the mattress, staring blankly at the cracked ceiling above him.

Sleep wasn't something he welcomed anymore.

Most nights it brought dreams he wished he'd never had, images his mind insisted on replaying until he woke drenched in sweat.

Tonight, though, his body surrendered before his thoughts had the chance to begin again.

Morning arrived far sooner than Will would have liked.

A dull ache settled behind his eyes the moment he sat upright, radiating from the bruise near his temple. 

He winced, pressing careful fingers against the tender skin before letting his hand fall away with a quiet sigh.

Dragging himself out of bed, he showered somehow and wandered towards the wardrobe, already dreading what came next.

His eyes skimmed over the sparse collection of clothes hanging inside.

One shirt. Another. A sweater.

His expression slowly fell. "No..."

He rummaged through the hangers anyway, as though another long-sleeved shirt might magically appear if he searched hard enough.

Nothing.

Every clean long-sleeved shirt he owned was sitting in the laundry basket.

Will let out a defeated groan, rubbing a hand over his face. "Great."

His injured arm was impossible to ignore now.

He could replace the dressing easily enough, but he couldn't make it disappear. The fresh bandage stood out against his pale skin, and no amount of tugging at his sleeve would hide it completely.

Then there was the bruise on his head.

He wandered into the bathroom and stared at himself again.

The swelling along his temple had darkened overnight, peeking out beneath his curls no matter how many times he tried brushing them forward. He pushed his bangs over it once.

Each attempt looked more ridiculous than the last, he gave up at last with a frustrated exhale.

People were going to notice. Beverly certainly would.

She noticed everything, especially when it came to him. She'd take one look at his face and immediately start asking questions he had no intention of answering.

He could already hear the concern in her voice. Matthew wouldn't be much different.

With another weary sigh, he carefully removed yesterday's dressing and cleaned the injury before wrapping it again with fresh gauze, taking his time to make sure it sat neatly beneath his sleeve, even if it couldn't be completely concealed.

Grabbing his bag from beside the door, Will cast one last glance around the apartment before stepping into the hallway.

The walk to the university felt longer than usual.

Will kept his head down, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, he felt the glances before he truly noticed them.

A pair of students passed him on the sidewalk, their conversation faltering as they looked at the bruise peeking out from beneath his curls. He kept walking and entered his class. 

Beverly was sitting in her usual seat near the middle of the room, absentmindedly tapping a pen against her notebook. The moment she looked up and saw him, her expression changed.

Her eyebrows knit together, and she immediately stood.

"Will?"

He pretended not to hear her at first, slipping into the seat beside her and pulling out his notebook.

"Will," she repeated, quieter this time. "What happened to your face?"

"Nothing."

Beverly stared at him. "Nothing gave you a bruise and a bandaged arm?"

Will focused on arranging his pens in a perfectly straight line. "I tripped."

She looked at him in disbelief. "Did the floor fight back?"

A reluctant smile threatened to appear on Will's face, but he forced it away. "It was an aggressive floor."

Beverly didn't laugh."Will, I'm not joking, are you okay?"

The concern in her voice was gentle, and somehow that made it harder to endure.

Will kept his eyes on the desk. "I'm fine."

"You're fucking not, tell me what happened."

He sighed, the sound heavier than he intended. "Can we not do this right now?"

Beverly hesitated, studying him for a long moment. "Okay," she said eventually. "But we're not done."

Will nodded without looking at her.

The classroom gradually filled with students, until the door at the front opened and Professor Bloom stepped inside.

Will watched her for a moment.

She looked tired, rather irritated and started the class. 

Will's mind drifted back to the sound of glass cracking, the way the spiderweb fracture had spread across the windshield.

He lowered his gaze to his notebook to hide the satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

By the time Professor Bloom dismissed the class, Will had absorbed almost none of the lecture.

He slid his notebook into his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and slipped into the aisle before Beverly had even finished packing her things.

"Will?"

He pretended not to hear, his pace quickened.

"Will, hey—"

The lecture hall doors swung open, and he stepped into the corridor, weaving through the steady stream of students.

"Will!" Beverly's voice followed him, closer this time.

He didn't stop.

If he looked back, she'd catch up. She'd ask questions. She'd wear that same worried expression she'd been carrying all morning, and he'd either have to lie to her again or watch the concern deepen in her eyes.

He wasn't sure which option he disliked more, so he kept walking.

"Mr. Graham."

Will froze.

His shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly.

Of course.

Closing his eyes for the briefest moment, he muttered a quiet curse beneath his breath before turning around.

Standing a few feet away was Dean Jack Crawford.

"Mr. Graham," Jack repeated, his tone considerably softer than his appearance suggested. "Do you have a minute?"

Will instinctively adjusted the strap of his bag, resisting the urge to tug his sleeve lower over the bandage on his arm.

"I have another lecture soon."

"It won't take long." Jack's gaze lingered briefly on the fading bruise near Will's temple before returning to his eyes. "I'd like to speak with you in my office."

It wasn't phrased as an order. But it wasn't really a request, either.

Will knew there was little point arguing. "...alright."

Jack offered a small nod. "Come with me."

Together, they walked down the corridor, Will followed half a step behind. When they entered, Jack closed the door behind them with a soft click.

"Have a seat."

Will obeyed without protest, settling into the chair opposite the desk. His bag rested at his feet, his hands folded tightly in his lap to stop them from fidgeting.

Jack remained standing for a moment, studying him in silence. Eventually, he walked around the desk and sat down, folding his hands together.

"How are you doing, Will?"

"I'm fine." The answer came automatically.

Jack let out a slow breath through his nose. "No," he said quietly. "I don't think you are."

Will lowered his eyes to the grain of the wooden desk. "I'm alright."

Jack was silent for another moment. "You've got a bruise on your head."

Will said nothing.

"Your arm's bandaged."

Still nothing.

"And judging by the way you're avoiding looking at me, I'm guessing you already know what I'm going to ask."

Will rubbed a hand over his face. "It was an accident."

Jack leaned back in his chair, unconvinced. "An accident."

"Yes."

"An accident that leaves bruises on your head and a bandaged arm at the same time?"

Will felt irritation beginning to creep beneath his skin. "I fell."

"You fell onto what?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It does to me."

Will finally looked up. "It was a stupid accident."

Jack held his gaze. "I've been doing this a long time, Will. I've seen people after accidents." His voice stayed calm. "I've also learned what they usually look like."

Will's jaw tightened. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Will, you walked into my department looking like someone who's had the worst night of his life." Jack's voice softened. 

Will looked away. "It's personal."

Jack nodded slowly. "And you're entitled to your privacy, Will, but you can't come to campus with visible injuries like these and expect no one to worry."

Will's shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly.

He was so tired.

Jack pushed his chair back and stood, walking slowly around the desk. Will instinctively stiffened, Jack stopped beside him.

"I'm not here to interrogate you."

A large hand rested gently against Will's shoulder, the gesture was so unexpectedly gentle that it nearly undid him.

"You've been one of my brightest students since you arrived here," Jack said quietly. "And whether you believe it or not, people here care about you, Will."

"I'm gonna be late for my lecture, can I please leave?" Will asked, almost like a whisper. 

Jack sighed and nodded once. "I insist you visit the university clinic at least."

Will offered the smallest nod in return before slipping quietly from the office.

The next lecture on his schedule belonged to Professor Lecter.

Will considered skipping it.

The thought lingered for all of five seconds before he dismissed it. If there was one class he could never bring himself to miss, it was Hannibal's.

He made his way through the corridor at an unhurried pace, stopping briefly outside one of the washrooms, he leaned toward the mirror, looking at the bandage on his head. 

With careful fingers, he combed his curls forward, letting his bangs fall over the injured side of his forehead. He tilted his head one way, then the other, trying to convince himself it was less noticeable.

A corner of the bandage still peeked stubbornly through the strands of hair.

