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Mornings in Salerno, for Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter, tended to be soft, slow affairs. Back in Baltimore, Hannibal had been a morning person, but only for practical purposes. Now that he had quite literally everything he could ever want, the first rays of sunlight peeping through barren winter branches left him squinting and burrowing under the covers. Will Graham, unfortunately for both of them, was no better. Thus, most mornings, their reluctance to rise snowballed into a seemingly unending feedback loop as they lazily clutched at each other like newborn mole rats cowering together from some fearsome predator. Neither ever bothered to examine the irony in that.
This morning, however, as soon as their 5 AM alarm rang, Hannibal slipped out of bed, pulled the covers tighter around Will's body, and left him to endure the hour it usually took them to wake up on his own. The moment the bedroom door clicked softly shut, Will opened his eyes and smirked. Game on, boyfriend. Happy Valentine's day.
Soft singing wafted from the kitchen and echoed in the landing. Ah, cielo! Si può! Si, può morir! Di più non chiedo, non chiedo. Si può morire! Si può morir d'amor.
Will vaguely recognized the tune, although it took him until he entered the shower to remember it as "Una Furtiva Lagrima" from "L'Elisir D'Amore", to which Hannibal dragged him the week prior. Though there was an undercurrent of sadness in the aria, it was its surging joy that made the song overwhelming. "A furtive tear," Hannibal had whispered, his hand on Will's shoulder. "He could die of happiness because she loves him after all."
"Fucking sap," Will grinned, rolling his eyes at the unlabeled glass bottle of custom-made shampoo.
The kitchen and the dining room were both empty -- empty by Will's definition, that is, meaning "No Hannibal". Fuck.There goes my incentive for getting up.
He could have sworn the plate of quiche staring up at him from the breakfast table was pouting. Encephalitis, still asleep in her dog bed beneath the armrest of Hannibal's favorite chair, offered him no solace.
Mongoose, the note began. No shit. This is Hannibal "I-wax-poetic-at-five-AM" Lecter.
It pained me greatly to leave you alone in the world of sleep, but I have a rather time-sensitive experiment running at the laboratory, and must assess its progress immediately.
As you can see, I have left you breakfast -- Quiche Lorraine, with bacon, gruyere, parmesan, and eggs. Do eat it while it is still warm, to keep it from tasting like the "gunk" you complained about when you left an onion galette to sit on your desk for an hour (I did time you, my dear). Please also note that I have indeed left you a kiss good morning, which you can only accept by proxy by eating your breakfast. I hope that is sufficient incentive for you to feed yourself adequately in my absence.You will need the energy for your fishing expedition, after all.
Yours to love and to torment, and to torment in love,
A certain"pretentious dork"
Will wolfed down his breakfast.
Ermonela, stretched out on a plastic swivel chair, flipped her laptop shut and rubbed her eyes. The lighting in the lab, always sterile and piercing, always made it difficult to discern the time of day. Prolonged exposure to such an environment was messing with her sleep schedule -- circadian rhythm, she corrected herself. Still, as Dr. Frankenstein always showed up at 8:00 AM sharp to work with the postdocs, she figured she could afford to rest a bit.
"Good morning, Ms. Rossi." The measured, rich voice cascaded down from somewhere directly above her, before the familiar thud of Hannibal's suitcase meeting the floor returned her to her senses.
"Buon giorno, dottore," she greeted, sounding as meek as she felt. "I am sorry... ." Truth to be told, she did not know why she was apologizing, although it felt appropriate given the intimidating figure looming over her.
"Nonsense, Ms. Rossi. I am deeply grateful that you chose to assist me with this personal project of mine. It is still beating properly this morning, I presume?" This inquiry, Ermonela supposed, was Dr. Frankenstein's substitute for the usual pleasantries. Of course it was still beating properly -- if not for her efforts, the Doctor's expertise and skill alone would have ensured it.
Sure enough, in a clear, fluid-filled chamber, connected to tubes of various diameters, was a human heart grown from Hannibal's own stem cells. He had made it quite clear that this experiment was not to be revealed to others, and that her cooperation would earn her extra professional guidance from the esteemed Doctor, free of charge. She didn't know why he needed to cultivate this heart in the first place -- definitely not for the prestige, as the first successful transplant of a lab-grown heart was already performed in Osaka, Japan -- but she never asked. She had a feeling that perhaps it was better not to know.
