Chapter Text
The sheep, soft and white like puffs of cloud settled on earth, bleat around them. Their voices are strange little murmurs, whispers shaped by wool, almost as if they are trying to speak. Hannibal lets his eyes close, sinking into the sound, letting it fill his mind. The wind moves over him, and he feels it trace his eyelashes, soft as it stirs, lifting strands of his hair.
Behind his eyelids, he can still sense the sun. It is not harsh, now it is gentle, a golden warmth that presses through his skin, sinking into his bones. He thinks, if he listens long enough, maybe he can learn the sheep’s language.
He can, if he tries. Hannibal can learn anything.
He has learned, for example, that Will Graham is a boy with moods that change like the sky in spring, a shift so quick it leaves him unsteady, not unlike a bird caught in a sudden gust of wind. In one moment, Will will curse the world, spitting out words like stones, his voice rough and bitter, teeth bared as if ready to bite. And then, like a flame flaring up, he laughs, sudden and loud.
He tells Hannibal of strange things, of honeysuckle that grows like weeds where he is from, of the wildflowers and thick, sweet scents that fill the air in summer, the way bees hover around them, buzzing low and lazy.
Will talks as if his voice is a well that will never run dry. He talks of everything and nothing, filling the air with words that Hannibal listens to without ever responding. Sometimes, Will glances at him, his blue eyes sharp, as if expecting an answer. But Hannibal only watches.
A sudden sharp curse pulls him out of his thoughts, and Hannibal opens his eyes. Will stands not far off, his hands rough against the canvas of his tent, his mouth twisted in frustration. Hannibal feels the rough bark of the tree behind him, digging into his scalp. He is propped against it, notebook in hand, though he has written nothing, not a single word. The page is as blank as his face must seem to Will, expressionless, observing.
The sun has shifted, brighter now, casting a warm, golden glow across the field. The grass itself seems to shine, gilded as though made precious by the light. They are far from the world here, so far that the town might as well be a dream, and there is no one else in sight—just the endless stretch of land, the gentle roll of hills, and the quiet murmurs of the sheep. Hannibal’s horse stands nearby, her coat a soft brown, her eyes calm and unfazed.
They have finally reached this place, this hidden pasture, after hours of guiding the sheep through rocky mountains and narrow paths. Hannibal has already set up his own tent, a small and simple thing, back at the camp. Will, though, has to camp here, on the hilltop where he can watch the sheep as they settle. But now he stands wrestling with the tent fabric, his movements rough, his curses biting the air.
Hannibal has watched him, and he has come to know that Will is a boy of loud sounds and quick tempers. His anger is a raw thing. It is a child’s anger, unfiltered and pure, the kind of emotion that has no room for shame. And Hannibal feels a strange, twisting thing in his chest when he sees it, a thing that tastes almost bitter, like the skin of a fruit that leaves a sting on the tongue.
There is something familiar here, too, in Will’s roughness, his wildness. Hannibal knows that, under other circumstances, he would have kept his distance from someone like this. Will reminds him, in a way, of the boys from the orphanage—those who laughed too loud, who threw things at walls just to watch them break. But it is not quite the same, he realizes. Will’s wildness has something else to it, something that is not cruel or mocking. Will does not use his anger to wound; he does not twist his words like knives. And he has not turned Hannibal’s silence against him. They are both at that age when boys are often cruel just to be cruel, nineteen years old and restless. But Will hasn’t pushed him.
It is a small mercy, but it is enough.
Perhaps Will is more like the sheepdog, the one that barks at the sheep, herding them with a strange blend of gentleness and force, quick and fierce, his paws kicking up dust as he runs. Wild, yes, but with a purpose that is all his own. Hannibal’s eyes move to Will, who is fighting with the tent still, his hands gripping the fabric as if he could strangle it into submission. Another curse leaves his mouth. Hannibal knows he should help, knows it would be the polite thing, the right thing to do.
But he stays where he is, watching instead. Will’s hair falls in wild curls around his face, strands sticking to his forehead where sweat has gathered. A bead of sweat slides down his cheek, tracing a path along his skin, catching the light, casting a small, silvery line as it pools just above his jaw.
Hannibal’s fingers tighten around his notebook, and he feels an ache in his teeth. Will glances over his shoulder, and their eyes meet. Will’s glare is cold.
Hannibal’s lips twitch, a faint smile pulling at the corner of his mouth as he meets Will’s gaze. Will’s eyes narrow at the sight of it, a slight flicker in his expression. But then, almost as quickly as it had hardened, his gaze falters. He looks away, turning his head sharply.
Hannibal tilts his head, curious.
Hannibal glances down at his notebook and feels the worn paper smooth beneath his fingers. He pulls the pencil from where he’s tucked it behind his ear, ready to carve words into the emptiness. So many things he wishes to say—pages and pages of questions, whole forests of things he wishes to say to Will. But instead, he lowers the pencil, lets his fingers uncurl from it, and sets the notebook down gently into the grass beside his hat. He pushes himself up, unfolds each limb carefully, and stands.
He walks slowly toward Will, his steps soft and unhurried. Will is still wrestling with the tent, the fabric flapping between his hands, and he has yet to notice Hannibal approaching. Hannibal watches the way Will moves, taking in every shift of his shoulders, every flex of his hands as he struggles with the stakes and the poles, his face pulled into a scowl. It is an expression that Hannibal knows well, though he has never dared to wear it himself; his uncle would have seen to that with a quick, sharp slap to his cheek.
He remembers what Will had told him about violence, how his eyes had sparked, strange and curious. He wonders if Will knows violence as he does, if it runs in his blood. He wonders if Will feels wild sometimes, too.
He almost thinks he could relax, could let his posture soften, uncoil from its rigid form, if he wished it. But it’s woven into him as tightly as his bones are. So he stands as he always does—back straight, shoulders square—as he watches Will crouch down, his knees pressed into the grass. Hannibal notes the faint green rings already staining the fabric there.
Will finally notices him. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t speak, but Hannibal can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his movements become stiffer. Will is pretending not to see him, and this amuses Hannibal. He steps closer, his boots pressing softly into the earth.
At last, he is beside Will, and for a rare moment, Hannibal hesitates. He has so many ways to communicate, even without words. He can sign with his hands, shape his thoughts with his expressions. He has learned to live without his voice, though it was not without struggle. But here, with Will so near and yet looking away, he finds himself reaching for something else.
He kneels down, settling gracefully on the grass, his movements smooth and controlled. He reaches out, his hand hovering for a breath before he lets his fingers close around Will’s hand, catching it mid-motion. Will’s hand stills, caught like a bird that has ceased its flurry, and Hannibal looks down at it. The roughness of Will’s skin, worn and hardened by work.
Will pulls his hand back, shoving it quickly into his pocket, the warmth disappearing as swiftly as it came. But it remains with Hannibal, ghostlike, lingering in the feel of his own skin even after it is gone. They are close now—so close that Will’s hat brim brushes against his hair.
Will shifts, his chest rising and falling like he has run a great distance, though they have barely moved at all. Hannibal watches him, curious, wondering why. He wonders, and he wonders.
Finally, Will’s eyes meet his, wide and uncertain, and he clears his throat, the sound rough and real between them.
“What are you doin’?”
The way he ignores the “g” at the end of “doing” makes something in Hannibal want to finish the word for him, to let it sit properly between them. The urge is foolish. The urge is new.
He considers, watching the faint confusion in Will’s eyes, the way his brow creases just slightly. Then, without a word, he raises his hand, extends a single finger, and gently taps the skin beside Will’s eye. He lets his hand drop, then gestures to himself, and finally, to the mess of tent poles and fabric sprawled in disarray on the ground.
Will’s frown deepens, his expression somewhere between curiosity and frustration. “What?” he says, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. “You gonna help me?”
Hannibal nods.
Will lets out a short, breathy laugh, as if relieved. He mutters, “About time,” and there is a sharpness to it, a roughness that borders on rude. Hannibal does not smile.