Will brushed it down again. The curls sprang back into place almost immediately.

"Traitors," he muttered under his breath.

He straightened his bag on his shoulder and continued towards the lecture hall.

Will slipped inside quietly, hoping to disappear into the background before anyone noticed him.

No such luck.

The moment the classroom door clicked shut behind him, Professor Lecter looked up from the notes spread neatly across the lectern.

Their eyes met.

Will watched Hannibal's gaze travel over him, on the bruise partially concealed beneath his curls before drifting lower to the fresh bandage wrapped around his forearm.

Hannibal frowned. 

Will's stomach tightened, embarrassment flushed through him with surprising force. He looked away first.

He made his way toward his usual seat near the back of the lecture hall, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. He could feel Beverly watching him from somewhere to his left, her concern practically tangible even without looking. Will settled into his seat and pulled out his notebook.

The lecture unfolded much as the others always did.

Every few minutes Will caught himself staring blankly at the same paragraph on the projector, realizing he hadn't processed a single word.

He was painfully aware of two things.

The dull ache pulsing behind his temple and Professor Lecter's occasional glances in his direction.

Will found himself sitting a little straighter, pushing his sleeve lower over the bandage despite knowing it accomplished nothing. 

By the time the lecture finally came to an end, relief settled over him.

"That's all for today," Hannibal said, closing the folder before him. "Be sure to read the assigned case studies before next week's seminar."

The room immediately erupted into movement. Students began talking over one another as chairs scraped across the floor and bags zipped shut. Beverly turned in her seat, clearly intending to wait for Will this time.

He was quicker.

Before she had the chance to stand, he had already slipped his notebook into his bag and disappeared into the flow of students heading for the door.

He just needed to make it into the corridor. Just another few steps.

One hand had already reached the handle when a familiar voice stopped him where he stood.

"Will."

Will closed his eyes.

For one brief, childish moment, he considered pretending he hadn't heard. 

Then he remembered exactly whose class he was in.

With a quiet sigh that barely disturbed the air around him, he let his hand fall from the door handle before turning back.

"Yes, Professor?"

Hannibal stood at the front of the lecture hall, one hand resting lightly against the edge of the lectern.

"If you would stay for a moment."

It wasn't a question.

Will nodded. "Of course..."

He lingered awkwardly near the front of the room while the rest of the class filed past him.

Beverly paused in the doorway. She glanced between Will and Professor Lecter hesitantly before leaving. 

Silence settled over the lecture hall.

Hannibal waited until the last student had disappeared before walking towards the door, he reached out and pulled it shut. The latch clicked softly into place.

Will suddenly became acutely aware that they were alone. His heartbeat stumbled.

Hannibal turned back to face him. For a moment, he said nothing.

His gaze moved slowly, thoughtfully, lingering first on the bruise beneath Will's curls before drifting to the white bandage wrapped around his forearm. 

There was no judgment in his expression, no immediate question waiting impatiently on his tongue. 

Before Hannibal could ask, Will sighed softly and broke the silence himself.

"It was an accident."

Hannibal remained still.

"At the café," Will continued, keeping his eyes fixed somewhere just beyond the professor's shoulder. "I... burned myself while cleaning up."

The lie sounded flimsy the moment it left his mouth. He almost winced at it.

Hannibal regarded him for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

"Do you expect me to believe that, Will?" There was no accusation in his voice.

Will let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding."I thought it was worth trying."

"So you did."

Will looked away, unable to bear the steady attention any longer. "I'd rather not talk about it."

"I know." The reply was so gentle that it caught him off guard.

Before Will could retreat another step, Hannibal closed the distance between them.

Hannibal lifted a hand with unhurried care. "You've hidden it rather poorly."

Will frowned before realizing what he meant. His bangs. Instinctively, he reached up to fix them himself, but Hannibal was already there.

Long, elegant fingers brushed lightly against his forehead as they swept the unruly curls aside. Hannibal's thumb hovered briefly near the edge of it, careful not to apply pressure.

"A superficial injury," he observed quietly. "Though head wounds have a tendency to look more dramatic than they are."

"I told you," Will murmured, grateful his voice hadn't betrayed the chaos inside him. "It's nothing."

Hannibal's eyes met his again. "I didn't say it was nothing."

His hand fell away from Will's hair before drifting lower, coming to rest lightly beneath Will's forearm.

"May I?"

Will gave the smallest nod.

Hannibal's fingers settled gently around his wrist, careful enough that the contact felt more like reassurance than restraint.

He turned Will's arm over slightly, his gaze falling to the fresh bandage wrapped around the forearm.

A faint bloom of crimson had begun to seep through the white gauze.

"Is it deep?"

Will swallowed. "No."

"No stitches?"

Of course, Hannibal had figured.

Will shook his head. "No."

"Come."

Will blinked. "What?"

"Sit down." Hannibal gestured toward one of the front-row desks. "You need to change the dressing."

"It doesn't—"

"It needs changing." The words left very little room for argument.

Will opened his mouth to protest again, then closed it just as quickly. "Alright."

His gauze applying skills were probably hurting Hannibal's eyes.

Will lowered himself into the chair, feeling strangely like a child being sent to the nurse's office.

Hannibal disappeared briefly toward the storage cabinets built into the side of the lecture hall. Will watched him unlock one of them before retrieving a neatly organized first-aid kit.

Returning to Will's side, Hannibal set the kit carefully on the desk between them before opening it.

"May I have your arm?" Hannibal asked.

Will obeyed silently.  

Hannibal's fingers found the edge of the bandage, peeling the medical tape away with painstaking care. 

"You can tell me if I'm hurting you."

"You're not."

The old dressing came away, stained in faded crimson.

Fresh blood stuck along the edges of the cut, though it had already begun to clot.

Hannibal reached for a piece of gauze, dampening it with antiseptic before gently cleaning the dried blood from Will's skin. The sting made Will flinch almost imperceptibly.

Hannibal noticed. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine."

"No," Hannibal corrected softly. "It's unpleasant."

Will couldn't help the faint smile that tugged at his lips.

Silence settled over them again. Eventually, Hannibal spoke.

"This wasn't an accident at the café." It wasn't phrased as a question.

Will stared at the floor. "Clearly, it wasn't."

Hannibal continued cleaning the wound, his expression unchanged. "This is a self-inflicted wound."

Will felt his chest tighten. There was no point lying anymore.

"...yes." He admitted quietly.

Hannibal didn't react with shock. He didn't sigh or scold him or ask the question everyone else inevitably asked.

Instead, he reached for fresh gauze. "Is this something you do often?"

Will answered immediately. "No."

Hannibal glanced up briefly. "No?"

"It..." Will swallowed. "It was impulsive." His fingers tightened around the edge of the chair. "I wasn't... thinking."

The words sounded painfully inadequate. "I just..." His voice cracked slightly. "I felt overwhelmed."

Hannibal remained silent, giving him the space to continue if he wished.

Will appreciated that.

"It wasn't planned," he murmured. "I... I felt awful, and it just..." He searched helplessly for the right words before giving up. "...happened."

Hannibal nodded once. He wrapped the fresh gauze carefully around Will's forearm before speaking again.

"And the injury to your head?"

Will let out a slow breath. "...That happens more often."

The room became very still.

Hannibal's hands paused for the briefest fraction of a second before continuing to secure the bandage.

"More often?" he repeated gently.

Will gave a small nod. "When my thoughts get..." He frowned, searching for the word. "Loud."

His gaze remained fixed on the floor. "I hit my head."

There.

He'd said it.

When Will finally gathered the courage to glance sideways, Hannibal was looking at him, not with horror, nor with sympathy, but with an expression so restrained that it was difficult to decipher.

Only his eyes betrayed him. Something in them had softened.

Hannibal finished smoothing the fresh bandage into place before resting Will's arm gently back in his lap.

Hannibal closed the first-aid kit with a soft click.

