Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Will pulls up in his old blue pickup, that engine coughing and rattling its way to a stop like it's spitting out everything it's got left. 

This truck’s as worn out as he is, but it gets him from one nowhere town to the next. There’s no air conditioning, just a rattling fan that seems to blow hot air straight from the damn engine into his face, but at least he doesn’t have to walk. 

Out here, that feels like something.

The Wyoming sun’s blazing down, and there isn’t a single cloud in that big sky. Just blue, as far as he can see. He grabs his hat, tipping it low to keep some of that heat out of his eyes, though it don’t do much for the sweat that’s already rolling down his neck. Boots hit the ground, sinking a bit in the dry dirt, and he kicks a rock just to watch it skitter across the empty lot in front of him. 

He’s heard people call Wyoming "Big Sky Country," and sure, it's got sky. A whole mess of sky. But to him, it just looks like miles and miles of empty. He isn’t sure what he expected when he came out here. Maybe something that felt different. Maybe he was looking for some kind of new start. But so far, it's just him, the truck, and a wallet so light it might just blow away if he isn’t careful.

He looks over at the trailer. The screen door’s hanging crooked. Not much of a place to meet a new boss, but he supposes it isn’t the kind of job where the boss needs to keep up appearances.

He shifts his weight, arms crossed, squinting toward the trailer. This isn’t the summer job he wanted, not by a long shot, but it’s the only one that offered up enough cash to cover his meals and gas money. His old man kept saying he needed to get out there, “learn a few hard lessons,” find a way to make his own luck. Trouble is, Will’s never seen his daddy do much worth calling “luck,” unless you count the days he makes it to bed sober. Advice from a man who can barely keep his hands from shaking isn’t exactly gold.

Still, here he is, miles away from Louisiana.

He pulls his hat off, runs a hand through his damp curls, then pushes the hat back down low on his head. Sweat trickles down his neck, sticking his shirt to his back. Isn’t just the weather getting under his skin, though. The past few weeks have been hell, dragging himself from one tiny town to the next, making just enough to scrape by. The kind of jobs folks around here don't want. 

"Will, you go out and see the world," he can practically hear his daddy saying in that half-drunken, half-serious way he has. "Learn what life's about, boy." But if this is the life his old man was talking about, Will isn’t impressed.

He checks his watch, an old hand-me-down with a leather strap that's been sweated through so many times it's black and brittle. 

The boss is late. Of course he’s late. Wouldn't be his luck if things went smooth. 

Another gust of wind picks up, sweeping more dirt his way, gritty and hot against his skin. He turns his face, mutters a curse under his breath. There’s nothing about this job that's looking like a smart idea, but then he feels the weight of that empty wallet in his back pocket, and he remembers why he’s out here in the first place. He can't just up and leave, even if the thought of getting back in his truck and driving 'til he runs out of gas is about the best idea he’s had all day.

Will leans back against his truck, arms crossed tight, brows knitted together. Minutes drag by, slow as molasses, and still there isn’t any sign of the boss. He taps his boot on the ground, watching the dust settle around it, his mind wandering to the mountains in the distance. They sit there, hazy and blue, like they’re just watching him, waiting. He’s always liked mountains. Always figured they were kind of… honest. Big and steady, hard to break. He can almost imagine what it'd be like, up there in that quiet.

He’s pulled out his thoughts when he turns back to the trailer, and there he sees him.

A boy, maybe his age, standing there like he's been planted there all day. Not a twitch or a shift, just this tall, still figure, looking off into the distance like he's seeing something nobody else can. The boy’s got this kind of stillness that don't feel like nerves or impatience, just like he’s carved out of the same rock as those mountains.

Will isn’t one to stare, but he’s curious. Looks clean-cut in a way that feels strange out here, like he’s trying to fit but still sticks out. Cowboy hat pulled low, beige jacket that looks like it's worth more than Will's truck, and jeans that don’t look worn in, not like his. And those boots— polished, with a bit of a heel, just enough to look fancy. 

Will leans against his truck, one scuffed boot planted on the tire, looking about as casual as a man trying too hard can look. He pretends he's just killing time, watching the horizon, but his gaze keeps pulling back to that boy.

It’s the boy’s face that grabs him first and won’t let go. Sharp as a razor blade, cheekbones high and proud. He’s got brown hair sticking out from under his hat that doesn’t fit quite right. It’s all wrong and all right at the same time. 

Will tries to look normal. Shifts his weight, crosses his arms over his chest, squinting off into the distance like he’s only half-aware of the boy. He leans forward, like he's checking out the scenery or the mountains, but he knows his gaze keeps sliding back.

He doesn’t let himself feel much these days, keeps things quiet, simple. So he does what any man would do—heads to the truck mirror, takes off his hat, and fiddles with his hair. Not much, just smoothing it back like he's trying to look like he’s got some sense. But it’s just an excuse, really, to steal glances, to keep the boy in his line of sight. He tells himself he’s just curious. That’s all. Maybe he’s wondering if this kid’s here for work or just passing through.

The kid don’t look like he belongs here, not in this dusty lot, not by this trailer. He’s got that look—pretty, like he walked out of some movie, all those angles, the kind of face that makes you look twice. Maybe even three times. 

Will slips his hat back on, adjusts it, turns his gaze toward the trailer. 

Pretty , he thinks. Not a word he usually lets himself linger on. It makes him feel guilty. 

Will tells himself it don’t mean a thing. He’s a man, after all. Men don’t get flustered. Real men don’t stand around staring at boys.

Will wishes his boss would hurry up and get back. He needs something to do. He checks his watch again, knows it’s only been a minute or so, but damn if it doesn’t feel longer. Takes a deep breath, turns his gaze to the mountains, tells himself to focus on anything else, but it doesn’t work. His eyes flick back to the boy, like there’s something there he needs to figure out.

Yeah, that’s it, he tells himself. Just curiosity. 