Instead, he sits back on his hands, sinking his fingers into the cool grass, the green blades weaving through each space between his fingers. They feel dry under his palms, but soft, yielding to his touch. He thinks about how, by morning, they’ll be wet with dew. And he likes this thought, the way grass doesn’t hold onto the day but just keeps living, swaying.
He crawls forward slowly, knees pressing down into the ground, feeling Will’s gaze trace each careful movement.
It’s strange, feeling Will’s eyes like this, heavy and warm, familiar already. But then, he’d noticed the look even back at the trailer. That gaze, it had followed him in the parking lot too, lingering, and now he feels it on him again. He lets it happen, lets himself feel what he knows. Hannibal doesn’t question his instinct that Will had noticed him too, waiting there beside him, staring with that searching look like he was already picking Hannibal apart in his mind. He hadn’t expected to notice Will himself. It’s rare for him, but there was something about the way Will moved, like he was waiting for a cue, pacing the lot with his hands shoved in his pockets, his head turning in little fits, checking his reflection in the car window only to scuff his shoes on the gravel after.
Maybe it’s the curiosity that got to Hannibal. That look Will had given him, intense and thoughtful, like Hannibal had somehow caught him off-guard. He wonders, quietly, what Will sees. What he thinks he sees in him. Perhaps he is looking for something hidden, something under Hannibal’s skin. Or maybe he sees nothing at all. It’s possible. That’s why he keeps looking, Hannibal thinks. Searching for something he knows Hannibal won’t ever give him.
Hannibal reaches for the tent poles, glancing up again to check for Will, to see if that searching gaze is still there. It is. Will doesn’t look away, just bends down with his own set of poles, and they start putting up the tent together in that silent rhythm of work. Will follows him, step for step, mirroring his motions as he fits the poles together, and they finish in no time, both still quiet.
It’s a small tent, barely large enough for Will, and it doesn’t look sturdy. The kind of tent that feels temporary, like a gust of wind would flatten it in an instant. Hannibal thinks it’s foolish, but when they finish, Will steps back with a small, pleased smile, as if he’s proud, as if this weak little tent is worth something.
Hannibal’s eyes catch on the edges of Will’s grin, that bright gleam of teeth. Hannibal feels his jaw tighten, forcing himself to look away, though his gaze sneaks back, just for a second, to see Will’s smile linger.
Will moves again, bending to pick up a thick stick from the ground. He whistles, a sharp, practiced sound, and the dog appears, racing across the field to him. Will’s voice softens immediately as he crouches down, his fingers scratching behind the dog’s ears, crooning something low and affectionate. Hannibal watches them both, his eyes narrowing as he studies the dog, a shaggy thing with scruffy tan fur and eyes that seem to watch him back with an animal-like wisdom, a kind of awareness Hannibal doesn’t often see.
He looks instead at Will’s hands, watching how his fingers move through the dog’s thick fur, rough but gentle, like he knows each spot that will make the dog lean closer to him. Those hands, he thinks, they tell him many things. Hannibal’s own hands were once like that. Before he was taken, before he was lifted and sent to Paris, he had the hands of a boy, of someone who knew what dirt felt like under his nails, what it was to earn the ache of a full day. The years in Paris have softened him, made him forget the feel of coarse skin and calluses.
He wonders, almost idly, if his hands will grow rough again after the season. It’s strange to want this, but there is something comforting about it. He might be himself again, somehow, with hands that remember the work.
Will throws the stick, and the dog takes off, bounding through the open grass with its tail wagging hard enough to sweep the ground. Hannibal watches. He thinks about how this dog is just as much a worker as either of them, just as committed to its duty. But he doesn’t do anything, only rises to his feet, brushing a hand over his pants and turning away to retrieve his notebook.
The sound of footsteps comes after a pause, slow and uncertain. He hears his last name, “Lecter,” spoken quietly, and he stops, not really annoyed but something close to it stirring in his chest.
Hannibal turns to look at him, holding his silence, watching the way Will hesitates before he says, “Look,” Will starts, a rough edge to his voice, but soft. “I think we should… set some rules here. Ground rules, you know? Boundaries, so we don’t end up making each other miserable. Or worse.”
The comment stirs something in Hannibal, an urge to smile or to frown, he doesn’t know. But he keeps his face still, watching Will’s own gaze drop, those pale lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. He wants to ask him, Why do you look away?
Will shifts his grip on the stick, his fingers drumming against it in that restless way. “We don’t… I mean, you don’t have to be friendly with me,” he goes on. “I’m not askin’ for that. Hell, we don’t even need to talk. Just keep to your side of things, and I’ll keep to mine. I figure that’s fair, don’t you?”
His hand tightens around the stick, knuckles going white. Hannibal’s eyes drift down, watching the way Will’s fingers fidget, the way his shoulders set as if he’s bracing for something.
"Let’s keep it… professional, alright? We do our job, get the work done, and come pay day, we’re done with each other. You go your way, I’ll go mine.” Will’s voice drops even lower, nearly a whisper by the end. “We get our money, and we’ll never see each other again. Just like that.”
Hannibal lets the words sit between them, mulling them over slowly. He looks at Will, considering. They have nothing in common. Will is rough, too loud, coarse around the edges in a way that scratches against Hannibal’s sense of order. He likes fishing, and running, things that exhaust and distract. Hannibal likes science, art, the delicate touch of a pen to paper, the thoughtful turn of a phrase in a quiet room. Will is here out of need, a raw need Hannibal can sense, feel without even knowing why. Hannibal is here because he has to be. Because he was told to be.
It doesn’t matter that Will’s cheeks are red from the sun. Or that his accent, rough and thick, has a strange music to it, a lilt that makes Hannibal want to ask him to keep speaking. But it also makes him want to reach out, grip Will’s throat, and silence him. It does not matter that his cheeks dimple faintly when he smiles, as if he’s not even aware of it.
Hannibal finally extends his hand, offering it between them. Will stares at it, his eyes flicking between Hannibal’s hand and his face. Then, with a sudden, stubborn grin, he raises the stick instead of his hand, pushing it toward Hannibal’s outstretched fingers. Hannibal hesitates, then takes it, feeling the cold, sticky wetness of dog slobber against his skin as Will shifts it, maneuvering his grip until Hannibal finds himself shaking the stick instead of Will’s hand.
God forbid they become friendly.
But he doesn’t let go. His fingers linger, maybe longer than they should, and Will’s smile stays burned into his mind.
It does not matter. None of it matters, he tells himself as he rides back to the camp. His notebook is blank, his pencil tucked behind his ear, and the feel of Will’s sticky, dog-slobbered stick is still warm in his hand.
Hannibal does not touch Will again.
It goes like this, this careful distance, for days. They find a sort of rhythm together, both of them circling their own little spaces, orbiting each other without drifting too close. It feels safe like this, like a strange peace—one he holds close in his quiet, where he can let himself believe they are almost alone, only crossing paths out of habit.
Will sleeps up in the mountain each night, disappearing into its dark shadows. He doesn’t see where Will goes, only knows the places where he is not, the empty places where his voice and his steps should be. And Hannibal, he stays at camp, with the trees and the horses and the stars for company. Sometimes he thinks it is good to be alone, good to not be seen. The cold settles in around him as if it means to make a home in his bones, and he holds himself steady, holds his arms close to his chest and lets the silence wrap around him.
The stars hang quiet above him, scattered and bright. He thinks they are beautiful. He likes to watch them, to let his eyes trace their patterns, each one small and alone in the sky.
He has his books. He brought them for nights just like this, for the times when even the rustling of the trees feels too close, too much like voices whispering things he doesn’t know. He reads by firelight, careful and slow, turning each page like it is fragile. The words are there for him to lose himself in, but sometimes, when the wind howls too loud, he feels his hands shake, his fingers trembling against the paper.
Morning comes soft and pale, like it isn’t quite sure of itself. He wakes first, pulling himself from the tight cocoon of his blanket, letting the cold air in. He goes about the camp in silence, his footsteps light, careful not to wake the world too soon. The fire needs tending, and he crouches beside it, coaxing it back to life, watching as the flames rise, little by little. It is a simple routine, one he finds himself slipping into with ease, with a kind of satisfaction. It feels like he is doing something good, something that will last.