"There." He rested it on the desk beside him. "That should hold until this evening."

Will looked down at the fresh bandage. It was neater than the one he'd wrapped around himself that morning.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Another silence followed.

Normally, Will hated silence. People always seemed to expect him to fill it. Hannibal never did.

The older man seemed perfectly content to let the quiet exist between them, never rushing to smooth it over with meaningless conversation. It was strangely comforting.

Will found himself relaxing without realizing it. His shoulders loosened, his breathing steadied.

It occurred to him, rather embarrassingly, that he had never been this physically close to Hannibal before.

"You're a very quiet student, Will. " Hannibal said at last.

Will looked up. "Nothing much to say."

"I disagree."

Will frowned.

"You answer only when you believe you have something worthwhile to contribute." Hannibal's lips curved ever so slightly. "And when you do speak, you're usually the most interesting voice in the room."

Heat bloomed unexpectedly beneath Will's skin. He looked away almost immediately.

"I don't think that's true."

"Why?"

Will laughed quietly, though there was little amusement in it. "Because people usually think I'm... unstable. I have a habit of making them uncomfortable."

"And does that trouble you?"

Will thought about it. "Sometimes. I don't really know how to..." He hesitated, searching for the right words. "Connect with people."

The confession felt embarrassingly vulnerable.

"I understand them better than I understand myself, but..." he smiled faintly, "...understanding someone isn't the same as belonging with them."

Hannibal regarded him thoughtfully. "Belonging is an overrated concept."

Will looked at him in surprise. "You think so?"

"I think many people spend their lives performing versions of themselves they believe others will find acceptable."

Hannibal rose from his chair and carried the first-aid kit back to the cabinet, locking it away before returning to collect a briefcase resting beside the lectern.

"I imagine," he said while slipping a notebook into the bag, "you haven't been eating particularly well."

Will blinked. "What?"

"You look exhausted."

Will instinctively folded his arms. "So I've been told."

"Your friends worry about you too," The corner of Hannibal's mouth lifted in the faintest suggestion of a smile. "I merely suspect convenience has become your preferred chef."

Will couldn't help smiling back. "Microwave noodles count."

"They do. I simply hesitate to call them cuisine."

A quiet laugh escaped Will before he could stop it.

Hannibal grabbed his briefcase.  "I was planning to cook this evening."

Will nodded politely, unsure why he was telling him this.

"I generally dislike eating alone."

Will's heart skipped. Hannibal met his eyes.

"If you have no other plans..." He paused just long enough for the invitation to settle between them. "...I'd be delighted if you joined me for dinner."

For a moment, Will genuinely wondered whether he'd imagined it. His mind simply... stopped.

"Dinner?" he echoed.

"If you'd like."

"You mean..."

Hannibal tilted his head slightly. "I believe that's generally what the word implies."

Will stared at him. His thoughts tangled together so completely that he couldn't separate one from the next.

"Professor..." His voice was almost painfully quiet. "I don't want you to invite me because you feel sorry for me."

The words escaped before he could stop them. Hannibal's expression grew unexpectedly serious.

"I don't pity you, Will." The certainty in his voice left no room for doubt. "I enjoy thoughtful conversation." He held Will's gaze. "And I suspect you have more to say than you allow yourself."

Will felt his throat tighten. "I'd like that."

A small, genuine smile touched Hannibal's face. "Good."

He reached into his breast pocket, withdrew a fountain pen, and wrote an address neatly on a spare sheet of paper.

"Seven o'clock." He handed it to Will. "I'll be expecting you."

Will accepted the paper carefully, as though it might dissolve if he held it too tightly. His eyes lingered on the elegant handwriting for a moment before looking back up.

"Thank you."

This time, Hannibal's smile reached his eyes. "I'll see you this evening, Will."

As Will left the lecture hall, the slip of paper remained clutched gently in his hand.

Will unlocked his apartment door and set his bag beside the couch before remembering:

Work.

"Shit."

His shift at the café.

Pulling his phone from his pocket, he scrolled to Matthew's contact before typing out a quick message.

Will: Hey. Sorry for the short notice. I don't think I can make it in today.

He stared at the screen for a moment.

Will: Not really feeling well.

He added and pressed send.

Matthew's reply arrived almost immediately.

Matthew: No worries, man. Bev told me you came into class looking pretty beat up.

Will sighed quietly. Of course Beverly had said something.

Matthew: Take the day off. Seriously.

Matthew: And if you're gonna tell me you're "fine," at least make it convincing next time.

Despite himself, Will smiled.

Will: Thanks.

Matthew: (:

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and let out a slow breath. His eyes wandered toward the old clock hanging above the kitchen. Just after five.

Two hours.

What do people wear to dinner with their professor?

The apartment, unsurprisingly, offered no advice.

Will wandered into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. It didn't take long to assess his options. Which was unfortunate. His wardrobe consisted almost entirely of worn sweaters, faded plaid shirts, hoodies and jeans.

He searched anyway.

Pushing hangers aside one by one until, tucked near the back of the wardrobe beneath a dry-cleaning cover, he found the only outfit he owned that could reasonably be described as respectable.

His only blazer.

He held them up thoughtfully. "This'll have to do."

The shirt had been reserved for presentations, university events, and the occasional interview. He'd certainly never imagined wearing it to dinner with Hannibal.

Changing proved slower than it should have been.

He buttoned the navy blue shirt carefully, rolling the cuff down just enough to conceal most of the bandage without irritating the healing skin. The blazer settled comfortably over his shoulders, transforming him into someone who looked considerably more put together than he felt.

Standing before the mirror, Will examined his reflection.

He looked presentable enough. 

He grabbed his wallet and phone before locking the apartment behind him.

If he walked, he'd spend the entire journey debating whether to turn around. So instead, he raised a hand as a taxi rolled past the building.

The driver pulled over. "Where to?"

Will unfolded the small slip of paper Hannibal had given him. As the taxi pulled away from the curb, Will tucked the paper safely back into his pocket.

Soon the taxi rolled to a smooth stop before a wrought-iron gate.

Will looked out the window, his fingers unconsciously tightening around the folded slip of paper still tucked in his hand.

"Here?" the driver asked.

"Yes, thank you."

He paid the fare before stepping out into the cool evening air.

Will walked slowly up the stone path before finally pressing the doorbell. The chime echoed softly inside. A few moments later, the door opened.

Hannibal stood before him with a soft smile on his face. "Good evening, Will."

Will straightened. "Good evening, Professor."

Hannibal's lips curved faintly. "I believe I told you this evening wasn't taking place in a classroom."

Will blinked.

"Oh." A nervous smile tugged at his lips. "...Hannibal."

"There we are." The older man stepped aside. "Please. Come in."

Will crossed the threshold. The moment the door closed behind him, an inexplicable shiver ran down his spine.

Goosebumps prickled across his arms.

For nearly a year, this house had only existed from a distance.

Will had seen it through iron gates, from across the street, hidden behind trees as he lingered a little longer than he should have. He'd spent far too much time wondering what it looked like inside, what it smelled like, what it would feel like to be invited through the front door.

Now he was standing in the entrance hall.

It almost didn't feel real.

The house was warm. The air smelled like old books and something delicious cooking in the kitchen.

Will's eyes wandered before he could stop them. Paintings lined the walls, shelves were filled with books, and every piece of furniture looked as though it had been chosen with care.

"You can leave your coat there."

Will blinked, realizing he'd been standing in the doorway longer than he meant to.

"Sorry."

Hannibal gave a small shake of his head. "There's nothing to apologize for."

Will slipped off his blazer and hung it where Hannibal had pointed.

"It's... beautiful," he said quietly, glancing around again. "Your home."

"Thank you." There was a brief pause before Hannibal gestured down the hallway. "Come on."

Will followed him into the dining room.

The table had already been set. Plates, silverware, crystal glasses, everything was arranged so neatly it almost looked untouched. 