Will stands up straight when he hears the low, familiar rumble of a truck barreling down the road. He turns his head, watches it make its way toward them. He glances at the boy, who’s staring at the truck with a look so intense it could burn right through the windshield.

Will shifts, plants his boot firm on the ground, waiting for the truck to pull in. It finally rolls to a stop beside them, kicking up a wave of dirt and grit that sends Will coughing. 

Driver’s door creaks open, and out steps a big man, thick as a brick wall and about as bald as one too. The man doesn’t even look their way, just makes a beeline for the trailer with a stack of papers clenched tight in his hand.

The boy starts to follow him, one foot on the step, but before he can make it, the trailer door slams shut in his face. Will can’t help the laugh that slips out, soft but there, and the boy glances his way. He looks like he’s about to say something, but then his eyes meet Will’s.

Will clears his throat.

The boy don’t say a word, just stands there in the dusty, quiet heat, eyes flicking back and forth between Will’s old truck and that weather-beaten trailer door like he’s mulling over something. Maybe thinking about knocking again or just waiting to see if the boss’ll come out for real this time. 

After a beat, the boss’s voice crashes through the trailer walls, rattling the cracked windows so hard Will half-expects one to pop clean out of its frame. 

“If you boys want jobs, you better get your scrawny asses in here pronto!” 

Will glances over at the boy, nodding toward the door, thinking maybe he’ll say something smart, like “Ladies first,” but he lets it go. Doesn’t think the boy’s in the mood for jokes. Instead, he just pushes past and climbs the steps up into the trailer, leaving the boy to follow at his own pace.

Inside, it’s stale— hot and still, smelling like old coffee. There’s a fan in the corner but it’s dead as roadkill. He takes a step, feeling the floorboards shift under his weight. There’s a desk crammed in the back, covered in papers and something that looks like an old diner napkin turned into a coffee-stained doodle. 

Will’s careful not to touch nothing as he moves in, his eyes sweeping the room. He doesn't know what kind of boss keeps a place like this. Seems like the kind of guy who runs his mouth more than his hands, never gets down in the dirt with the work himself. Will keeps his spine straight, keeps his shoulders squared, trying to make himself look solid, capable. 

Behind him, he hears the boy’s footsteps, light and sure, almost soundless as he steps inside. Will glances over his shoulder, watching the way the boy moves, like he’s been here a hundred times, like he knows exactly where to step so’s not to disturb anything. Not a hint of nerves in him, not even with the boss sitting there behind that mess of a desk. Will can’t help but wonder where a kid like him came from, and how he got to be so unbothered by it all. There’s a confidence in him, the kind that most folks gotta work hard to get, but he wears it like it’s natural as breathing. 

Makes Will feel a little raw by comparison.

Finally, the boss leans forward. “Alright, listen up, boys,” he starts. “I need me a camp tender.” He jerks a finger at the boy. “That means you, scrawny fella, will be responsible for settin’ up camp, keepin’ things in order, and makin’ sure the whole operation runs smoother than a buttered-up slide.”

Will waits, looking to see if the boy’s gonna react to being called “scrawny,” but he don’t blink, just stands there with that same calm look on his face, like he’s heard worse. Will can’t help but feel a small flare of respect, even a little envy. Boy’s got a handle on his temper in a way Will’s never quite managed. He’s the type to grit his teeth when someone crosses him, to let words spill out sharp and cutting if he don’t like how they’re talking. 

The boss don’t waste much time before turning his attention to Will. “Now, for the herder position. You,” he says, pointing that thick, grubby finger straight at him, “you’re the herder. Your job is to keep a keen eye on them sheep, day and night. You sleep up there with ’em on that mountain, a hundred percent commitment. Roll up that tent every mornin’, and don’t you forget it.”

Will nods slow, keeping his face blank even though every instinct’s telling him to wrinkle his nose at the idea of sleeping up there in the cold with nothing but sheep. He’s not exactly jumping for joy at the thought, but work’s work, and he’s gotta keep his mouth shut if he wants that paycheck in his pocket. 

He knows better than to let anyone see too much of what’s running through his mind. 

The sudden, shrieking ring of the boss’s old phone cuts through the stale air like a shot, scattering the quiet in the trailer. The sound is so loud and mean that Will’s stomach clenches, like he’s braced for something to hit him. He shifts his weight, boot heels scraping against the scuffed linoleum floor, and he’s quick to glance sideways at the kid standing next to him, wondering if he flinched too. But the kid’s just standing there, stock-still, hands jammed in his own pockets, eyes not even twitching at the noise. Those eyes are something else, sharp as cut glass, trained right on the boss. 

There’s something in the way the kid don’t blink. It makes his cheeks flush, a heat rising up under his skin like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. 

Will’s got a way with folks. He’s the type to read a person like he’s picking up pieces off a table, knowing where they’ve been and what they’re holding inside just from a look or a gesture. Kids back in Louisiana used to call him a witch, half in jest, half afraid he’d go poking into their secrets if they weren’t careful. But this boy? Nothing. 

He don’t know if he likes it. Something familiar’s settling in his chest, and it’s making him twitchy.

The boss, though, he’s got the phone jammed against his ear, voice growling out in a low rumble that builds and builds, ‘til he’s practically barking like an old hound dog. Will don’t much care what he’s going on about, but it’s obvious whatever it is got the boss all riled up. Probably something to do with the ranchers down the road, or maybe he’s chewing out one of the hands. Or both. Don’t matter to Will none. He just keeps his eyes trained on the ground, letting his mind wander a little.

But that wandering don’t last long, ‘cause the boss finally slams the phone down, hard enough to make the whole desk rattle. Will feels it in his gut, and he bites his lip. 

“You,” the boss snaps at Will, “last year, we lost some damn sheep. I ain’t toleratin’ that nonsense this time around. Keep ‘em in line, you hear me?”