"Lovely," murmured Dr. Frankenstein, more to himself and perhaps even to the heart than to her. "Please have this ready for transport by 6:30 PM today. I will retrieve it myself. Now, would you like to show me the research report you were asked to revise and resubmit for the New England Journal of Medicine?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
The shed at the back of the house was sweltering by the time Will managed to melt the gold of his old wedding ring. On the counter beside him sat what remained of the teacups Hannibal had bought months ago, never used, and deliberately dropped to the floor at the witching hour two days ago after waking from a dream about Mischa. They shattered easily, and cast across the floor a multitude of thin shards, that, together, had depicted fireflies and snails in a delicate Oriental design. Will took that as a blessing in disguise -- for weeks he deliberated over what to give someone like Hannibal Lecter, someone he couldn't put in a box the way he had the few people to whom he ever gave presents (in those moments he was supremely grateful for Google: "Best Gifts Under $25 for Badass Moms"), someone who saw all of him, and who allowed Will to know all of him in return. He didn't know why he was so nervous about giving Hannibal a gift in the first place, until he realized: he wanted to give Hannibal the world. Okay, yes, the world, but maybe minus a few scratchy-suit disasters. And with a few more dogs in it.
Gently piecing the teacup fragments back up using the molten gold as a sealant, Will felt as if something else was coming together at last.
I fucking love him. Like, really, REALLY love him.
He'd always known, but he never said it aloud, not to himself, not to Hannibal. Part of him assumed that Hannibal, too, already knew. Guess we're both saps, then, but hey, too late to turn back now. Grinning, he examined his work before contentedly nestling it into the silk-lined box he spent last week whittling. Birch, for perpetual beauty, and to represent new beginnings. Shatter, darlin', but with my love I will put you back together again. Just as you did for me. You broke me, but you put me together again. It was beautiful, and it still is.
Humming contentedly to himself, Will placed the box into the coat closet Hannibal reserved for guests, and whistled for Encephalitis. "C'mon girl! Let's go fishing!"
For the first time in over a year, Hannibal was glad to return home to an empty house. Asking Will to try to catch a swordfish for the next day's lunch (and for many meals after that, no doubt) ensured that Will would be out on the water for long enough for him to decorate the dining room and gather all the raw materials for the meal he had spent the past three months planning. The actual cooking would take place in Will's presence -- this experience was to be a performance for an audience of only one, the only audience that truly mattered. Will. His Will.
Just as Hannibal bent to lay a blood-red table runner across the length of the dining table, the scent of sea breeze combined with sweat permeated the room.
"It appears that my dearest, not-quite-so-old man has returned from the sea --"
"AHA!" With a devious cackle, Will pointed a laughter-loosened finger at Hannibal as Encephalitis excitedly circled his legs. "I knew it! Swordfish, Hannibal? If you really wanted a fish that takes that long to catch, you would have come with me... usually can't let me out of your sight for that long, can ya?"
"Will--" Hannibal tried again, knowing it was futile.
"C'mon, out with it, love. What are you hiiiiidin'?" The laughter gave way to a decidedly devious grin, the accusatory finger now beckoning Hannibal to give away his secret. I may as well show him, even though the presentation will not be precisely as I intended, Hannibal thought. That aspect of this meal may have been more for my sake than his, anyway.
Sighing, he led a Hannibal-Lecter-level-smug Will into the kitchen, where the glass column containing the beating heart sat on the island, encased like a rare jewel at a natural history museum. Will's eyes widened, then sank into a look of confusion. Their hunting trophies were usually laid on ice, and carried home in a fashion not dissimilar to the way in which Will brought back the fish he caught. So where --
"Sit, darling," said Hannibal, as he guided Will towards a bar stool beside the column. He sat down beside him, and for a while they simply rested against one another, foreheads bumping with each other and with the glass, watching the heart steadily pump a thin, near-crimson liquid from tube to tube.
Hannibal was the first to pull away, and reached for Will's hand, though Will kept his head turned, still transfixed by the beating of the heart.
"In Dante's La Vita Nuova,The New Life, Love personified visits Dante in the wee hours of the night after the object of Dante's affection greeted him in the street." At this, Will turned towards Hannibal, and took his other hand.
"Beatrice?" Will lowered his voice, as if he was already aware, subconsciously, of the moment's magnitude.
"Yes. Beatrice. When Love comes to visit Dante, he brings a sleeping Beatrice with him, swathed in billowing blood-red silk. Holding Dante's heart in his hands, he wakes her. Frightens her, and soothes her. Though she trembles, she accepts from him the feeding of Dante's heart, consuming it obediently. Once she is finished, Love departs, weeping.
"The eating of one's heart must inevitably be painful, Will. Neither Dante nor Beatrice sought Love's visit voluntarily. To be ruled in such a way by Love frightened Dante. But one could argue that watching his beloved consume his heart, thereby taking agency over it away from love itself, was a euphoric experience for Dante.
"In Palermo, Will, I gave you my heart. Though you forgave me, and knew that it belonged to you, you didn't permit yourself to take it. So few months ago, I extracted stem cells from my blood. With the help of a graduate student, a mentee of mine, I grew them into a heart. Tell me, Will" -- Hannibal raised Will's knuckles to his face, as if in prayer -- "now that we have both come to terms with love's visit, will you do me the honor of accepting this heart?"