The smell coming from the kitchen was even stronger now. Butter, herbs, red wine... something slow-cooked that made Will realize he'd barely eaten all day.

Hannibal pulled out one of the chairs. "Please."

Will hesitated. "Can I help?"

Hannibal looked at him. "You're my guest."

"I know." Will rubbed the back of his neck. "It just feels strange sitting here while you're doing everything."

"There's very little left to do."

"I'm sure there isn't." A small, embarrassed smile crossed Will's face. "I'd still like to help."

For a moment, Hannibal simply watched him. "You don't have to."

"I know." Will met his eyes. "I want to."

Something softened in Hannibal's expression. "Very well then."

He walked over to a cabinet and returned with a bottle of dark red wine, placing it carefully in Will's hands.

"You can pour the wine."

Will looked down at the bottle, then back at him. "I hope I don't mess it up."

"I have faith that you won't."

A quiet laugh escaped Will. "That's a lot of trust."

"Good thing I find you trustworthy." Hannibal chuckled softly. 

While Will carried the wine to the table and filled their glasses, Hannibal disappeared into the kitchen.

He returned a moment later with two plates balanced effortlessly in his hands, steam rising gently from the food. Even something as ordinary as serving dinner seemed graceful when Hannibal did it.

Will couldn't help watching him as they both settled down. 

The wine was smooth, richer than anything he'd ever tasted. He blinked in surprise.

"This is..."

Hannibal watched him over the rim of his own glass. "Good?"

Will let out a small laugh. "That's an understatement." He glanced back down at the wine. "I don't think I've ever had anything like this before. Or at all actually."

"I'm pleased you enjoy it."

"It's incredible." Will shook his head, almost embarrassed. "I usually buy whatever's cheapest if I'm cooking."

"You cook?"

"I try."

"And how successful are these attempts?"

Will smiled sheepishly. "I haven't given myself food poisoning yet."

"A promising beginning."

Will laughed again, softer this time. "I'm serious."

"So am I." There was the faintest hint of amusement in Hannibal's eyes. "Many accomplished chefs began with considerably less."

"Consider this my reckoning then."

Will found himself relaxing. Conversation with Hannibal wasn't what he'd expected.

It flowed naturally, never forced. Hannibal listened as attentively as he spoke, asking questions that made Will feel as though his answers genuinely mattered.

"So," Hannibal said as he cut neatly into his meal, "how are you finding university?"

Will considered the question. "I like it."

"You're certainly an excellent student."

"I try my best." A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I've just never been very good at... socialising."

"I've noticed."

Will nodded. "I always feel like everyone else was given instructions I somehow missed."

Hannibal regarded him thoughtfully. "And yet your classmates seem quite fond of you."

Will looked genuinely surprised. "They are?"

"Beverly, for one."

Will looked down at his plate. "She's a good friend."

"I suspect she worries about you."

"She worries too much."

"I imagine," Hannibal continued gently, "it becomes difficult to worry about someone who never allows themselves to be known."

Will kept quiet.

Hannibal reached for the wine bottle, refilling Will's glass. Will accepted it with a grateful smile.

"I meant what I said earlier. The wine." He looked down into the glass. "It's honestly the best I've ever tasted."

"I'm glad." A subtle smile crossed Hannibal's face.

Dinner lingered long after the plates had been cleared. Neither of them seemed particularly eager to end the evening.

Hannibal gathered the dishes, carrying them into the kitchen despite Will's insistence that he should help.

"You cooked," Will protested, rising from his chair. "The least I can do is help wash up."

"I own a dishwasher."

"I can help load up." The small pout on Will's face made the older man smile.

"You kept me company, that's enough."

Will smiled sheepishly. "I don't think that counts."

"It does." 

There was something so matter-of-fact about the reply that Will found himself sitting back down without another argument.

A few minutes later, Hannibal returned, drying his hands on a kitchen towel.

"The living room is considerably more comfortable than dining chairs," he said. "Shall we continue our conversation there?"

Will nodded. "I'd like that."

The living room felt even warmer than the rest of the house. Will couldn't help looking around.

There was so much of Hannibal in this room. Not in photographs or obvious displays of personality, but in the careful selection of every object. Every painting, every book had been chosen with intention.

Nothing felt accidental.

"It suits you," Will said quietly.

Hannibal looked over. "My home?"

Will nodded. "It feels..." He searched for the right word. "...peaceful."

"I've always believed one's surroundings influence one's thoughts."

"I wish mine did."

Hannibal regarded him for a moment. "You've never invited me to see your apartment."

Will let out a quiet laugh. "Yeah, I don't think you'd survive it."

"Oh?"

"It's tiny."

"There is nothing inherently wrong with small spaces." Hannibal shrugged. 

"There is when your kitchen and bedroom are practically the same room."

Hannibal smiled. "I can imagine it being cozy."

Will looked away, smiling to himself.

The conversation flowed as easily as it had over dinner. Eventually, Hannibal's eyes drifted toward Will's forearm once again.

"I think it's time we change the dressing."

Will followed his gaze before instinctively tugging his sleeve down. "It's fine."

"It's been hours, Will. It needs to be changed." Hannibal rose from his chair. "Stay here."

Before Will could ask where he was going, Hannibal disappeared down the hallway. He returned a moment later carrying the familiar leather first-aid kit.

Will couldn't help smiling. "You really don't give up, do you?"

"I find persistence useful." He set the kit on the coffee table before taking the armchair opposite Will. "May I?"

Will slowly rolled up his sleeve. 

Hannibal worked with the same patience as before, carefully peeling away the dressing without rushing.

"There." Hannibal smoothed the tape into place. "Better."

Will flexed his fingers experimentally. "It already feels better."

"I'm glad." Hannibal's eyes lifted to the bruise still visible beneath Will's curls. "And your head."

Will instinctively reached up. "It doesn't really need—"

"It does." His tone remained calm. "The swelling has worsened."

Will hesitated. "It's just a bruise."

Hannibal raised a brow. "So was your arm, according to you." 

Will couldn't argue with that. With a small, embarrassed sigh, he leaned back against the sofa.

Hannibal moved slightly closer. "If you would."

Will lowered his head a little.

Hannibal's fingers slipped gently through the curls that stubbornly hid the bandage, brushing them aside with effortless care.

The touch was impossibly light, barely enough to disturb his hair. Yet Will felt it everywhere.

A pleasant shiver ran down his spine. His heartbeat became suddenly, painfully obvious.

Hannibal examined the bruise with concentration before carefully loosening the edge of the dressing.

He sat perfectly still while the older man replaced the dressing, applying a fresh strip of tape before smoothing it gently into place.

"And that should be it." Hannibal's hand lingered for only a second as he tucked a loose curl back into place.

"Thank you." The words came out quieter than intended.

He found himself studying Hannibal's face while the older man packed away the remaining bandages.

"You should probably stop thanking me."

Will blinked. "What?"

"You've thanked me at least six times tonight."

"Have I?" Will tilted his head.

"You have." A faint smile touched Hannibal's lips. "I've enjoyed your company, Will."

The words settled softly in his chest. "So have I."

By the time Will stepped back outside, it was around nine.  He paused at the gate, turning back once.

Hannibal stood in the doorway. "Goodnight, Will."

"Goodnight, Hannibal."

He started down the path toward the waiting taxi.

Halfway there, he caught himself smiling.

As the taxi carried him back toward his apartment, he rested his head lightly against the window, watching the city blur into streaks of gold and shadow.

The next few days passed almost without Will noticing.

One dinner somehow turned into another.

Then coffee after class.

Then long conversations that stretched well past sunset because neither of them seemed particularly eager to end them.

It all happened so naturally that Will couldn't pinpoint when it stopped feeling unusual.

Sometimes Hannibal would stop Will after lectures. 

"Coffee?"

Will rarely had an excuse to say no.