Will’s jaw twitches, and he swallows hard to keep from saying something smart. Instead, he just nods, quick and curt, his mouth setting into a firm line. He knows better than to backtalk, even though his gut’s twisting with a thousand comebacks. It’s obvious enough not to lose any sheep, but he figures pointing that out wouldn’t do him any favors. So he nods again, nice and obedient, keeping his head down like a good boy.

Then the boss’s attention shifts to the kid, and something in his voice changes. Not softer, exactly, but it’s less sharp. “As for you, kid,” he says, pulling something out of his pocket and tossing it across the room without even looking. The kid’s fast and he catches it. Will can’t see what it is from where he’s standing, but whatever it is, the kid just slips it into his pocket, still silent as ever.

“Friday, you head down to the bridge for groceries. Don’t mess it up.” 

Will tells himself it don’t matter that he’s got company for this job, tells himself he don’t mind having the kid around, even if it does feel off. He knows he can’t afford to be picky—not in this kind of work, where jobs are hard enough to come by. And maybe if the boy’s just gonna keep ignoring him, they won’t have to cross paths all that much. He’s fine with that. Easier to keep his head down, get through the summer without any trouble. They won’t see each other. 

Out of sight, out of mind. 

That thought should make him feel better, but instead, it leaves a sour, unsettled feeling in his gut, like he just swallowed something bitter.

The boss finally waves his hand, like he’s dismissing them both, and Will turns, feeling a rush of relief as he heads for the door. The boy strides ahead, shoulders back, walking like he’s got somewhere real important to be. Will lingers a little, watching the way he moves. 

They step out into the sunlight. Will squints, pulling out his own cigarette, lighting it with a quick flick, the smoke swirling in the air as he takes a long drag. He turns to the kid, figuring he might as well say something, break the ice or maybe just get a read on him, if they’re gonna be working together all summer. He puts on a grin, but his accent comes out thick, heavier than he meant it to.

“Name’s Will Graham,” he says, and he winces just a bit, feeling the weight of his own drawl hanging in the air. He’s used to people judging him for it, even though it’s as much a part of him as his own bones.

The boy turns to him, his nose wrinkling slightly at the smell of smoke. His eyes are back on Will, unblinking and sharp, like he’s looking right through him, and that tightness in Will’s chest pulls harder, making him feel like he’s standing under a magnifying glass with every part of him laid out clear as day.

Will shifts his weight, one dusty boot digging into the dry, cracked earth, the other scuffing up little puffs of dirt. 

He wonders if he’s met someone like this before, someone so comfortable in their own skin. Will tries to pretend he’s like that, too, but right now, he feels every inch of himself trying to shrink back. The only thing he can hold onto is the cigarette, so he takes another drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs.

The boy tips his head, a move that reminds Will of a fox he’d seen once, out in the woods when he was younger. He’d been out in the early morning, the fog still hanging low, everything quiet except for his footsteps. That fox had just stood there, watching him with these narrow, calculating eyes, its head tipped just like this boy’s now, as if he could see every part of Will’s little soul and didn’t mind that he was there. That same feeling settles in his bones now.

The boy’s hand moves, slipping into the inside pocket of his jacket, and Will tenses, just a little, before he realizes the kid’s only pulling out a small notebook. The boy opens the notebook and starts writing, his hand moving so quick and confident it’s almost like he’s drawing, not writing at all.

Will frowns, eyes narrowing, the cigarette barely hanging on between his lips as he watches the boy write. When the kid finishes, he holds the notebook out to Will, his hand steady, gaze unreadable. Will’s brows knit together as he takes it, a little reluctantly, the cigarette smoke curling around his head. He squints down at the page, his rough fingers brushing against the smooth paper.

Hannibal.

The name is written in this fancy, old-world script, like something out of one of those history books Will used to thumb through in the school library when it was too hot to be outside. 

He glances up. “Hannibal?” he repeats, his voice coming out low, almost careful, like he’s not sure the name’s gonna stay put if he says it out loud. “That your name?”

The boy nods, a tiny, slow dip of his chin, his eyes still locked on Will. Will takes another drag, the tip of his cigarette glowing a hot, fiery orange, smoke swirling up around his face. 

“Just Hannibal?” he asks. “Ain’t got no last name?”

The kid doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move except for a little furrow appearing between his brows, just a faint line. Then, with that same quiet focus, he reaches forward, snatching the notebook back. He scribbles something else, his hand moving fast, almost impatient, like he’s got a whole book’s worth of words waiting to pour out if only he had the time. And then, with just a little more force than before, he thrusts the notebook back at Will.

Will reads the new word, Lecter, written in that same elegant script, like it’s meant to be signed at the bottom of a letter sealed with wax. The letters are all smooth and flowing, like it’s the boy’s own little signature.

Hannibal Lecter. It rolls off Will’s tongue with this strange weight, and he can’t help the chuckle that slips out. 

“Well,” he says, shaking his head a little. “Ain’t that a fancy name for a sheep herder.”

But the boy doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even crack a smile. He just blinks at Will. There’s no trace of humor, no spark of anything. It’s like nothing about Will surprises him, nothing he could say would make a difference. Will hands the notebook back. 

He gestures to his own throat, tilting his head to the side. “You can’t talk?” he asks, hoping he doesn’t sound too forward, hoping he’s not prying into something that’s best left alone. The boy just shakes his head. Will nods. He knows about silence; he knows it doesn’t always mean there’s something broken. Sometimes quiet is just how folks are, how they live.

“It’s nice to know you, Hannibal Lecter.” 

He extends his hand. There’s a pause, just a heartbeat, and then Hannibal reaches out, his hand slipping into Will’s, soft and warm, a strange contrast to the rough callouses on Will’s own palm. Will’s breath catches, just a little, feeling the unexpected gentleness of that hand, the way it fits so easily against his.

He coughs, dropping his gaze, and then he looks back up, giving the boy a smile, soft but genuine, the kind he doesn’t give just anyone. 

The kid’s hand lingers for a moment before slipping away.