The work-roughened hands encased in Hannibal's smoother pair trembled. Tears brimmed over in Will's eyes, drawing out their counterparts from Hannibal's. "Your heart," he whispered.
"Yes. My heart, dear heart," Hannibal chuckled, softly, with all the tenderness in the world. "Exactly like the one that is beating in here." He placed Will's hand above the center of his ribcage.
"Your heart," Will echoed again, before leaning closer and cupping Hannibal's cheek. "Yes," said Hannibal, before nuzzling Will's lips with his, kissing softly, over and over, again and again. "Yes, yes, yes."
Though it was Will who disconnected the heart from the tubes that fed diluted blood through it, and held it gently through its final pulses as it oozed a few final drops of Hannibal's blood onto the cutting board, he couldn't bring himself to take a knife to it. Not anymore, nor ever again, his watery gaze seemed to say. With a regard that brought with it the comfort of a hearth but none of the threat of fire, Hannibal gently took the knife from Will's hands, and gleefully sliced up his own heart as Will watched. Trembling, like Beatrice in Dante's sonnet, he stood by while Hannibal placed the slices into a pan of sauce, left it to simmer, and plated it carefully with basil and succulent heirloom tomatoes.
"Tranches de coeur au vin en cocotte," Hannibal announced, as he set the plate down before Will. "Tranches de coeur de boeuf au vin en cocotte," he added, with a smile, setting a similar dish in front of himself as he sat down beside Will.
"A simple cow's heart for you, love?"
"Yes, since my own is entirely yours."
"Hannibal?"
"Yes, mylimasis?"
"You said that Dante was euphoric as Beatrice ate his heart. But how did Beatrice feel?" At this, Hannibal captured Will's hand, and kissed his fingers.
"That, my dear, you will have to discover for yourself." He raised his glass, catching the glimmer of candlelight in Will's sea-blue eyes. "To this new life."
"To our new beginning, that it may never end," Will added, "even in death."
"Watching you eat my heart today will not bring me death, Will, though it will bring me such great happiness that perhaps I will feel as if I am dying."
"You know, you're such an annoying sap that I'm considering taking back that death part. If there's an afterlife, I'm spending it recovering from your puns." Despite the humor in his voice, Will's fork trembled as he speared the first piece of Hannibal's heart and lifted it to his lips. Gingerly, he slid the piece of heart into his mouth, eyes watering again as he chewed. Hannibal stopped his own motions to observe him, rapt, his own eyes misting as Will's closed, briefly, as if trapping the experience behind his eyelids to savor for all eternity.
To watch his beloved consuming his flesh so rapturously brought Hannibal to a greater pinnacle of joy than he ever thought he would experience, by eating ortolans or cooking or immersing himself in art or killing for the entire world to behold. Though they were already conjoined in mind and soul, and often joined in bodily passion, this was the final step to giving Will a piece of his body, that he would always carry with him, that they would never be separated again. And Will took it, eagerly and of his own accord, fusing Hannibal with himself.
It was not until Will squeezed his hand tighter that Hannibal realized that he had been so engrossed in watching Will devouring every morsel of his heart that he left his own dinner untouched.
"Hey, darlin', wait here a sec." Still dumbfounded, Hannibal found himself unable to do anything but listen to Will pad softly towards the hallway closet, and back again, this time bearing a carved wooden box. He allowed Will to lead him by the arm to the chair by the fireplace. Instinctively, they curled into one another, Will's head on Hannibal's shoulder.
Hannibal brushed his thumb along the perimeter of the box's lid. "May I?"
Will nodded, brushing a kiss onto the side of his neck. "Here." He lifted the lid himself, revealing the two teacups, laced in gold. They shone in the firelight.
"Will," Hannibal breathed. "Will."
"I can't bring Mischa back to you, Hannibal. Neither of us can return to the past. But that doesn't mean that it's all gone, nor does it mean that the sea won't bring us to better shores."
"Many teacups have shattered, but it appears that this one" -- Hannibal drew Will closer, and he knew that Hannibal wasn't talking about the two cups in the box -- "this one keeps coming back together, always stronger and more beautiful than before."
"And now? Are you finally satisfied?"
"Yes... ." Slowly, he traced a gold-sealed crack with his finger, as realization dawned on him.
"Your ring." Almost disbelieving.
"Our teacups," Will chuckled. "As I said, our pasts are still there, but only as parts of our future together. You know, Hannibal... I love you."
For the third time that night, Hannibal Lecter was stunned into silence, sitting motionless, listening to Will's heartbeat converse with his own. Finally, somewhere amid that pulsing conversation, he found a shred of his voice again. "I love you, Will."
Just like that, the night's need for words finally resigned itself to sleep, as did Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter, breathing deeply in each other's arms. And Will was right -- every morning from then on seemed like the birth of a new beginning, the dawn of a new life.