Other evenings, Hannibal would simply ask, "Are you free for dinner?"

More often than not, Will was.

"You seem tired," Hannibal said one afternoon as they walked across campus.

Will sighed. "I was up studying."

"Until?"

"Three."

Hannibal looked at him pointedly. "You require sleep, Will."

It earned a sigh from the younger. "I require passing grades more."

"You'll struggle to achieve either at this rate."

Will smiled. "You sound like Beverly."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"You probably shouldn't."

Hannibal chuckled quietly. It was a warm sound.

Will found himself smiling before he even realized he was doing it. The lines between professor and student blurred more with each passing day.

Will stopped calling him Professor Lecter unless they were inside a classroom.

Outside of university, it was just...

"Hannibal."

One evening, as they were finishing dinner, Hannibal set his wine glass down and said almost absentmindedly,

"I'm having Jack over this weekend."

Will nodded.

"And Alana may stop by if she isn't working."

Another nod.

"It should be pleasant."

Will smiled politely. "It sounds nice."

Hannibal looked at him for a moment before adding, "You should join us sometime."

Will blinked. "I don't think I'd fit in."

"I disagree."

The conversation moved on, but the words stayed with him.

Later that night, walking home alone, Will found himself thinking about something else Hannibal had said a few days earlier.

"You're a good friend, Will."

At the time, he'd barely reacted.

Now, the memory made him pause.

Friend.

The word felt... strange.

Hannibal mentioned acquaintances. Colleagues. The occasional dinner guests.

But whenever he wanted company...whenever he wanted to talk... whenever he invited someone over for dinner...

It was always Will.

The realization settled over him quietly.

Am I... his closest friend?

The thought made something warm bloom inside his chest. It also made his stomach knot.

Because being seen had always frightened Will more than being ignored. For most of his life, he'd existed comfortably in the background. People couldn't reject what they never truly noticed.

Hannibal noticed. He listened. He remembered small details Will had long forgotten mentioning. He asked questions no one else thought to ask. He looked at Will as though he genuinely wanted to know him.

And that terrified him.

Because the closer they became, the harder it was to hide.

The longer Hannibal looked...

...the more Will became convinced he'd eventually see what everyone else would see if they looked long enough.

Will couldn't shake the feeling that if Hannibal ever truly knew him—

He would look at Will the same way everyone else eventually would. With discomfort. With disappointment. Maybe even fear.

Losing Hannibal's respect hurt far more in Will's imagination than never having earned it at all.

So he hid farther every time he stalked Hannibal. Wore darker clothes. Stayed more in the shadows. 

He couldn't risk anything now. Not now more than ever. 

A week later, Will found himself sitting at Hannibal's dining table once again.

At this point, the house no longer felt unfamiliar.

"This smells incredible," Will called toward the kitchen.

"I'll consider that a compliment once you've actually tasted it."

Will smiled to himself. A moment later, Hannibal emerged carrying two plates, setting them carefully on the table.

"I remain cautiously optimistic."

"And?" Hannibal watched amused. 

Will took a bite before answering, purposely making Hannibal wait."... and I was right."

A small, satisfied smile crossed Hannibal's face. "I'm relieved."

They ate comfortably, conversation flowing as easily as it always did.

Will told Hannibal about one of his classmates confidently citing a completely fabricated statistic during a seminar, insisting it came from an FBI report.

"It didn't," Will said, shaking his head with a laugh.

"I assume you corrected them."

"I tried. He argued with me."

Hannibal sighed dramatically. "The burden of being correct is rarely appreciated."

Will laughed. "You really enjoy being right."

The easy back-and-forth drew another quiet smile from Hannibal. As dinner went on, Hannibal topped up their wine glasses before speaking again.

"I should mention," he said, "I'm hosting a dinner tomorrow evening."

Will looked up. "Oh?"

"A few colleagues are coming over." He took a sip of wine. "Jack. Alana. Frederick, unfortunately."

Will laughed. "Unfortunately?"

"I've yet to experience one of Dr. Chilton's conversations without regretting it."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Hannibal's eyes met his over the rim of his glass. "You're welcome to join us, Will."

Will looked at him, a little surprised. "Really?"

"Of course." For a brief moment, the invitation was genuinely tempting.

Then Will remembered. "I wish I could..."

Hannibal frowned slightly. "You have other plans?" 

Will hesitated, an amused smile tugging at his lips. "I have a date with the Chesapeake Ripper."

Hannibal tilted his head, waiting for him to elaborate.

"Ms. Bloom assigned us a research paper, I'll probably spend the entire evening buried in case files."

"So your date is with a serial killer."

Will smiled. "When you put it like that, it sounds concerning."

"It is strictly academic, I hope."

Will chuckled, swirling the wine absentmindedly in his glass. "The assignment's due next week, and I haven't made nearly as much progress as I'd like."

Hannibal nodded once. "Then I won't keep you from your work." He said, though sounding a little disappointed. 

"I'm sorry."

"There is nothing to apologize for, Will." His voice was warm, reassuring. "Responsibilities have a habit of interrupting more enjoyable plans."

Will smiled. "I'll make it up to you."

Hannibal looked at him for a moment before the corner of his mouth lifted. "I'll hold you to that."

For reasons he couldn't quite explain, the simple promise made Will look forward to seeing Hannibal again the following day.

The following afternoon, Will sat alone in his apartment, surrounded by scattered case files, newspaper clippings, and photographs spread across his small kitchen table.

Bloom hadn't been exaggerating when she'd called the assignment difficult.

Will had been staring at the newest crime scene for nearly twenty minutes.

A middle-aged man sat upright in an antique wooden chair, his suit had been straightened after death, every wrinkle carefully smoothed away. His hands rested neatly in his lap.

It looked almost... peaceful. 

Until you look at the victim's jaw, which had been forced unnaturally wide, torn beyond anything the human body should have allowed. Wedged between broken teeth was a dark wine bottle, its neck disappearing grotesquely into the ruined mouth.

He frowned.

His fingers reached for the magnifying glass lying beside the files. He held it over the photograph.

The label sharpened just enough for a name to emerge.

It was the wine Hannibal had served him. The bottle he'd complimented a few weeks before.

He set his pen down. For reasons he couldn't explain, the room suddenly felt colder.

The following day, campus felt unusually calm.

The previous evening's discovery still lingered in the back of Will's mind, resurfacing every now and then before he pushed it away.

It was a coincidence. 

He refused to entertain anything beyond that.

By the time Hannibal's lecture ended, students began gathering their books, conversations filling the room as chairs scraped against the floor. Will slipped his notebook into his bag.

"Will."

He looked up.

Hannibal stood at the front of the lecture hall, waiting until the last of the students had filtered outside.

When the room had emptied, he approached.

"I was wondering," Hannibal began, fastening the button of his jacket, "if you'd care to join me for lunch."

Will smiled automatically. "I thought we had dinner scheduled tomorrow."

"We do."

"So what's the occasion?"

"There is a restaurant I've been meaning to revisit."

Will nodded. "I'd like that."

The restaurant was away on a quiet street several blocks from the university.

Will looked around with admiration as they were shown to their table. "You've been here before?"

"A handful of times."

Will nodded. "It's ambient."

Hannibal hummed. "The chef has admirable restraint."

Will laughed. "You judge restaurants like you judge people."

"I wasn't aware I judged either."

"Oh please," he huffed.

The corner of Hannibal's mouth lifted.

A waiter approached, menu tucked beneath one arm. He looked exhausted, almost annoyed and bumped slightly into Will's chair. 

"What would you like to have, sir?" Even his tone sounded tired. 

Hannibal gave out their orders.  The waiter tapped it on the tab. "Would you like to add something to that?"

Will glanced briefly at the menu. "Some cold water, please."

The waiter sighed and disappeared without another word.

Will watched him go before looking back at Hannibal. "I think I offended him."

"You ordered water."

He shrugged. "I know."