Will knows Hannibal doesn’t talk. Not anymore, leastwise. He don’t know why, and he don’t ask, but he can tell it’s deeper than whatever meets the eye. That kind of silence don’t come from a thing you can just fix. Will knows it, but he don’t let it scare him off. For some reason he can’t quite name, he’s decided he’s gonna crack Hannibal open, pull out whatever he’s got tucked away in there.

Now they’re sitting in some half-forgotten bar on the edge of nowhere. Will’s got a glass of whiskey in his hand, and he’s already taken a few swigs, feeling it start to warm his bones, make him a bit loose-lipped. Hannibal, though—he’s still sitting there, holding a drink he hasn’t even sipped on, the glass just sitting in his hand, wet with condensation. Water’s sliding down the sides in thin trails, dripping to the worn wood countertop in slow, heavy drops. Will’s watching those drops pool, trickle their way into tiny streams that make the old wood look darker.

Hannibal, he’s staring at that glass like he’s seeing something else. Will shifts in his seat, clears his throat once, then again. It’s awkward, being here in this heavy silence, like he’s dragged around a shadow that won’t so much as whisper. It’s not like he expected Hannibal to be some kind of chatterbox, but, a nod, a grunt, something would be nice.

But Will’s got a stubborn streak a mile wide, and he’s not about to back down from trying to get this kid to loosen up a little. 

“You know, Lecter,” he says, “I ain’t exactly thrilled about the thought of spending my summer babysitting sheep. I mean, it’s gotta be better than working for my old man, but damn if it don’t make me feel like I’m wasting my time.”

The kid just sits there, don’t even turn his head. But Will presses on, ‘cause if he don’t talk, well, nobody will. 

“My old man,” he continues. “Real piece of work, that one. Nothing I ever did was good enough. I swear, he’d find a fault with a rainbow if he tried hard enough.” He says it with a chuckle, like it’s something funny, but there’s a bite to it too, something that sticks to the back of his tongue like old, bad coffee.

He glances over and catches a flicker in Hannibal’s eyes, like maybe he’s finally managed to snag his attention, if only for a second. Will feels that little flicker like a spark, and he can’t help but feel a small pang of satisfaction, like he’s won a point in a game only he’s playing. 

“He used to tell me I wasn’t cut out for this life. Said I was crazy, like it was something you could just pull out of someone like a bad tooth.” He pauses, fingers tapping against his glass. “Maybe he was right. Look at me, sitting out here, miles from home, not much to my name except this stupid idea that I could make something of myself.”

He shrugs, trying to shake off the weight of his own words. It’s strange, opening himself up like this in front of someone who won’t even so much as nod back, but he doesn’t stop. Maybe it’s the whiskey. 

“I figured, I’d get out here, do something that’d stick. But so far?” He lets out a laugh, humorless and soft, “It don’t look too good.”

Will tries to lighten the air, crack a small grin, but Hannibal’s face don’t change. He’s about to give up, chalk it up to a lost cause. So he signals for another drink, glancing over at Hannibal’s untouched glass.

“You gonna drink that or just watch it sweat to death?” 

Hannibal just shrugs, like it don’t matter much one way or another. He’s sitting there with his notebook open in front of him, but it’s blank, not a single word scratched out on that page. 

Will clears his throat again. “So, you got dreams, Lecter?” 

Hannibal’s eyes lift just a little, drifting to the shelves behind the bar, and then after a long moment, he gives the tiniest nod. Will don’t say nothing for a beat, feels that little nod settle inside him like something real soft.

“Yeah?” he says. “Well, I got dreams too. Whole heap of ‘em. Most of ‘em… they ain’t so good.” He laughs, though it’s a rough, shaky sound. “Nightmares, mostly. The kind that leave you cold and gasping in the dark.” He lets the words hang there, weighty, before he shifts a little, his voice getting softer. “But I got one that sticks. One that don’t never leave, no matter how many times I try and shake it.”

He looks down at his glass, his fingers tracing patterns on the wet countertop. “I got this picture in my head, you know? A place out on some open land, where there’s no one around for miles. Like a boat on the sea. Just me, a couple’a dogs, maybe a horse if I’m feeling lucky. There’d be a stream, too. Cold, clear water, and I’d sit by it all day, fishing or just watching the world go by.” He glances up. “That sounds like a good life, don’t it?”

He waits, watching Hannibal close, hoping he’ll do something,  give him some small sign that he’s heard, that he understands. But Hannibal just sits there.

“Ever fish?” Will asks.

Hannibal shakes his head, a quiet little no, and Will feels his eyes widen a bit, caught off guard. “Well now, you’re missing out, friend,” he says. “Ain’t nothin’ like it. You wake up before the sun’s even up, and the world’s all quiet, not a soul in sight. It’s just you, the stream, and the fish, all trying to outsmart each other. The waiting, the patience, then that quick tug on the line…” He pauses, his voice going soft, almost like he’s talking to himself. “It’s like you caught a piece of the world.”

He takes another drink, lets it burn all the way down.“You oughta try it sometime, Lecter,” he says. “It’s good for the soul.”

Will settles back, resting an elbow on the sticky, worn wood of the bar top. He looks over at the kid. Well, “kid” might not be fair, but he can’t help thinking of him that way. Hannibal’s got this look to him, sharp and cold as a blade, but young enough that Will can still see that hint of something raw underneath it all. 

"So," Will says. “You from out of America or something? You got that look about you.”

There’s a twitch in Hannibal’s mouth—might be a smile, or might be nothing at all. But he nods, just once, slow. 

“Your folks run you off?” he asks, letting the question roll out gentle-like, his voice softening without him even meaning  to. Maybe he doesn’t expect much of a response, but that doesn’t stop him from watching for it. 

Hannibal just shakes his head, almost like he’s amused by the question. Finally, Hannibal picks up a pencil from the counter, scratching something down on the paper with short, quick strokes.

When Hannibal finally holds up the notebook, there’s two sentences on it.

Parents are gone. Uncle sent me here.

Will’s throat tightens, just for a second. “Sorry to hear that,” he says. “I know what it’s like to lose folks. Ain’t easy.”