Their rations are thin, meager things, but he is good at making much from little. He has learned how to stretch things, to make them last, to take what he is given and turn it into something more. There is a small pride in that, a small comfort. He remembers the grocery man’s face, the way he had looked at him, like he was nothing. He had written his question in his notebook, careful, polite, asking if that was all they had, if there was nothing more he could offer them. But the man had brushed him aside, barely glancing at him. Hannibal wonders now if he should hurt him for his rudeness, but there is no space for that here. Instead, he holds his notebook close, writes his little plans in it with careful hands.
The cans are lined up neatly in rows, each one accounted for, each one a small piece of the weeks ahead. He counts them in the morning, his fingers brushing over each tin, feeling their cold weight. His mind moves through the days, mapping out meals, setting things aside. Will watches him sometimes, his eyes glimmering and unreadable, but he says nothing. Hannibal thinks he is glad for the silence, glad for the space to work without needing to explain himself.
They eat a simple breakfast, one that he has prepared with a steady hand, a careful mind. The food is plain, but he takes his time with it, letting the smallness of it settle into his bones, filling him in a way that words cannot. After they eat, they turn their attention to the sheep, the soft, gentle creatures that move with them over the mountain’s edge. It is strange, to be surrounded by such quiet beings, their eyes calm and unafraid, their steps slow and sure. Will rides at the front, his movements loose, easy. Hannibal follows behind.
The lambs catch his eye, their small bodies soft and fragile, their eyes wide with wonder. He feels something gentle in him when he watches them. They are innocent, unaware of the wolves that slip through the night, waiting. At night, he hears the shots, the sound of Will’s shotgun cutting through the silence. He pictures Will’s face in those moments, the hard line of his mouth, the sharp glint in his eye.
The violence.
When they return, he prepares dinner, his hands moving with the same care, the same attention. It is an act of patience, of careful planning, and he lets himself sink into it, finding a kind of peace in the rhythm of it. Will leaves again after they eat, vanishing into the darkness, and Hannibal watches him go, watches as his figure fades into the shadows. There is a quietness that settles over him then, a weight that presses down on him as he returns to his place, alone.
But there are moments, too, that are soft, moments that he holds close. He takes his sketchbook with him during the day, lets his hands work in the quiet, capturing the world around him in small, delicate lines. The trees, their branches tangled and reaching, the flowers like little suns scattered across the earth, their petals open and bright. He draws them with a careful hand, each line a small piece of something beautiful, something fragile. The flowers are different here, their shapes strange and unfamiliar, but they bring him back to a time he remembers, a time when he was small. He remembers weaving crowns from wild blooms, placing them on his head, feeling the soft weight of them.
He sketches everything he sees, letting the world around him fill his pages. The mountains, tall and silent, the sheep that move with them, their bodies soft and warm. Even the dog, with its fur patched and worn, finds its place in his sketchbook. The dog watches him sometimes, its eyes steady, as if it sees something in him that he cannot see himself. It is a strange feeling, to be seen like that, to be looked at with such understanding.
And then there is Will. Will, with his laughter, his rough hands, his wild, uncontained joy. Hannibal watches him sometimes, when he lets himself get lost in the moment. He sees Will play with the dog, wrestling with it, his curls wild, his face bright with laughter. There is a freedom in him that Hannibal does not understand, cannot touch. He watches, unblinking, as Will throws himself into the play, lets himself be rough, lets himself be alive. In the mornings, Will comes to him, branches tangled in his hair, dirt smudged on his cheek.
It makes him want to go to him, to slip into his tent in the dead of night, to press a pillow down over that laughing face, to silence it, to hold it still.
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Will rubs his eyes until he sees stars, perched on his horse as he and Hannibal track the sheep down the far ridge.
He’s squinting against the early sun, and his whole face is drawn tight, worn raw. He hasn’t slept proper in days, and it’s not just the ache in his bones, or the weight of the mountain hanging heavy on him like a storm cloud.
He’s been up barely a week, but the quiet—the kind you can’t break with the crack of a joke or the pop of a whiskey bottle cap—is already getting to him. It’s funny, he came up here for that exact reason: for the mountain to keep him company, and the sheep to give him something steady to focus on, something without an opinion. A kind of work that don’t ask questions. But up here, it’s like the quiet is alive, buzzing and pulling at him in the dead of night when he’s holed up in that sorry excuse of a tent, crammed up in a space that’s too small and cold and so hard that his back’s got a permanent knot the size of a fist.
He regrets what he said to Hannibal. When he thinks of that moment, his stomach twists up into itself, makes him want to wince and scrub his own face with his hands.
He’d drawn a line, all right—etched it deep, bold, made it clear as anything he’s ever said. All because Hannibal had reached over that one day, in that easy way he’s got, and touched his hand. Just a brush, nothing more. Will had flinched so hard he felt it down to his core. He don’t like being touched, least not like that.
His skin remembers every scrape, every bruise he’s ever earned, and that touch, it was like nothing he’d felt before, soft like a girl’s hand almost. Things he shouldn’t be noticing at all.
And now, here he is, cursing that line he drew. He thinks of what he’d said. Idiot. And there Hannibal is, the kid quiet as ever, watching him with those dark eyes that don’t seem to miss a thing. Since that day, Hannibal hasn’t written a word to him in that little notebook of his. Not a single note, not even a question about the weather or the mountains. Will figures it’s no more than he deserves, but it makes his stomach twist all the same.
He knows Hannibal was just trying to get his attention. He’d only said that line because he’d panicked. The silence is killing him. When he’s alone, he can almost hear it breathing, this heavy, crushing quiet that don’t leave space for anything else. It settles down around him, and he feels like he’s sinking under its weight, bit by bit. When he’s with Hannibal, though, even when the boy don’t say a word, it’s like the silence is different. Lighter, somehow, not quite so sharp. But now, after what he said, Hannibal’s keeping his distance, and the silence between them feels jagged, bitter, like it’s got teeth.
Will’s been talking his head off since then, going on about anything he can think of—the sky, the weather, the mountains, even the sheep—just trying to fill the air, to get some kind of reaction from Hannibal, anything at all. But Hannibal’s just quiet, barely looking at him, barely reacting. Will’s a grown man, he’s worked plenty of hard jobs and seen enough to know how to be on his own. He thought he’d left behind any need for other folks’ company long ago. But here he is, acting like a kid in front of Hannibal, hoping for a laugh or a glance.
It irks him, that need. And it irks him more that he cares what Hannibal thinks. He’s up here to do a job, not make friends. But every time he glances over, there’s Hannibal, looking as calm and unruffled as ever, like the mountain don’t affect him at all. It’s irritating in a way he can’t quite explain. He wants to mess him up somehow, make him feel a bit of the weight Will’s carrying, make him look at Will like he’s human.
He catches himself glancing down sometimes, his fingers twitching at his collarbone like they’re searching for something that isn’t there—his cross necklace. The one he wore all his life, up until he left home and threw it at his daddy’s feet, made sure to make a scene about it before he turned his back on Louisiana and everything it stood for. He can almost feel it now, heavy against his skin, even though it’s long gone.
It’s not like the work’s hard. Mostly it’s just the sheep, always scattering, trying to make a break for it. And the wolves at night, howling like they know the mountains better than any man. Besides that, there’s not much to it, no real fuss, just routines. They’ve fallen into them easy enough. The job’s supposed to be simple and lonesome, just him and the mountain, not a soul to get in his way. Just the wind, the cold, and the sheep to look after. That’s what Will signed up for. Quiet work, no one around to make him second-guess himself, to look at him close or ask questions. But that sure hasn’t panned out, not since Hannibal showed up.
And Will can tell the kid don’t like him. Sometimes, when Will catches a glimpse of himself, he thinks he gets it.
It’s stupid, but he finds himself watching that little pencil Hannibal keeps tucked behind his ear, hoping he’ll pull it out, scribble something down to show him.
They’re counting the sheep now, Will watching the shaggy flock clump together and scatter like thick, slow water. If he could just sink into it, let it wrap around him like a blanket, he might fall asleep.