"You monster."

Will laughed.

The waiter returned with the wine a few minutes later. He uncorked it before pouring Hannibal a taste. When Hannibal nodded, the waiter filled both glasses, including Will's, despite his earlier request.

"I actually asked for—"

"It's complimentary." The interruption was curt.

Before Will could respond, the waiter had already walked away.

Will blinked. "Well."

Hannibal picked up his glass. "I suppose the decision has been made."

Will sighed. "I wasn't planning on drinking."

Hannibal took a sip. "You aren't obligated to."

"I know." Will looked down at the glass. "It feels rude now."

"Only if you believe declining free wine is a moral failing." Hannibal said with a soft chuckle. 

"I think he already dislikes me."

"I wouldn't concern yourself with the opinions of strangers."

Easy for Hannibal to say, people liked Hannibal. They always did.

Lunch arrived soon after. The food was excellent as expected.

Conversation came as naturally as ever.

Hannibal spoke about a recent journal. Will disagreed with half of what he had to say and they debated quietly between bites.

It was comfortable.

Will caught himself watching Hannibal again.

This had honestly stopped feeling like dinners between a professor and his student.

Stopped feeling like friendship.

Will set his fork down. "Hannibal."

The older man looked up. "Hm?"

Will hesitated, his heartbeat suddenly felt unbearably loud. "I've been thinking."

Silence settled between them.

"This..." Will gestured vaguely between them. "Whatever this is."

Hannibal remained still. "What about it?"

"It isn't..." Will searched for the words. "...normal."

Hannibal waited for him to continue.

"You invite me to dinner. W-we have coffee together... we spend more time together outside university than we do in it." Will looked down at the tablecloth. "I don't think this is just friendship anymore."

Hannibal's expression remained composed, though there was a softness in his eyes Will hadn't seen before.

"I thought we were on the same page with this. Will. Have I misunderstood us?"

Will quietly shook his head. "You haven't." He exhaled slowly. "I like you." The confession left him almost weightless. "I know I do."

He laughed quietly, though there was little humor in it. "I've liked you for longer than I should admit."

Hannibal watched him without speaking.

"But that's exactly why this has to stop."

A faint crease appeared between Hannibal's brows. "Has to stop?"

"You're my professor." Will forced himself to continue before courage abandoned him. "You're... older. You hold authority over me." He swallowed. "This shouldn't be happening."

Without hesitation. "I enjoy your company immensely, Will."

Will closed his eyes briefly. "Please don't."

"Don't what?"

"Make this harder."

"It appears it already is."

A strained laugh escaped Will. "You have no idea."

He looked out the window.

People passed by without a second glance, entirely unaware that his world felt as though it had tilted.

"I've wanted this." His voice had become little more than a whisper. "For so long." He shook his head. "I imagined what it'd be like if you ever looked at me as something more than a student."

A humorless smile tugged at his lips. "And now that you are...it feels wrong."

"Because I teach you." Hannibal tried saying. 

Will nodded. "Because you deserve someone..." He struggled for the words. "... not me."

Hannibal regarded him carefully. "I like you for who you are as well, Will."

Will let out a quiet breath. "You say that now."

"I mean it."

"You don't know me."

Hannibal pushed on. "I suspect I know more than you believe."

Will froze. A cold sensation crept slowly down his spine.

"What?"

Hannibal met his gaze. "You think I haven't known, Will?"

The world seemed to stop.

Will stared at him. His mouth had gone dry. "What do you mean?"

"I noticed you months ago." A faint smile touched Hannibal's lips. "You've always been remarkably careful."

Will's stomach dropped.

"You kept your distance. You changed jackets."

His breathing became uneven.

"You avoided looking directly at me."

Every word felt like another stone sinking into his chest.

"And yet..." Hannibal's expression remained unreadable. "You always followed."

Silence.

Will couldn't feel his hands anymore. "You..." His voice barely existed. "...you knew?"

"I did."

"For..." Will couldn't finish the sentence. "For how long?"

"Nearly the beginning."

The restaurant disappeared around him. The conversations, the music... everything blurred into meaningless noise.

His chest tightened so suddenly he struggled to breathe.

"I..." He pushed his chair back too quickly. It scraped loudly against the wooden floor. Nearby diners glanced over.

"I..." His thoughts refused to come together. "I'm sorry." The apology escaped automatically. "I should go."

"Will—"

"I'm sorry. I need to leave."

Without waiting for permission, he turned. The restaurant doors swung shut behind him.

Will ran outside. 

Feet pounded against the pavement. People turned as he rushed past them.

Someone shouted when he stepped into the road without looking. A horn blared, brakes screamed. A car stopped barely a few feet from him.

"Watch where you're going!"

Will didn't even register the driver's face. He muttered something that might have been an apology before running again.

He couldn't breathe.

His thoughts crashed into one another, each louder than the last.

He knew.

He knew.

He knew.

He finally stopped several blocks later, bent over with his hands on his knees, desperately trying to pull air into burning lungs.

His heart refused to slow. 

He looked up, a small electronics shop stood across the street.

Half a dozen televisions filled the display window. Every one of them showed the same breaking news broadcast.

CHESAPEAKE RIPPER CLAIMS NINETEENTH VICTIM.

Will stared.

The reporter spoke urgently, gesturing towards a photograph of the newest crime scene.

Then the image changed. The victim. The display. Another carefully arranged body, another grotesque but censored composition.

Will found himself stepping closer. The camera zoomed in.

His eyes swept instinctively across the scene.

Every object had meaning. Every object had been chosen, just like the wine.

The wine...

"I've known for quite some time."

Will's eyes widened.

No.

No...

His gaze drifted back to the television.

To the carefully posed victim. To the impossible elegance hidden inside unbearable violence. His thoughts aligned with terrifying clarity.

One name surfaced. One face. One impossible conclusion.

"Hannibal."

The word left his lips as little more than a breath. For a long moment, he simply stood there, unable to move. 

Unable to convince himself he was wrong. Unable to convince himself he was right.

The next few days passed in a strange, suffocating haze.

Will made himself a promise the moment he got home that afternoon, he wouldn't go looking for answers. He wouldn't follow Hannibal. He wouldn't let himself spiral into impossible conclusions born from coincidence and emotion.

He broke that promise within twenty-four hours.

He found himself replaying every conversation they'd ever had, every dinner, every glance, dissecting each memory until it no longer resembled what it had been.

Now every sentence carried a second meaning. Or perhaps Will was inventing one, he couldn't tell anymore. Was his brain playing tricks on him? 

That frightened him more than anything. So he did the only thing he knew how to do.

He disappeared. He stopped staying after lectures. The moment class ended, his books were already in his bag.

Before Hannibal could gather his notes... before he could call Will's name...

Will was gone.

He lectured exactly as he always had, his voice calm and composed as he moved through discussions of criminal behavior and forensic psychology.

To anyone else, nothing had changed. But Will noticed the little things.

Every now and then, Hannibal's gaze would drift toward the back of the lecture hall.

Will always looked away first. He buried himself in his notebook, writing words he never actually read, pretending to be fascinated by notes he'd already memorized.

He could feel Hannibal looking.

One afternoon, as students packed up to leave, Will heard the familiar voice.

"Will."

His shoulders tensed instinctively. He kept zipping his bag. Pretended he hadn't heard.

"Will."

Closer this time.

He couldn't ignore it forever. Slowly, he turned.

Hannibal stood only a few feet away. "You left rather quickly yesterday."

"I had somewhere to be." He replied quickly. 

"I see." 

Silence stretched between them.

Hannibal sighed. "I haven't seen you in several days."

Will shifted uncomfortably. "I really do have to go."

Hannibal looked at him for a long moment. There was no accusation in his expression; he looked disappointed.

"I hope," Hannibal said quietly, "that if I've done something to upset you, you'll tell me."

Will's chest tightened. "You haven't."