Hannibal goes back to the notebook, pencil moving in quick, tight little circles, making another note.

I do not need pity.

Will chuckles. “Fair enough,” he says. “I get that. I ain’t one for pity, neither. Just thought I’d say I’m sorry. It’s the decent thing to do, right?”

There’s something under his skin now, something that feels too close to his own past, and he’s got that itch to ask more, to dig a little deeper, but he holds himself back. After all, he’s just a stranger sitting on the other side of a bar, and they’re just two people with too many secrets.

But the curiosity’s still there, nagging at him, and finally, he lets himself ask, “So, what did your uncle send you here for? You got a reason, or he just didn’t want you around no more?”

He watches as Hannibal’s face goes still, like he’s weighing whether or not he wants to let this stranger in any closer. The kid’s pencil pauses, hovers over the notebook for a second, then starts moving again. 

When Hannibal holds up the notebook, there’s only one word on the page, but it’s enough to make Will’s eyebrows raise.

Violent.

The word settles between them, heavy as a stone, and Will’s mind flicks through all the things that could mean, all the things a kid like him might’ve done to earn that label. He lets out a low chuckle, surprised, almost like he doesn’t believe it, but there’s a part of him that knows better. 

“You? Violent? No way.”

Hannibal nods. Will just shakes his head, letting out a breath like a sigh. 

“Well, I guess we got that in common,” he says. “I ain’t exactly a saint myself.”

He leans back again, feeling the weight of his own words lingering in the air, like a ghost that just won’t leave him alone. 

“Violence,” he says, letting the word roll off his tongue slow, like he’s tasting it, feeling it. “It’s a tricky thing. Can get you in trouble real quick if you’re not careful. Trust me, I’ve seen it happen too many times.”

There’s a heaviness to his words, the kind that comes from knowing a little too much. He knows what violence can do, knows it like an old friend who’s overstayed their welcome, but he doesn’t say that. He just lets the thought hang there, let’s Hannibal make of it what he will.

“But I guess it can be useful, too,” he says finally, almost thoughtful. “If you know how to control it, right?”

And for the first time, he sees something flicker in Hannibal’s eyes, a gleam that’s dark and steely, like he’s looking right into the heart of what Will just said and finding something he understands. Will feels like they’re on the same side of something. He raises his glass, and Hannibal raises his too, their eyes meeting over the rim.

They clink glasses, the sound soft in the empty room. 

“Well, here’s to not getting’ into too much trouble,” Will says. He takes a sip, feeling the whiskey warm him from the inside, and when he looks at Hannibal, he wonders about all the things the kid’s carrying, all the things he’s not saying.

But he figures, some things don’t need to be said at all.

Will pulls his hat down low, shadowing his eyes, even though he knows it won’t make much difference. This sun doesn’t care what you wear or how many times you pull the brim lower, it’s gonna find its way to you.

The sheep are crowded up in the pen, all pushing and nudging at each other, bleating in that whiny, grating way that cuts right through a man’s nerves. There’s nothing quiet about these animals; they’re loud, stubborn things, always in each other’s way, never satisfied with where they are. It’s as if they think bleating will change the way of the world, make it cooler or greener or less dust-choked. 

But he’s here, and so is Hannibal, standing a little ways off, getting his horse ready for the ride up the mountain. They’ve got a job to do.

Will’s got a horse of his own, coat the color of wet clay and dappled with lighter patches like flecks of cream. She’s built thick and solid, with legs strong enough to drag a stump clean out of the ground if she had a mind to, yet there’s a gentleness to her stance, a way she tilts her head and nuzzles his hand like she’s trying to tell him something.

A few paces off, Hannibal’s over by the grocery man. The grocery man’s got a loud voice that carries over the noise of the bleating sheep. He’s lecturing Hannibal, waving his arms around like he’s a preacher on Sunday, pointing his finger and making a real show of it. Hannibal just stands there, nodding along with this faint, polite smile on his face.

“Yeah, yeah, remember it,” the grocery man’s saying. “No soup, you understand? We don’t have room for extra cans, so don’t go ordering soup.”

Will calls over, “I’m not one for soup, anyway,” giving Hannibal a lopsided grin. “You neither, Lecter?”

Hannibal turns to look at him, that same unreadable look on his face. Will’s smile fades a bit. He’s been trying to get Hannibal to loosen up, get him to laugh or at least crack a smile that means something. But the kid’s like a wall, solid and calm, and damn if Will’s jokes don’t just slide right off him most of the time.

Will studies him for a second, his gaze drifting over the tilt of Hannibal’s cowboy hat, set just right on his head. It’s tilted just enough to cast a shadow over his eyes, making him look like something out of one of them old-timey movies. Hannibal’s got those cheekbones that seem to catch every bit of the sun, turning his face golden and sharp. 

He’s tall and lean. Will wonders, just for a second, why Hannibal’s out here doing grunt work with sheep and stubborn horses when he could be doing something else. No matter what his uncle says. He looks like he could belong anywhere, somewhere fancy, maybe. 

Hannibal glances up, and there it is—that smirk, so slight it’s almost not there, tugging just at the corner of his lips. Will feels a flush crawl up his neck. He clears his throat, feeling stupid, and jerks his gaze back down to his horse, fiddling with the reins.

He don’t know why he’s feeling like this. He’s a man, and a look’s a look. No reason for his pulse to be quickening, for his stomach to be twisting up like this. But it is, and it doesn’t seem to care much what he thinks about it.

The grocery man’s still yammering on, words flowing out like water over rocks, but Will’s tuned him out. All he wants right now is to get this horse moving, put some distance between himself and that smirk. He nudges the horse with his boot, just enough to get it to take a step, feeling the muscles shift under the saddle. The tension in his shoulders eases, and he can breathe a little easier, tell himself he’s still got a grip on things.