But he can’t sleep, not with that prickling sensation at the back of his neck. Hannibal’s a little ways back, keeping quiet, but it’s like he’s there in the back of Will’s mind, just hovering. Will knows if he looks back, Hannibal probably won’t be looking at him. Maybe Hannibal’s gaze’ll be cast somewhere else, all calm and thoughtful. Will could turn around, see him right now, but he won’t.
He doesn’t want to give himself the satisfaction or the disappointment.
Instead, he looks down, watches Winston dart among the flock. Winston, all gangly legs and loose fur, ears flopping as he barks, the kind of bark that’s more excited than angry, more eager than anything else. That dog’s nothing but pure joy wrapped up in speckled fur. Will shouldn’t be getting attached to him—he knows that much. But something in him already loves the dog, soft and easy, like he’s got no choice. Loves the way the dog’s so sure, so ready, bounding this way and that with his tongue hanging out, like he could do this forever, like he was born to. It’s that simple loyalty, the way Winston’s so good at what he does, no question about it. Like he don’t know anything else.
Will steals time with Winston in the early mornings, before the world’s fully awake, when the air’s cold and clear. The dog waits for him just outside his tent, eager as ever, ready for anything. And Will plays with him, lets him bound around, feels that bright energy in him and thinks maybe it’s something he could hold onto. He reaches down, scratches Winston’s head, lets his fingers sink into that fur, soft and real. Winston’s warmth is something he can hold close, something steady. He even lets Winston into his tent most nights, even though it’s cramped as all hell. Lets him curl up right next to him, head resting on Will’s knee, just the two of them pressed together in that tiny space. Will holds him, sinks his fingers into that fur like he’s hanging on for dear life. It keeps the cold at bay, keeps the thoughts from wandering too far. Keeps him tethered.
Because he needs something to hold onto here, out in this wide, open place that’s nothing like home. Home was all dense heat and close walls, thick with the smell of salt and sweat. But here, it’s like he’s on the edge of the world, with mountains towering up in the distance, so big they make him feel small, like a speck of dust. The trees stretch on forever, dark and deep, and there’s so much sky it makes his head spin if he stares too long. It’s wild out here, raw in a way he never could’ve dreamed back home.
Sometimes, he catches Hannibal early in the morning, before the sun’s had a chance to break all the way through the trees. Hannibal’s sitting there with a notebook open, the edge of his pencil scratching against paper, head down, completely focused. Will wonders what he’s drawing, though he tells himself he doesn’t care. Just catches flashes, colors smeared across the page—yellow, like sunlight caught on a leaf, red like the sun just before it dips under the horizon. He saw blue, once, just a hint before Hannibal’s fingers clamped over the page and snapped the notebook shut, like he didn’t want Will to see a thing. Will’s heart had leapt a little, even as he forced himself to look away, to pretend he hadn’t seen anything at all.
But no matter how hard he tries to shove it down, Hannibal’s there. Hannibal, quiet and composed, with that look in his eye that makes Will feel bare, like he’s being peeled apart. Will hates it, the way his mind drifts there.
The sound of hooves draws his attention, and he turns to find Hannibal riding up beside him, calm as ever, holding out his notebook. Will’s heart stumbles in his chest—hope bubbling up before he can crush it down—thinking maybe Hannibal’s finally gonna say something, maybe let him in, just a little. But it’s just the number. Just the day’s tally. “933,” written in Hannibal’s tidy script, the same number as yesterday. Nothing special, just the count of sheep. Will feels that tightness settle back in his chest, the hope souring as fast as it came.
“Same as yesterday,” he mutters, voice rough. “Good work.”
He doesn’t look at Hannibal, not really, but he can’t help catching that faint, polite smile on his face. The kind of smile that don’t mean anything. Will’s gaze catches on the hat Hannibal’s wearing, tilted just enough to hide his eyes, and something in him twists. He doesn’t know why it bothers him, the way that hat shadows Hannibal’s face, but it does. For a second, he feels that urge, the one that makes him want to reach out, fix it, brush the brim back so he can see Hannibal’s eyes.
Hannibal’s eyes are sharp, almost red, like blood or fire. And looking at him now, Will’s struck by a memory he thought he’d left behind—a time when he was just a boy, back in town, fists swinging wild and hard. One of the kids, with a loud, cackling laugh and that mean look in his eyes, cornered him behind the church one day, spit words that bit like teeth. Words that made Will’s blood boil, made his fists clench tight. He’d snapped, lost control in a way that felt like a dam breaking. His fists flew, striking bone and flesh, each hit driving the kid down into the dirt. And he didn’t stop, even when the kid stopped laughing, stopped spitting insults. He kept going, hands numb, anger hot and bright, until someone pulled him off.
It was the pastor who found him, a big man with hands that could crush iron, his face set like stone. The man dragged Will away, his grip tight as a vice, not saying a word until they were inside the church, where he forced Will down to his knees. Threw a Bible in front of him, cold and hard, told him to pray. But it wasn’t the prayer that Will remembered—it was the slap that came after, the pastor’s ring catching his knuckles, leaving a welt that burned like fire. A reminder, a punishment, a warning. Some things, he’d been told, weren’t meant to be enjoyed. Some things weren’t right.
And now, looking at Hannibal, Will feels that same wrongness prickling under his skin. This feeling has a weight to it that scares him. He feels it like a sharp thing in his gut, a heat that twists and gnaws, like his fists itching to swing again, or his teeth itching to bite. Hannibal’s got that glint in his eye, that same danger Will knows he should turn from, and yet he can’t. He looks at Hannibal, at those soft, steady hands on the reins, that hint of teeth when he smiles.
Hannibal nods, his face unreadable, and nudges his horse forward, his movements all smooth and graceful. Watching Hannibal walk away feels like a test, and he don’t know if he’s passed or failed, only that he’s left standing there with his mouth shut, his mind a tangled mess of things he can’t put to words.
He knows he should stay away. That’s the sensible thing, the right thing, but he’s never been good at keeping his nose out of trouble. It’s like danger’s got its claws in him, tugging him closer, whispering in his ear. He can’t shake it, can’t shove it down, no matter how hard he tries.
Will clenches his jaw, forces his thoughts to settle. All he wants, he tells himself, is to be friends.
He squints into the distance, watching Hannibal on his horse, the way he sits straight and tall. There’s a kind of grace to the way he moves that don’t seem natural out here, something too refined for the dust and the grit, for the cracked earth and prickly brush. Hannibal manages himself like he’s holding something tight to his chest, something that don’t belong to this place, don’t belong to the sunburn and the flies and the dirt that settles on every last thing.
And then he sees Hannibal slip down from his horse, quiet as a ghost, dropping down like the saddle just let him loose. Will feels his throat tighten, his mouth going dry as he watches Hannibal walk a few steps over to where a lamb’s wandered from the flock, nosing around for something to chew on.
For a moment, Hannibal crouches down, holds out a hand to the lamb. The lamb sniffs at his fingers, nuzzles them a little, and Hannibal just smiles—one of those small smiles, barely there, like he don’t want anyone to see it. But Will sees it.
The sun’s sinking, low and golden, casting long shadows across the ground, and Hannibal’s caught in it just right. There’s a glow to him, that last bit of daylight hitting his face, making his skin look warm, soft. His hair’s catching the light too, bringing out these faint hints of gold, little flashes of something bright that you wouldn’t notice in the shade. Will watches the way it falls across his forehead, tousled and wild from the day, and he wonders how it’d feel, if he reached out, just to touch it.
He swallows, feeling his throat go dry, and for a second he thinks about turning away, about riding off back to camp, just to get some distance between him and this feeling that’s creeping up inside him. But before he knows what he’s doing, he’s sliding down from his horse, his boots hitting the ground with a soft thud, and he’s walking over.
He’s careful with his steps, watching the way Hannibal’s hand moves, gentle against the lamb’s wool, the way his fingers brush over it like he’s afraid of spooking it. Will’s close now, close enough to see the lines on Hannibal’s face, the faint shadows under his eyes that he never seems to shake, no matter how much sleep he gets.