The lie came too quickly. Hannibal seemed to hear it anyway.

"I see." Another pause. "Take care, Will."

"You too." Will didn't wait another second. He turned and left.

Only once he'd reached the parking lot did he realize how tightly he'd been holding his breath.

Avoiding Hannibal should have made things easier.

It didn't. It only replaced confusion with guilt.

Every time Will caught a glimpse of him crossing campus, he instinctively changed direction. If he saw Hannibal entering the faculty lounge, he'd find another route. If Hannibal was in the library, Will studied somewhere else.

The distance between them lasted 2 weeks.

2 painfully quiet weeks.

By the 3rd, the entire university seemed to be unusually loud. Will barely noticed it at first.

It was halfway through Ms. Bloom's lecture when the classroom door opened. One of the administrative staff stepped inside, whispering something into her ear.

Alana's expression changed immediately, she looked back at the class.

"I'm afraid we'll have to end here today."

Confused murmurs rippled through the room.

"Is everything alright, ma'am?" someone asked.

Alana hesitated. "Another body has been found, I may have to go assist."

Silence.

Within minutes, students were already pulling out their phones. News alerts lit up every screen, someone turned the volume up.

BREAKING NEWS: Authorities confirm another victim of the Chesapeake Ripper has been discovered early this morning. Police describe the crime scene as one of the killer's most elaborate to date.

Will stared. Against every instinct telling him not to, he opened the article.

The photograph filled his screen, his breath caught. 

The victim lay at the center of a dimly lit room, the limbs were folded into the shape of... a human heart.

No, not just a heart. A broken heart.

Around him, voices overlapped.

"My God..."

"That's sick."

"Do you think it means something?"

"It has to."

One student frowned at the screen. "The commentators are already saying it might be symbolic."

"Symbolic how?"

"They think maybe the Ripper got his heart broken."

Someone scoffed. "A serial killer with relationship problems?"

"Who knows? Every murder means something with this guy."

"The police think it's a message."

Will stopped listening, his pulse lurched.

No.

No, no...

His chair scraped loudly against the floor as he stood.

"Will?" Beverly called after him.

He didn't answer, he was already out the door. He ran. The cool air burned in his lungs as campus disappeared behind him.

His thoughts crashed together so violently they barely resembled words anymore.

No.

It's coincidence.

It has to be.

Then why today?

Did I hurt him?

People stared. Someone shouted as he pushed past them.

His mind drifted back a few weeks, when it had all changed.

The waiter. He'd been rude.

Dismissive, really. He'd interrupted them repeatedly, he'd looked at Will with open irritation. Will remembered Hannibal's expression afterwards.

The restaurant. Will remembered and rerouted. 

When he arrived, only a handful of customers remained. 

The same hostess greeted him. "Welcome back, Mr Graham."

Will forced a polite smile. "Hi."

"Table for one?"

"Actually..." He looked around. "I'm looking for someone."

"The manager?"

"No." His eyes scanned the room. "The waiter who served Professor Lecter and me a few days ago."

Recognition flickered across her face. "Oh." She hesitated. "He's not working today."

Will felt his chest tighten. "Really?"

"He called in."

"I..." He searched desperately for something believable. "I'm actually here because Professor Lecter wanted me to drop something off for him." The lie came easier than he expected. "He couldn't remember the waiter's address."

The hostess frowned. "I'm not sure we're supposed to—"

"It's medication." The word escaped before he could stop it. "He left it behind."

Will hated lying. But not enough to stop. "It... can't really wait."

The hostess looked uncertain. "I should ask my manager."

"Please."

She disappeared into the back, every passing second stretched unbearably.

Finally, she returned carrying a small notepad. "I probably shouldn't... but if it's important." She scribbled something onto a scrap of paper. "Just... don't mention you got it from me."

Will accepted it with trembling fingers. "I won't. Thank you." He looked down, an address.

Only fifteen minutes away. His heartbeat accelerated.

He folded the paper carefully and slipped it into his pocket.

"Everything alright?" the hostess asked.

Will looked toward the restaurant door. "Of course, why wouldn't it be?" He smiled painfully and left. 

The neighborhood grew quieter the farther he went, small suburban homes lined the street. Nothing looked unusual. Nothing looked like the home of a dead man. 

Will climbed the front steps. The porch light was off and the door was unlocked. 

His stomach twisted. "Hello?" He entered slowly.

Will frowned. "Sir?"

The house was dark, a faint metallic smell lingered beneath something richer.

"Hello?"

The only reply was the soft creak of old floorboards beneath his shoes.

He followed the scent. Past the living room, past the kitchen. Towards a faint light spilling from an open doorway. Every instinct screamed at him to stop.

He stepped inside anyway. Then froze.

The waiter layed on the bed, his body twisted in an impossible way. Though his face remained untouched, still in his uniform as empty plastic water bottles filled his open stomach. 

Standing beside the body was Hannibal.

Their eyes locked and for several long seconds, neither of them spoke.

"You look like Halloween threw up on you." Was the first thing Will said. 

"I've been called many things," Hannibal said, removing one bloodied glove. "That is certainly the most original." He smiled. 

Will blinked. "I had to say something about the... whatever," he said eyeing Hannibal's suit. 

Then Hannibal looked at him carefully. "You aren't running."

Will looked away. "I probably should."

"But you aren't."

Will looked towards the body. "He's the waiter... y-you killed him."

"I did."

The honesty somehow unsettled Will more than a lie would have. "You knew I'd come."

"I hoped." Hannibal said honestly. 

"Hoped?"

"I left the trail for you."

Will's brows drew together. "You left me your broken heart?"

Hannibal's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "A rather emotional composition."

Will's gaze was fragile. "Have I broken you, Hannibal?"

"You've hurt me immensely, Will." Hannibal walked closer to the younger man. 

"I avoided you because I thought you were the Chesapeake Ripper."

"You were correct."

Silence.

"You could've killed me... you didn't."

"I never intended to."

Will searched Hannibal's face. There was no mockery, no deception. Only complete certainty.

"You fascinate me, Will." His voice was quiet. "You always have."

Will laughed weakly, rubbing a hand over his face. "This has to be the strangest confession anyone's ever received."

"I imagine so." Hannibal's smile was small.

Another silence.

Then Hannibal stepped aside. "I'd like to show you something."

Will looked at the body again. "I don't think I want to."

"I think you do."

Will didn't answer.

Hannibal reached for a scalpel, turning it thoughtfully between his fingers before offering it handle-first.

"I have a favor to ask."

Will stared at the instrument. "What?"

"The heart." His gaze shifted toward the waiter's chest. "I'd like you to remove it."

Will felt every muscle in his body tense. "No." His answer came immediately. "I... can't."

"You can."

"I've never..." His breathing became uneven. "I've never cut into someone."

"I know." Hannibal remained calm. "I'm not asking because I require assistance."

"Then why?"

"Because you've wondered."

Will's eyes flicked upward.

"You've spent your entire life imagining what lies beneath the surface." Hannibal's voice remained impossibly gentle. "You've resisted those thoughts."

Will looked away. The scalpel still rested between them.

"I know what it costs you to keep those parts of yourself buried. I know the shame."

"I..." Will's voice was broken. 

Silence stretched.

The room seemed impossibly still. Finally... almost without realizing he'd moved...

Will accepted the scalpel. It felt lighter than he'd expected, cool against his fingertips.

His pulse thundered in his ears. "I don't know what I'm doing."

"I'll guide you." Hannibal stepped beside him. "Here." He indicated the center of the chest. "A careful incision."

Will stared, his hands shook. The blade touched skin then moved. 

Will's fear gradually gave way to something he couldn't name.

When he finally stepped back, lowering the scalpel, he remained staring at his gloved hands.

His heartbeat echoed through the quiet room. He looked almost frightened by the calm settling over him. The waiter's chest opened in front of him, bloodied and all.  Will stood motionless.