He’s got a job to do, after all–no time to be getting distracted, especially not by someone like Hannibal, with his quiet expressions and unreadable eyes. Will’s got responsibilities, and he tells himself to stay focused, keep his head down, be professional. He’s here to work.

Will guides his horse around the paddock, feeling the familiar weight of the leather reins in his hands, the roughness of them pressing into his palms. The horse moves beneath him with each step, hooves kicking up little clouds of dust that hang in the hot, bright air, catching the light like golden flecks. He feels the leather shift, the wood of the saddle creak, every motion grounding him, pulling him back down to where he needs to be.

Just then, Hannibal walks over. There’s that notebook tucked under one arm, a pencil behind his ear. Without a word, Hannibal hands over the notebook.

Will opens it, squinting a little at the writing. Your horse has a low startle point.

Will snorts, snapping the notebook shut and tossing it back at him. 

“No filly could ever throw me,” he says, loud and a little too proud, his voice carrying in the open air. He tightens his grip on the reins, giving them a tug to emphasize his point. “I got a firm grip.”

That eyebrow, it lifts just enough to tell Will he isn’t fooling anybody. It’s a lazy sort of arch, almost mocking, and it’s all Will can do not to snarl and spit like some ornery dog just to see if he can rattle that damn smirk. 

But Hannibal’s looking at him like he’s heard it all before, like Will is some open book that got left out in the rain and he already knows every soggy, blurry page. And then, there’s that little curl at the corner of Hannibal’s mouth, this half-smile that says more than words could, all coy. Not a smile, really, more like a suggestion of one.

It’s a smile that says plain as day, we’ll see about that . And then, just like that, he turns and walks away, long strides eating up the ground in that easy, unhurried way that makes Will’s teeth grit. Hannibal isn’t looking back, not once, like he knows well Will’s watching him go, and he don’t care. 

Will’s eyes follow him, even though he tells himself not to. 

Will bites down on the inside of his cheek, hard enough to feel the sharp edge of his teeth, tasting that faint tang of blood. He tells himself it’s to keep his head on straight, to remind himself he’s got no business looking at another man like that. But even as he bites down, there’s this flutter low in his gut, this nervous, twitchy feeling that’s got nothing to do with the heat or the dust or the saddle he’s perched on. 

He tries to convince himself it’s nothing. Hannibal’s just a pretty face, sharp and clean like a knife, and he don’t mean a thing. 

Hannibal’s almost out of earshot when Will finally opens his mouth, calls out, “Unless you want to argue about soup all day, we better get goin’!” 

But Hannibal don’t even turn around, don’t even so much as slow down. He just keeps walking, like he didn’t hear a thing Will said. Will watches him, feels the sting of it. The horse beneath him shifts again, sensing his unease, and he pats its neck.

“Easy, now,” he murmurs, though it’s more for himself than the horse. 

──────────── 

The mountains rise like bones of old gods, stretching high, high as if trying to reach heaven itself, yet too proud to ever bow low enough to touch it. It is so blue, like nothing he has ever seen in Paris, not even in a painting. The color seems like it could spill down at any moment, melt over the earth, turn to rivers of, running down the slopes like fresh paint. 

Hannibal feels a strange longing in his chest as he rides through it, through the landscape so vast it makes him feel small. 

It is almost painful to him, this beauty. Something about it calls to him. He feels an ache to make this scene into something he can hold, can keep–something that will stay with him when he is older and can no longer ride through these lands, when he can no longer breathe this pure, high air or smell the raw earth that carries him forward. He has only his hands, and he thinks maybe, maybe he can try to capture it on paper. Draw the ridges and the valleys, try to put this wild beauty into something that his hands can touch, something he can control and understand. 

But he knows, too, that these mountains, this land, it is dangerous. It is not like the gentle, soft hills of his homeland, nor like the well-tamed gardens of Paris, where beauty is manicured, trimmed, made soft for the eye. This place, here, beauty is a weapon. The snow can come down hard. The wind can whip so fierce, so sharp, it feels like claws against the skin.

The pines are gnarled in places, yet strong. Here, everything is grand and wild. Even the sun itself seems larger here, casting a golden light over the grass, making it shimmer. Hannibal thinks that if he could touch it, his hand would go right through, like mist.

The flowers have names. He knows them all: the sturdy goldenrod, the delicate alpine forget-me-nots, the wild columbines with petals so bright they seem to carry a spark of the sun itself. Their color catches the light, bending with the wind, fragile yet defiant, as if they themselves remember softness, and answer to it alone.

His horse stirs beneath him, as if to remind him that he is real, that he is still flesh and bone, here in this world. He pats its neck, feeling the warmth of its flesh, the steady thrum of its pulse beneath his hand. Even the horse feels like it belongs here more than he does, a creature of muscle and instinct, understanding the language of this place in ways Hannibal cannot.

He thinks again of the Count, his uncle. The man with the stern mouth and cold, judging eyes, who always watched him like he was some wild beast kept in a gilded cage. The Count, he believed that this wild, hard place would somehow tame Hannibal, soften him, strip him of whatever strange, violent hunger he carries inside. He does not speak it, but Hannibal can feel it in every word, every letter sent—this is a cure. He is here to be cured, to have the wilderness of his own soul ground down by the silence, by the hard work, by the loneliness.

But Hannibal knows this place will not cure him. 

Nothing can. 

They move further down, into a small valley, where a creek flows, silver and clear, cutting through the earth like a shining scar. It is a quiet thing, the water moving soft, whispering over stones. Hannibal guides his horse closer, listening to the gentle music of the creek, the sound of water slipping over rock, over sand, over the small pebbles beneath. He leans down, dips his hand into the water, feeling its coolness, watching as it spills through his fingers, a ribbon of light catching the sun, casting tiny sparks onto his skin. 

The boy is up ahead, guiding the sheep, his body relaxed. A boy who knows of Hannibal’s silence. 

The sheep pay no mind to such things. They move along, their wool blending with the earth, creatures of habit, of instinct, untouched by beauty, by wonder. They live as the mountains live, as the rocks live.