Will clears his throat, the sound rough and awkward, breaking the stillness between them. He isn’t sure what he wants to say, or even why he’s talking, but the words come out anyway, slow and hesitant. “You seem to… you seem to got a real soft spot for them lambs. More’n most folk, I’d say. You got any reason for that? Or you just like ‘em cause they’re gentle?”
Hannibal’s face shifts, something softening in his expression. Hannibal nods, his hand falling away from the lamb as it trots off, leaving them alone in the silence that settles heavy around them. Will watches as Hannibal reaches up, pulls that pencil from behind his ear.
Will don’t know what he’s writing, but he’s itching to know.
Hannibal tears the page free, holds it out to him, and Will takes it, fingers brushing against his for just a second. The paper’s warm from his hand, and he looks down, reading the neat, careful letters.
You do a good job of protecting them, it says.
Will swallows, nodding a little, his voice coming out low. “It’s just my job,” he says, though it don’t feel like enough, don’t feel like the right thing to say.
Hannibal takes the paper back and then and hands it over after he writes again. Will takes it, fingers brushing his again, and for a second, neither of them moves. Then, slowly, Will looks down at the words on the page.
I like the lambs, it says. They trust without asking questions. They follow you out into a world that could swallow them whole, but they go along anyway. They know your voice, and they believe it’ll keep them safe.
Will’s throat tightens, a strange, prickling feeling crawling up the back of his neck as he reads the words again.
Hannibal’s watching him, and Will glances up, trying to find something to say, but Hannibal’s already scribbling more on another page. When he finishes, he holds it out again, a faint smile on his face that’s hard to read.
Will takes the second page, his eyes scanning the new words: It’s not just a job for you, though, is it? Protecting them. There is something else in it for you. I have seen the way you look at them, the care in it. A man does not go to all that trouble if he does not feel something deeper than duty. Tell me I’m wrong if you wish, but I do not think I am.
Will’s jaw tightens. He swallows hard, glancing down at the paper again. “You think you know me that well?”
Hannibal just raises an eyebrow, reaches for his pencil, and without looking down, writes something quick, handing it over with that same calm look, patient and sure.
Will reads the words, heartbeat heavy in his chest: I think I know what I see in front of me.
Hannibal’s already reaching for his pencil again, and Will finds himself leaning forward, hoping maybe he’ll write something more, maybe he’ll let him in, just a little. He watches, eyes tracking the movement of Hannibal’s hand, the way his fingers grip the pencil with a steady, practiced ease. But then Hannibal looks up, catches him staring, and Will feels his cheeks go hot, feels himself jerk back, pulling away.
Hannibal hesitates, his eyes flicking over Will’s face, and for a moment Will thinks he might do something, might reach out, but then his hand drops, the pencil slipping back behind his ear, and the moment passes, slipping away like water through his fingers. Will tells himself it don’t matter, that it don’t make him feel a little hollow inside.
Will tucks the paper into his pocket, feeling the weight of it there, like a secret he’s carrying around, something that’s his alone.
And that’s how it is for the next few days, the two of them circling around each other like birds.
He watches Hannibal from afar, watches the way he moves, the way he cooks their meals with that same careful attention. Will’s never seen a man cook like that. It’s just canned food, oatmeal, the same thing every day, but Hannibal treats it like it’s something finer, something worth taking his time over.
He wants to ask Hannibal about his life, about the places he’s been, the things he’s seen. He wants to know what it was like in Paris, what he did to end up here, so far from whatever life he had before. But he don’t ask, don’t say a word, just keeps it all bottled up, keeps it all buried down deep where it can’t hurt him. And yet, every time he looks at Hannibal, he feels that urge, that need to know, to understand.
Will’s used to seeing too much in people, to picking up on things they don’t want him to see. But with Hannibal, it’s different. There’s nothing there for him to latch onto, nothing for him to pick apart. It’s like staring at Hannibal’s blank pages, empty and frustrating, and he hates it.
The summer will be over soon. They’ll pack up and be done with this, just like Will said. He knows how it goes: the season ends, and then everyone scatters. Probably won’t ever see each other again. That’s the plan, and Will tries to hold tight to it, but somehow, it don’t seem to stick, not in the way he thinks it should. And yet, and yet.
Every day’s the same. They herd the sheep, count them, walk the same rocky trails that wind up and around the pastures. They eat, sleep, do it all over again. Hannibal boils water from the creek every morning without a word, fills up Will’s canteen, sets it there beside his own like it’s nothing. They both work, side by side, not much talking, heads down, eyes on the land and the animals. The mountain stays steady, the sun keeps burning over them, hot and dry.
It’s quiet in a way that crawls under Will’s skin. The days are long and endless, nothing changing but the light as it stretches and fades over the hills. Hannibal’s always got his books, his notebook where he scribbles and draws in that careful way of his. Will’s got the dog, a pack of cigarettes he barely smokes, and an old Bible he don’t remember bringing with him.
They’re all poor company.
────────────
The blue pencil has become small in Hannibal’s fingers, shrinking to a useless nub.
He despises it for being short, almost used up, like it knows what he does every night. Like it mocks him. Every time he picks it up, there’s a pang of shame that pricks through his fingers, a heat that burns at his chest, at his throat. He holds it a moment, considers snapping it, breaking it in two—but then he turns it over, feeling its wood cool and smooth under his thumb, and he cannot bring himself to destroy it. Maybe he wants to. Maybe it would feel like a kind of freedom. But instead, it finds its way to the page. Again. Again.
He is careful. He will draw only in graphite, the lines and edges kept quiet, kept precise. But he always colors in Will’s eyes. They are blue, like the sky, like water in early morning when the sun is only beginning to warm it. They stare up from the pages, and he cannot bring himself to look away from them. He’s drawn them so often that he can feel them pressing into him, even when the sketchbook is closed.
It’s as if they are watching him.
He’s aware of every second he has with Will, memorizes each glance like a thief. The blue runs away every time he thinks he has it, flitting just beyond his reach, like butterflies that lift from flowers just as he reaches his fingers out. They are everywhere, these butterflies, these flashes of color that dart and flicker through the air. They tease him, make a fool of him. He can remember each glimpse of blue. They make him weak, they make him less of himself. He draws those glimpses, pulls them from his memory like glass from a wound, and presses them onto paper. And each time, it is worse than the last.
He draws him laughing, scowling, those wild curls falling into his eyes, framing his face like a halo made of something messier, rougher, something alive. Will’s face has a way of shifting, of showing every thought, every feeling, loud and bright. He is so expressive it feels like he is shouting. It captivates Hannibal. He thinks he hates Will too.
Sometimes, he wonders if this would all end if he killed him. He has thought of it, thought of how simple it would be. He imagines his hands around Will’s throat, feeling the pulse there, the warmth of his skin under his fingers. It would be so easy to squeeze, to press down, to silence the brightness in him. Or he could use the knife he keeps in his boot, the blade sharp and waiting, its edge a promise he’s made to himself. He could end it in one quick, clean motion, no hesitation. And Will would be still. He would be quiet.
Or maybe he would use the gun. The one Will carries with him, the one he kills coyotes with. It would be fitting, maybe. To use the same weapon he uses on wild things, on creatures that roam and howl and live with no thought of rules or boundaries. Will is like that, he thinks, wild.
But sometimes he thinks of biting him instead, of pressing his teeth into his skin, feeling the flesh give way, tasting the salt of his blood. He has done it before, long ago, with the boys at school, those who pushed too close, who tested him. He remembers the way they struggled, the way they gasped and flailed, the red marks his teeth left on their skin. There is a part of him that wants to see Will do the same, to see him twist and fight, to see him strain against the press of his mouth. It would be easy, he thinks. Will would struggle, yes, but it would not matter. He would make him yield, would make him bear his teeth marks.
And yet, every night, he finds himself in his tent, alone, the firelight flickering against the walls, his hand moving across the page. He does not go to him. Instead, he watches. He watches Will run, watches him ride his horse, the animal’s muscles rippling beneath him, the two of them moving as one. He watches him roll in the dirt, his clothes smudged with earth, his skin glowing with the sheen of sweat. He watches, and he draws.