Dark crimson coated his fingers. It gathered in the creases of the latex, warm enough that it hadn't yet begun to dry.

For so many years, he'd imagined this moment only in the abstract. Now reality sat before him, and what frightened him wasn't exhilaration.

It was the silence.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, the constant noise inside his head had finally stopped.

"Will."

Hannibal's voice was quiet behind him.

Will slowly turned, Hannibal hadn't moved.

He simply watched him with that same unwavering gaze, studying every subtle change in his expression. As though he'd been waiting for this moment long before Will even knew it existed.

"You look different," Hannibal observed softly.

Will looked down at his hands again. "I feel..." He laughed once, breathlessly. "I don't even know what I feel."

His bloodstained hands trembled faintly at his sides. "Hannibal..."

The older man didn't answer. Will closed the small distance between them. Slowly, almost timidly despite everything that had happened, he reached up with careful hands.

Their lips met in a soft kiss.

Will kissed him almost impatiently, as though he'd been waiting far too long for this moment to finally become real. Hannibal, ever patient, let Will set the pace. Only when the younger man leaned in further did he deepen the kiss, his tongue gently meeting Will's.

A soft, helpless sound escaped Will. When they finally pulled apart, both of them were left catching their breath.

"I..." Will whispered, still breathing hard. "I'm sorry, Hannibal... for everything."

Hannibal rested his forehead against Will's, his nose brushing gently through his curls. "You needn't apologize, my dear."

Will shook his head. "I hurt you."

A small smile touched Hannibal's lips. "You've made up for it."

He closed the distance between them once more.

This kiss was different from the first, more desperate. Months of restraint melted away as they clung to each other, trying to make up for all the time they'd spent apart.

Without breaking the kiss, Hannibal guided Will down the hallway and into another room. Will's fingers slipped into Hannibal's hair, holding him close.

With ease, Hannibal began undoing the buttons of Will's shirt. Will let out a quiet, nervous breath.

"I've... I've never..." His eyes stayed fixed on the floor.

Hannibal gently lifted his chin until their eyes met. "Never with a man?"

Will swallowed. "Never with... anyone."

Hannibal's expression softened. He cupped Will's face, his thumb brushing lightly over his cheek.

"It's alright, darling," he said quietly. "I've got you." 

The reassurance settled something inside Will's chest. He nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing just enough.

They helped each other out of Hannibal's stupid plastic suit, and Hannibal guided Will toward the bed.

As Will sat down, Hannibal crossed the room to the bedside table, opening one of the drawers.

"Mr. Boyle," Hannibal said with the faintest hint of amusement, "was rather addicted to sex. This is playing out in our favour."

Will huffed, plopping up on his elbows. "Lucky for us."

Hannibal returned, kneeling in front of him to settle between his legs. "You really know how to ruin a serious moment," he said, smiling.

"I'd rather call it improving one."

Hannibal chuckled. "I suppose that's one way of looking at it."

Will rolled his eyes playfully. "I really don't want to think about Nicholas Boyle right now."

"No," Hannibal agreed warmly. "I imagine not."

Their laughter faded into a comfortable silence as Hannibal leaned in once more, resting his forehead against Will's. Will pulled him down for another kiss.

It didn't last much longer as Hannibal mouthed down Will's neck, lips finding the skin behind his ear and sucking a harsh bruise.

"H-Hannibal..."

Will bit down on his lip, his breath catching as he looked down at the older man.

Hannibal continued kissing his way lower, unhurried as ever. His lips lingered over the bruises scattered across Will's skin, as though he were taking the time to admire each one before moving on. When he reached the inside of Will's thighs, he paused only to press another lingering kiss there.

Will's legs trembled.

"Hannibal..." he breathed. "Please..."

Instinctively, he tried to close his legs, but Hannibal's hands settled against his thighs, keeping them gently apart.

"You're going to have to be more specific, darling," Hannibal said, glancing up with quiet amusement.

Will let out a frustrated breath. "You know exactly what I mean."

"I'd rather hear you say it."

Will closed his eyes for a second, already knowing Hannibal was teasing him on purpose.

"Please," he whispered. "Please fuck me, Hannibal."

The older man's smile softened. "Anything for you, my sweet boy."

The praise alone sent a shiver through Will. He felt another kiss pressed against his skin, and his breathing grew uneven as Hannibal's attention returned to him.

His moans grew louder as Hannibal licked along his cock, his fingers smearing the precum over the head. 

The sensations quickly became overwhelming, pleasure spreading through him as Hannibal finally swallows down Will's cock. He moans loud as Hannibal bobs his head down, ecstasy exploding in his body, until it drowned out every coherent thought. 

His fingers curled tightly into the sheets beneath him as he struggled to steady his breathing. It was almost too much.

Much to Will's dismay, Hannibal pulls away for a moment, paying attention to the lube beside them. He squirts a generous amount, warming them up between his fingers.

"This may sting a little, my love." His hand settled reassuringly against Will's hip.

Will nodded, already dazed. "I trust you."

His voice had already gone hoarse, his thoughts blurred by anticipation. Hannibal smiled, offering him one last reassuring glance before easing a finger in. 

It wasn't that much of a sting, but the second finger was. Will's hands tightened on the bedsheets below him, almost trying to pull away from the sensation, but Hannibal's grip on him was strong. That somehow made him even more aroused; his first time was also proving to be a kink discovery for him; he wasn't too sure if it was a good thing, and was far too gone to figure out why it wasn't.

By the time the third finger eased in, pleasure filled his senses again. he tried to rock down on Hannibal's fingers, chasing pleasure. Hannibal entertained it for a bit, stretching Will for his cock, for him.

That thought alone made Will whimper, and soon Hannibal's finger was out of him. Hannibal settled on his knees, coating himself with lube as he dropped above Will again

Neither of them spoke as Hannibal slowly entered him.

Will's breath caught in his throat. His eyes stayed locked on Hannibal's, lost in the impossible depth of them, and the look alone made his heart race. His back arched instinctively as Hannibal settled against him, giving him a moment before beginning to move with slow, careful thrusts.

Will's fingers tightened around the sheets beneath him.

The grip on his hips, the warmth of Hannibal's body, the sounds of his breathing close to Will's ear, it all blurred together until Will could no longer tell where one sensation ended and another began.

Every nerve in his body seemed alive.

As the rhythm between them gradually deepened, Hannibal leaned forward once more, capturing Will's lips in a kiss that was more shared breath than anything else. He lingered there for a moment before trailing soft kisses along Will's jaw and down to the side of his neck, resting just above his pulse.

Will let out a broken sound as Hannibal's pace quickens. It felt as though Hannibal was everywhere at once, in front of him, around him, beneath his skin, filling every corner of his thoughts until nothing else existed.

This...

This was all he'd ever wanted.

To be seen, to be held, to belong.

This was his reckoning.

A particular hard thrust drove Will over the edge, he clung to Hannibal as he spilled between them. His orgasm felt so intense, he genuinely felt like he blacked out. Hannibal groaned, coming inside him and buried his face against Will's neck, teeth digging into the skin.

For a long while afterward, neither of them moved.

The room was warm and quiet, the only sounds their gradually slowing breaths. The smell of sex, soft intimacy, and the metallic scent of blood filled the air. 

Eventually, Hannibal lifted his head. His face was unusually soft and lips a little bloodied from where he'd bitten Will. Will thought he looked beautiful like this.

"You know," Will murmured, still catching his breath, "I always imagined what this would be like."

"And?"

"It was nothing like I imagined."

A faint smile appeared on Hannibal's lips. "Was that disappointing?"

Will shook his head, his hand found Hannibal's, threading their fingers together. Hannibal leaned down until their foreheads touched.

"See," he whispered. "This is all I ever wanted for you, Will." His thumb brushed gently across Will's cheek. "For both of us."

Will closed his eyes, smiling softly. "It's beautiful."