Here, there are no words, no gestures, no rules but the rules of nature. Survive. Adapt. Endure.

And yet, his gaze betrays him, slipping away from the path.

Will Graham, with his unruly curls lifting in the breeze, his face tilted toward the sun, rides with all the comfort of a boy who has never once feared the unknown. 

Will lets out a laugh, breaking across the still air as he watches the flock of sheep darting between rocks. Hannibal feels the sharpness of it, like the sudden strike of sunlight against his eyes. He tells himself it’s too loud, too brash for a place as sacred as this. Yet he finds he cannot resent it. The truth is this laughter pulls at something in him. 

Will reaches down to stroke the little lamb nestled in the makeshift sack tied to his saddle. The creature’s head pokes out, eyes round and wondering. Its bleat is thin and high-pitched. Hannibal watches as Will’s fingers trace gentle circles over the lamb’s wooly head, his touch both tender and absent-minded. The sight stirs something old and unnameable in Hannibal, a memory not quite remembered, a feeling he has not let himself feel in so long. There is a purity in this creature—a simplicity that makes his chest ache, as if it were possible to return to a time before his hands knew violence, before his heart bore the weight of everything it has learned to desire.

The lamb turns its head, wide eyes drinking in the landscape, just as Will does, as if they share the same curiosity. And for a brief moment, Hannibal finds solace in the sight, as if the innocence of this small creature could extend to him, wrap around his heart, and shield him. He envies that innocence, wishes for it in a way he does not understand. How foolish, he tells himself, to wish for such things.

Will laughs again, louder this time, the sound reverberating against the rocks and scattering a flock of startled birds into the sky. Hannibal’s jaw tightens, a reflex. Will’s laughter is not like other sounds; it does not dissipate easily, does not fade into the background. It lingers, curling around him.

He watches Will with a fascination he cannot quell, observing the way he moves, the easy grace with which he handles the lamb, the softness of his touch. There is a beauty to it, a beauty Hannibal cannot bring himself to look away from, a beauty that is not in the roughness of Will’s hands, nor in the careless tangle of his curls, but in the way he seems to exist as part of this world, as if he belongs to it in a way Hannibal never has, nor ever will.

Will looks back at him, his eyes alight with that same irrepressible mischief, his lips curving into a smile that is both gentle and mocking. 

He wishes, in that moment, that he could speak—truly speak, not with the stiffness of written words, not with the clumsy, ill-fitting phrases he has pieced together from foreign tongues. He longs to tell Will of the strange beauty he sees. He wants to speak of the things he cannot name, yet even as he yearns to speak, he knows he cannot.

There are words, perhaps, buried somewhere within him, words that might give shape to his thoughts, but they remain locked away. He could write now, perhaps, could scrawl his thoughts onto paper, could spill his secrets in ink and hope that Will might understand. But even his notebooks seem inadequate now.

So instead, he watches.

The sounds of Will’s voice rise and fall in the quiet air. He’s speaking with that same drawl that tastes of lowlands and salt marsh. Hannibal does not think Will sees it—perhaps no one has ever told him how his voice can sound like smoke curling through the pines, or the scrape of branches dragging across water. But Hannibal sees it; he hears it. He cannot hear his own voice. 

“This ain’t nothing like home,” Will says. “Back in Louisiana, air was thick like soup, got a weight to it you can feel pressing on your skin. And swamp stretched out all directions. Miles of it. Gets in your head if you’re there too long.”

Thick air, like soup … There’s something so deeply, terribly alive in the way he says it, as though Will himself were a part of that place, as though he left something behind in those miles of swamp that calls to him even now. 

Will looks down, and there’s the faintest ghost of a smile on his lips, but it disappears as soon as it arrives, hidden behind the careful, guarded lines of his face. Hannibal studies him. 

He thinks of France, of the galleries, the gilded cathedrals and quiet halls lined with saints and angels, their cold marble faces staring down at him with pity. He remembers the light that poured through the high windows, catching on the golden halos above the saints’ heads, making them seem almost alive. But they were not alive; they were cold, untouchable, and somehow, that made them all the more alluring. 

Will is no angel, no cold, chiseled statue. He is flesh and blood, laughter and noise.

Hannibal forces himself to look away, to pull his gaze from the sight of Will’s face. He reminds himself that they have work to do, tasks that must be completed, sheep that must be herded. He cannot afford to lose himself in fantasies, in dreams that will only lead him to ruin. 

He also reminds himself, quietly, that his uncle is not here.

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. 

──────────── 

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.

Chapter Text

Friendship is such a strange thing. 

It exists in books, where boys run side by side, laughing with their whole bodies, even as they charge through danger together. Their shoulders touch, their hands clap each other's backs, and when they fall, they lift each other up with smiles that promise loyalty. 

Hannibal has seen them, these boys who look at each other with a warmth that’s open and steady. He knows their voices well, loud and clear, bouncing off each other until they blur into one sound, a sound that fills the streets and even the air itself. But he stands alone, a small thing on the outskirts, and the noise reaches him only as a memory he’s never had. He has seen these things. He has read them, he thinks, in books. But he has never known them, and he has never been a part of them.

They are free together, those boys—free in a way Hannibal doesn’t know how to be. They laugh with their chests, not caring who hears, their voices spilling over into the afternoon light. It is as if they belong to each other, their faces bright and clear, their bodies folding and curving toward each other. Hannibal doesn’t know how they do it, this act of belonging, this openness. And they do not look at him like that. Perhaps it is for the best. He has learned not to mind it, though sometimes, when the afternoons grow long and the light stretches thin and soft, he wonders what it would feel like to be looked at in that way.

He doesn’t reach out. It isn’t as if they would welcome him, with his dark eyes that people say are older than he is, with the way he moves so quiet and sure, like a shadow among the trees. His silence keeps him apart, a wall he does not intend to break. Hannibal is glad of it, he tells himself. There is something he prefers about the quiet of his own room, with the closed door, the books lined up on the shelves, the pencils and paper that wait patiently for him, always there, always silent. Here, he is free from judgment, from the uncertain looks that say he is strange, too strange to join them.