He watches Will smoke, the smell of it sharp and bitter, curling up to sting his nose. He watches the way he tilts his head back, the smoke unfurling from his lips, curling around him like a snake. He watches him sit across the fire, his mouth moving with a careless grace as he eats. There is no politeness, no pretense, just the raw, unrefined edge of him. And Hannibal draws it all, the messiness, the roughness, the edges that do not fit.
And when Will leaves, he draws him. When he returns in the early morning, his eyes swollen from sleep, his cheeks blotchy with the cold of the night, he draws him.
Sometimes, he catches Will watching him, trying to see what he is drawing, trying to catch a glimpse of the pages he keeps so close to himself. But Hannibal does not let him. His hand moves to cover the page, to shield it from those blue eyes. Will cannot see. He must not see. And so he draws, and he keeps his secrets pressed tight between the pages, hidden in the lines and strokes of his pencil.
Will stays distant, always keeping that line between them, that professional space he has drawn around himself like a fence. And Hannibal respects it. They are not friends, he knows this. Will is beautiful, he sees this, but he will not tell him.
He is loud, graceless, rude. A boy with blue eyes, a boy who does not know what he is, who he is.
The dawn is only beginning, a faint silver thread at the edge of the world when Hannibal feels the gentle brush of morning air across his face. But there’s something else too, something that pulls him from the loose fog of sleep, from the quiet, half-dreaming space he floats in just before waking. Footsteps, light, hurried, crunching through the damp grass outside his tent. He lies there, very still, his pulse heavy in his throat. It is quiet, still and early, and he should be safe in this stillness.
He reminds himself – it is not winter with the bone-cold chill. This is Wyoming, this is June, this is the strange and wild land he is still learning, where the sky feels close enough to touch in places, and he is nineteen now, and he is no longer a child.
And yet, his heart races; it does not trust what he knows.
“Lecter, wake up.”
Hannibal takes a breath, his fingers moving to the blanket, pushing it aside. He knows this voice—it is Will. The name makes his heart ease, if only a little, but he can hear something strange in Will’s tone, something that prickles at him like the cold. He sits up, his hands steady, unzipping the tent with a small sound. And then he steps out into the early light, his boots pressing into the cool dirt.
Will is there, standing just outside, his face a little wild, his eyes wide and bright and…panicked. Hannibal looks at him, a quiet pulse rising in his chest as he takes in the details—the way Will’s hair is sticking up, his hand buried in his curls as if he has been tugging at them. His hat is tilted crookedly, one edge shading his eyes while the other lets light spill over his cheek, catching the freckles there. Will’s mouth opens, and he speaks with breath that is still too fast, as if he has run a long way, and maybe he has.
Hannibal thinks, how long has he been running? Running, just to find him.
“I need your help, right now. One of the lambs—Lord, I don’t know how I let it happen—I swear, I only looked away for a second, just one second, and then… it’s bleeding, it’s bad.”
Will’s words tumble out in a rush, rough and broken as he catches his breath. His voice is hoarse, his shoulders lifting with each breath, and his hands press against his knees as he leans forward, like he has only just caught up with himself. Hannibal can see the flush on his cheeks, the slight tremble in his arms, and the small shock of panic flutters in Hannibal’s chest, sharp and unwelcome.
Hannibal doesn’t need to think; his hands move as if on their own, reaching for the first aid kit that he keeps close to the tent. His fingers close around it, and he stands without a word, moving past Will, his steps steady, his mind quiet but tight. Will’s footsteps fall into place behind him, stumbling a little but keeping close. There is no more sound between them, only the crunch of dirt and stones under their feet, the mountain slope rising before them as they climb toward Will’s camp.
When they reach the small clearing where Will’s camp lies, Hannibal hears the sound first—a small, soft bleat, weak and trembling in the morning air. His chest tightens, his heart thudding as he steps forward, his eyes catching sight of the lamb lying in the grass, curled in on itself like a child. Its wool is thick and white, except for one spot, a dark red stain matted into its leg, where the blood has soaked into the soft fur. Hannibal’s breath catches as he kneels beside it, his hand reaching out, hovering just above the creature’s small, shivering body. He feels the warmth of it, feels its fear like a pulse against his skin.
He lets his fingers brush over the lamb’s wool, feeling the texture, the thick softness tangled and damp with blood. His hand lingers, moving gently, and a deep anger sparks in him, hot and sudden, directed at Will, though he knows this is not fair. It is not Will’s fault, he knows this—he knows that things happen, that the world is full of dangers for a creature so small.
And yet he cannot help the anger that rises, that burns just beneath his skin, an irrational, biting thing. He does not look at Will, does not turn to see the face he knows is watching him with something close to guilt. The lamb lets out another soft, pitiful cry, and Hannibal’s fingers close over its side, feeling the tiny, frantic beat of its heart, so quick, so fragile.
Will shifts beside him, his breathing still rough, and he says, “How the hell do you run so fast?”
Hannibal does not answer. He feels his own breath steadying as he strokes the lamb’s head, his fingers gentle. He thinks he knows this lamb, thinks it is the one that came to him just days ago, curious and fearless. His chest aches, a sharp, painful pang, and he feels the anger rise again, hot and useless. He could—he could kill Will for this, for the wound that should not be, for the blood staining the wool that should be clean.
Then he sees Will kneeling across from him, his head bowed, his shoulders tight, as if he is trying to make himself smaller. Will’s hat is pulled low, shading his eyes, but Hannibal catches a glimpse of his face, the soft, glistening shine in his eyes, the way his lips press tight. He watches as Will’s shoulders shake, just slightly, and he hears a faint, soft sound.
Will’s hand rises to his face, swiping at his cheek, leaving a faint smudge of dirt in its wake. “Sorry,” Will mutters, his voice thick, hoarse. “Don’t know why I’m all…” His hand waves, vague and shaky, fingers trailing off like they’re lost. “Why I’m like this. I just… I just feel it, Hannibal. I can feel what it’s feelin’, like it’s me down there, like it’s me that’s hurt.”
Hannibal is still, the words sinking into him, soft and strange. He does not understand.
There is something that shifts within him, something so small he almost misses it. But it grows, takes root, and in the quiet of the morning, Hannibal feels it. He watches Will’s shoulders shake, sees his fingers twitch against the grass. Will is like an open wound himself, something raw and bare, and Hannibal cannot understand it, cannot fathom the depth of it—but he wants to.
He wants to reach into that grief, that sorrow, wants to feel it for himself, to know what it is that makes this boy cry for a lamb.
The lamb bleats softly, its small voice trembling, and Will winces, his face crumpling, and Hannibal realizes that Will is not merely sad for the creature. Will is with it, somehow sharing in its suffering, taking it into himself. He seems to feel it in his very bones, to ache with it, as if the lamb’s pain has become his own. And this is something that Hannibal has never seen, something he has never known.
Hannibal’s hand stills on the lamb’s head, his breath caught in his throat as he stares at Will. He wants to understand, wants to reach out, to touch this strange thing that lives in Will, this feeling that fills him with such an aching compassion.
Hannibal doesn’t move, his hands still resting on the lamb’s side, but he watches Will, feeling the heaviness of each tear, each trembling breath. The way Will’s face twists each time the lamb cries, makes something inside Hannibal quiet and still, his anger fading like a dying ember. Will’s shoulders shake, his breaths coming in short, rough bursts, and he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to stop the tears, but they keep falling, tracing paths down his cheeks, leaving his face red and blotchy.
Hannibal swallows as he opens the first aid kit, pulling out gauze and bandages, his fingers quick but gentle. He dabs at the wound, feeling the lamb squirm beneath his touch, but he holds it firm, his hand pressing gently over its side, feeling the heartbeat that has slowed, just a little. It is a small wound, he sees now, a bite mark left by sharp teeth.
“Winston scared it off,” Will says, glancing up at Hannibal. “Coyote came sniffing round the flock, looking for an easy meal. But that dog—he isn’t scared of nothin’. Started barking his head off, teeth bared and all, till that coyote turned tail and ran.”
For a brief moment, Hannibal thinks to call the dog over, to let his fingers brush through its fur in thanks, but the words stay locked inside him, silent as always. Will does not call the dog either, and so they remain, quiet, Hannibal’s fingers working with careful movements, wrapping the lamb’s leg in soft, clean bandages until the blood no longer shows, until the wound is hidden beneath white cloth.
As Hannibal finishes wrapping the lamb's leg, his hand rests gently on the soft fur, tracing the trembling rise and fall of its breathing. He hears Will shift, the faint rustle of grass as he leans closer. When Hannibal glances up, he sees Will’s hand moving toward the lamb, reaching out with hesitant fingers, like he's afraid to touch it too suddenly, too roughly. Will’s fingers spread, and he places his hand lightly atop the lamb’s head, right beside where Hannibal’s hand already lies on its side.
For a brief moment, their hands are so close that Hannibal can feel the faint warmth radiating from Will's skin. His fingers hover just a whisper apart from Will’s, separated by no more than a breath.
But they do not touch. Hannibal’s fingers remain fixed, steady, right where they are, refusing to close that minuscule gap. His skin tingles, acutely aware of how close they are, how he can feel the heat of Will's hand as if it’s pressed to his own, even though their hands rest apart.
Will seems to notice it too—the closeness, the almost-touch. His eyes flicker down to their hands, just for a heartbeat, a quiet breath, before he looks away, a faint flush coloring his already tear-streaked cheeks. He says nothing, his mouth pressed in a thin line.
Hannibal thinks he will remember this, that he will draw this later, the way Will looks now, with the lamb cradled in his lap, his hand gentle, his face open. He looks like a saint. Hannibal thinks he will not hate this drawing.
“You did a good job at that,” Will says softly. “Better than I could’ve. Where’d you learn how to do that?”
Hannibal meets Will’s gaze, feeling something rise in him, something he cannot say. He has no notebook, no way to answer, so he says nothing, watching Will, the way his eyes soften, understanding something without needing words.
“You can tell me later,” Will murmurs, and they sit there, the lamb breathing quietly between them.
────────────
Will thinks he might just smoke himself straight to hell if he keeps going like this, cigarette to cigarette, striking each match with a dry, hard scrape like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
He sits on that rough-hewn log, watching the ground as he puffs out thin clouds. His fingers are trembling around the cigarette, and he knows if he gets too close to the filter, he’s liable to burn himself, but he doesn’t even care.
The lamb. He can hardly think about it without something breaking loose inside him, something that feels close to shame and grief all bound up together. His cheeks are still streaked, the salt tracks of his tears drying tacky and uncomfortable on his skin. He swipes at them every so often, rubbing hard like he could erase the fact of them entirely if he just tries hard enough. But the truth is, he cried. Cried hard, too, like a little boy who didn’t know how to carry all that hurt. And in front of Hannibal of all people.
Will can’t even look at him. Not with this feeling in his chest, thick as tar, weighing down his insides with an oily slick of shame. He’s known his whole life that men like him don’t cry—not like that, not over something small and broken, something that should be easier to forget than it is. He was raised to be sturdy, not weak. Not the kind of man who breaks down over a lamb.
But there’s a soft part of him, some tender bruise of a place he keeps buried, a place that feels everything a little too much. It’s like he was made with his skin on wrong, like everything hits him a little too close, cuts a little too deep. And he thought he’d learned how to bury that part of himself, how to lock it up tight, but seeing that little lamb hurt, sorrow had poured out, hot and raw.
He remembers every stray cat he ever found, the twitchy little field mice that didn’t make it across the road, and the dogs, lord, the dogs—they hurt him the worst, something fierce. As a boy, he’d spend whole days moping over some poor creature he’d found, thinking about it like it was part of his own blood and bone, lost forever. He remembers crying once over a rabbit he’d seen splayed out on the highway, its little form crushed into the gravel. His daddy had seen him then, watched him with that heavy, quiet look that always made Will feel so small, and had told him he was soft.
Soft, like it was a curse. Like it was something you had to beat out of yourself if you were ever gonna make it in this world.
He learned, he thought. Buried all that tenderness down deep, way down where no one could reach it, not even him most days. He thought he’d gotten good at it. But here he is, cigarette smoldering between his fingers, face still tacky from the tears he can’t quite scrub away.
He wonders what Hannibal thinks.
The thought of that makes Will’s gut clench, twisting tight with a new kind of shame. Hannibal’s seen everything now. Seen him break down over an animal, seen him shatter into pieces right in front of him. He feels flayed open, like he’s got no skin to cover himself. And he can’t stand it, can’t stand the way Hannibal might be looking at him, like he’s something strange, something soft and useless.
He drags another long pull from his cigarette, feeling the burn sear down his throat, trying to drown out the mess of it all. He wants to run his fingers through his hair, pull until the tangles yank some sense into him. He wants to ask Hannibal what he’s thinking, wants to read anything, even if it’s something sharp or cruel.
Maybe it’s just that he’s tired of the way things are between them, this polite, careful surface talk that never dips down into anything real. It’s his fault, he knows, but it grates on him all the same. He thinks about people who go mad alone up in the mountains, living out there with nothing but their own thoughts until they lose track of who they are. He’s seen it happen, read stories about men who got swallowed whole by the emptiness, by the loneliness of it all.
He figures they could save each other from that, from that slow, creeping madness.
He sighs, a low, weary sound, and drags his hand through his curls, fingers catching on the tangles. He stares down at the ground, finding shapes in the dirt, in the way the stones and twigs scatter in haphazard patterns.
Finally, he settles on, “Did you sleep alright?”
He feels Hannibal’s gaze shift toward him. Will shifts on the log, his fingers tapping out a restless rhythm on the rough bark. And then, he hears footsteps, and his heart kicks up, fluttering like a trapped bird. He looks up, startled, and sees Hannibal walking toward him, notebook in hand, moving like he’s approaching something wild. And maybe that’s what Will is, a wild thing skittish and afraid, but he can’t bring himself to move. He’s frozen, caught in the quiet pull of Hannibal’s approach, watching as he steps closer, then closer still, until he’s right there beside him, settling down on the log.
Hannibal’s close, too close. Smells like pine and wood smoke and something sweet. He watches as Hannibal pulls that pencil from behind his ear, noting the faint smudge of black against his skin, that little mark so strange and human.
Will’s fingers twitch.
Then, Hannibal holds the notebook out, and Will stares at it. Tell me.
He swallows hard, glancing up to meet Hannibal’s gaze, and he sees something in his eyes, something soft and open. It’s a look he doesn’t recognize.
“Tell you…” he manages. “Tell you what?”
Hannibal doesn’t answer, just lets out a soft sigh and looks down, pencil scratching across the paper with quick, sure strokes. He holds it out again, and this time, Will sees the words.
Why you cry.
The period at the end of that sentence is small, just a quick, sharp dot.
Will’s hands are restless, fingers twitching like he don’t know what to do with them, so he picks at the frayed edge of his jeans, eyes flicking down to where the fabric’s started to split. He can’t look up at Hannibal yet, not while he’s tryna get the words out; it’s like the truth sticks in his throat, catching on the edges of it, sharp and stubborn.
“I don’t…” he starts, and then his words just kind of trail off like he lost his train of thought or maybe just don’t know where to find it. “I don’t know what it is, really. Never did, if I’m bein’ honest. Ever since I was a kid, though, I’ve been… this way. Feelin’ things, seein’ things, in ways other folks don’t. Like there’s somethin’ else in me that folks don’t rightly see or understand.”
He glances up, just once, quick as anything, and catches Hannibal’s eyes on him, steady and watchful. Will don’t know what to make of it, this quiet patience Hannibal’s got, like he’s got all the time in the world to sit there and listen, like he’s waiting on Will to say something important. Nobody's ever looked at him like that before.
He pauses, his voice softening as he drifts off into some far-off place, a quiet part of himself he don’t show too often. “There were kids at school…” he says. “They used to look at me like I was some kinda ghost or something crawled out the woods. Called me all sorts of things—witch, devil-child. Names I never knew I had in me ‘til they said them. It was like they had to slap something dark on me just to make sense of me. Thought they were just… words, you know? Just words they threw out there ‘cause they didn’t understand.”
Will’s voice dips even lower, his eyes distant. “But the thing is… I think they were hoping those names would stick. Like if they said them enough times, maybe I’d just become that thing they were scared of. Some kind of… thing they could point at, something they could keep their distance from. ‘Cause folks don’t like what they can’t explain. They don’t trust it, don’t want it ‘round them.”
A huff of laughter slips out, but it don’t reach his eyes, and his shoulders curl in just a little, like he’s trying to make himself smaller. He fiddles with a loose thread on his jeans, pulling at it till it snaps, frays out further, but his hands don’t stop moving.
“My daddy,” Will starts, his voice dropping low. He pauses, like there’s something thick sticking in his throat. “Daddy used to say it was the devil himself stirring up something wicked in me. Said real men don’t cry, don’t feel… don’t let a single thing slip out where others can see. Told me to shut my mouth and keep it all buried so deep it’d never see the light of day.”
Will’s gaze drifts down, his boots digging into the dirt. “He’d come at me with his belt if he even caught a glimpse of me feeling too much,” he murmurs. “Said if what I felt was worth anything, I’d have wrung it out by now, beaten it out of myself ‘fore he got the chance.”
Hannibal writes, the scratch of his pencil soft in the air, and then he holds up the page for Will to see.
A gift.
Will’s cheeks go red. He don’t know why it hits him like that, but it does, this word—gift—staring back at him. His mouth twists, and he rubs the back of his neck.
“Gift,” he mutters, barely looking at the word, like if he don’t see it, it might disappear. “Maybe you got a different idea of gifts than I do.”
Hannibal meets his eyes, steady, then writes a little more, letting each word sink in before he shows it to Will again.
Perhaps where you come from don’t understand what rare is. But I do.
Will’s throat goes dry.
Hannibal shakes his head, slow but firm, his gaze steady on Will, like he’s saying it without saying it, like he’s refusing to let Will brush it off that easy. There’s a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth, the kind that don’t quite reach his eyes but still carries a softness to it. Will don’t know what to do with that look, don’t know how to sit with it.
Hannibal writes again, careful strokes, and holds it out. How does it feel?
“It’s…” Will starts, hesitates, his shoulders slumping. “Feels like I’m hollow, sometimes, like I don’t have any space of my own left ‘cause everyone else is all crowded in there. Feels like…” He stops, swallowing hard, like the words hurt on their way up. “Feels like drowning, sometimes. And then other times, it’s like I’m the only one who understands ‘em, like I’m a part of somethin’ they don’t even know about.”
Hannibal’s eyes are bright as stars. Will’s finally gotten that spark out of him, that flicker in Hannibal’s eyes he’s been waiting for, the one that’s been hidden behind that calm, steady mask he always wears. The blankness in his gaze, the stillness of it, always made Will feel like he was looking at a wall instead of a person. But now, he’s finally seen it—the shine, the life, the something that was buried there all along.
For a moment, neither of them says a word. He glances at Hannibal, catches a faint frown on his face, and he figures Hannibal’s probably frustrated, sitting there quiet when he’s got thoughts too big for silence. Will’s wondered about it—about why Hannibal don’t talk, why he just sits there writing down his thoughts like they’re secrets he can’t trust his mouth to keep. But he never asks, and he thinks maybe he never will. It feels like something he’s not supposed to touch.
Will clears his throat, his voice rough, and lets out a dry laugh, a small, awkward sound. “I’m surprised you’re not sick of me talkin’ yet.”
Hannibal’s eyes widen, just a bit, and he leans forward, his gaze moving over Will’s face. Will feels the weight of it, feels his heart pounding harder, and he flinches, tilts his face away.
Then, there’s a gentle tug on his sleeve. Will glances up. There’s a tension in Hannibal’s gaze, like he’s wrestling with something inside, something big and quiet, and Will wonders what it is, what battles Hannibal fights in his head, if they’re just as bloody and raw as his own.
Hannibal hesitates, fingers tight on the edge of his notebook, then flips through a few pages, keeping it angled away so Will can’t see. His hand hovers over a page, like he’s thinking twice, but then he turns it, letting Will get a look. Will scoots closer, peering down, and his eyes go wide.
It’s Winston. Hannibal’s drawn him with the same big, floppy ears and goofy look in his eyes, tongue lolling out, and it’s so real, it almost takes his breath away.
“Wow,” Will whispers, barely breathing. “Where’d you learn how to draw like that?”
But Hannibal don’t answer, just tilts the notebook back, thumb slipping to another page, and this time he shows him a sketch of the Eiffel Tower, all delicate lines and careful details, like it’s standing right in front of them.
“Is that…” Will starts, words thick in his throat. “Is that where you come from?”
Hannibal’s mouth turns up, just a bit, and he shakes his head, then writes, clear and neat on the page, Lithuania, then Paris.
He lets his eyes trace the faint lines on the page, the delicate shapes of buildings he’s only ever seen in pictures. Buildings with impossible arches and towering spires, the kind that make you feel small in the best way, make you feel like maybe there’s something out there worth seeing, worth understanding.
“How’d you end up in Paris?”
Hannibal pauses for a second, his face calm, that faint smile still lingering on his lips. But then, the smile fades, just a bit, and his gaze drifts off, settles somewhere Will can’t follow.
Hannibal lifts his pencil, writes one word in small, precise letters: adopted. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t explain or try to make it mean more than it does.
Will takes a breath, feels it hitch in his throat. “I reckon I ain’t never seen anything like this before,” he says. “It’s like you can reach out and touch it, like you’re standing right there in front of it.”
He lets his eyes drop to the page again, to the lines Hannibal’s drawn with so much care. “I reckon I’d like to see it for myself someday,” he murmurs.
Hannibal nods, a soft understanding in his gaze, and he writes, Maybe one day.
“Maybe,” Will echoes, barely a whisper, the word hanging between them like something fragile, something that could break if they’re not careful.
“You shouldn’t be in a place like this, Hannibal,” he says softly. “You’re so…” He trails off, searching for words he doesn’t have, for a way to say what he’s feeling.
Will shakes his head. “Half the time, I don’t even know what I’m doing out here,” he admits, voice low, tired. “’m just trying to get by, trying to make a little money, you know?”
He sighs, feels the weight of it pressing down on him, feels the ground solid beneath him but not comforting, not like he wants it to be.
“I don’t even know how you do it,” he says, shaking his head. “You just sit there, all quiet and calm, like none of this bothers you. Like you’re made of stone or something. I don’t get it. I mean, don’t you ever just want to scream? Just let it all out? ’Cause I sure do. But you, you’re just…” He trails off, not sure how to finish, not sure if there even is a way to finish.
Hannibal just looks at him, steady and calm, no hint of judgment, no trace of impatience.
Will reaches over, almost without thinking, and gives Hannibal a light shove on the shoulder. Hannibal lets out a soft laugh, a sound that’s warm and smooth, that settles into Will’s chest and makes his heart beat like a stallion.
Hannibal watches him, eyes soft, calm, and then he lifts his pencil, writes, I think I want to be here. It is beautiful. I feel the stillness, and it is good. To have the air open all around, and the trees… the colors. There is a feeling in it that is hard to say.
I like … Hannibal’s hand pauses, as if searching, and then, I like the blue.
Will smiles at that and sticks out his hand, fingers twitching, uncertain. “Friends?”
Hannibal watches him, his gaze unwavering, and then he smiles, gentle. Instead of taking his hand, Hannibal extends his pencil, holds it out like an offering.
Will huffs a quiet laugh, grabs the pencil like he’s shaking hands, feels the cool wood press into his palm. “Alright.”
He holds onto the pencil, lets it rest there in his grip, and tells himself that friends is enough, that friends is more than enough, that it’s all he ever really needed.