His uncle doesn’t understand. Often, he sees the way his uncle’s mouth presses into a tight line, disappointed. Friends, Hannibal, you need friends. You are a ghost in this house. But Hannibal does not listen. He stays within his books, his drawings, the things he can hold and control. And so he tells himself he prefers the quiet. He does not mind the loneliness, he thinks, not really.

The solitude feels as natural as the rise and fall of his own breath.

But then, there is Will.

Will, with his strange voice, something lilting and different, a gentle sort of accent that catches on his words like a song. It reminds Hannibal of the rivers near his childhood home, the way they roll and twist and turn over stones, the water rippling in smooth, unbroken lines. Will’s voice is like that, soft and flowing, carrying something underneath that Hannibal cannot quite see. 

Will, with his blue eyes that Hannibal thinks must be tinted by things like blush on petals. Like the magnolias that Will once described to him, ones that bloom in his home. 

Pastel. Diaphanous. 

Just like that, Will has opened his own self before Hannibal, simple and without ceremony, asking in the softest way to be his friend. And somehow, this Will—the boy with the flower colors and quiet words—he has become Hannibal’s friend.

Friend. Even now, the word feels foreign, unsteady, as if Hannibal cannot quite hold it in his mind. He is not certain he understands it. What does it mean, this offering? What does it mean for him? And yet Will is here, quiet and waiting, his face gentle in a way Hannibal does not know how to look at for too long.

He remembers when he let Will into his silence, when he showed Will his drawings. He did not know why he did it, why he showed them to Will, why he trusted him. But Will had looked at them with such care.

He remembers thinking that it was beautiful, that Will’s sorrow held a beauty he wanted to understand. Will who cried once, cried for the lamb, cried for things Hannibal doesn’t let himself think of.  

He thinks of it often now, in the early mornings, when he sits alone with the sheep, his mind wandering back to the memory of Will’s tears, the way they softened his face, made him look both sad and gentle. Hannibal wonders if Will could ever understand him in the same way, if he could look into Hannibal’s heart and see the things he has buried, the coldness and the wanting that lie silent and still. 

He has never felt this way before. He does not think he ever will again.

He writes more to Will now, filling his notebook with careful words. They are not words of necessity, not quick jottings, but something more, a conversation that stretches long, unhurried, something he has never shared with anyone. And Will waits, his eyes soft and patient, even when he is tired, his eyes drooping, his body leaning forward as though he might fall. But he does not turn away. He sits, waiting, watching each letter take form, letting Hannibal finish each word in full.

For the first time, Hannibal feels the quiet joy of sharing without a voice. He thinks of the last time he had a real conversation. With Will, he writes more carefully, letting each sentence stretch and curl, telling him of art and color, of Paris and the beauty he has seen. He realizes, that it feels whole, almost as though he does not need a voice at all.

Almost.

Hannibal has never had a friend. Not truly. And yet, here one is, a friend with blue eyes and a soft voice. He feels exhilaration. He feels terror. He wonders if he is Will’s first friend too. 

Somehow, he hopes he is. Somehow, he needs to be. 

The lamb is still very small, and each time Hannibal touches it, he feels the way its thin bones press against his fingers. It looks at him with those wide eyes, trusting and frightened at once, and it does not know how vulnerable it is, not truly. He takes his time with the lamb’s leg, unwrapping the bandage. The bite has healed well; it’s surprising, almost, the way the flesh knits itself back together, quiet and determined. He touches the place just above the wound, gently, and feels the warmth under the skin, the pulse of life moving in something so small and helpless.

The lamb’s mother watches him from across the pasture. She is like a rock planted there, her dark eyes set on him as if she is weighing him, testing him with her gaze. He wonders if she feels what he has done for her young one, if there is some flicker of gratitude in her simple mind. Gratitude is not a thing he often sees in others, but here—he wonders. He likes to think she knows. She must know. She has stopped her bleating when he approaches, her head only dipping lower, her gaze following him, but no sound escapes her.

He is careful with the lamb. It leans into him, nuzzling his knee, its small nose wet and soft as it presses against his leg. It’s strange, this animal, the way it does not fear him. Strange, the way it seeks his hand, his presence, the way it comes to him like it would to a mother, trusting in something he has not offered it, something he has only given because the need was there. The trust unsettles him. It feels too much like a rope around his neck, pulling him close to something he should not hold. He considers giving it a name, sometimes, when it rests there beside him, but he pushes the thought away. Names mean something he does not want; they are traps, threads that bind and do not break easily.

Winston. The name feels strange on his tongue when he says it, when he calls it in his mind. Will speaks to the dog like it is something valuable, something he cherishes, and the dog returns this feeling with such unthinking joy that it almost disgusts Hannibal. The way Winston bounds to him, tail wagging, mouth wide with a grin that only dogs can make, eyes shining with devotion—it is foolish. Hannibal watches Will with his dog and sees the way he laughs, the way he bends down, petting it, murmuring soft things to it as if it understands every word. 

The boy will miss the dog, Hannibal knows. He will ache, will feel the absence of it in his heart when it is gone, and that, too, is foolish. Hannibal does not understand why anyone would place such importance on something so impermanent, something that could be gone in a moment.

And yet, the thought does not please him. It should. 

The lamb nudges his hand again, and he lets his fingers curl gently over its head, feeling the warmth of it, the softness. He wonders what it would be like to let himself care, to let himself feel something beyond the simple satisfaction of having done a task well. But he does not dwell on it. He cannot. He will not name it, and that is enough.

The days are quiet. They have lost none of the sheep; they are doing well, he thinks. As well as they can. But something has shifted. He feels it in the air, in the way Will comes to him earlier each morning, his footsteps soft and steady as he approaches. Hannibal watches him, silent, observing the way he moves, the way his eyes flicker from the fire to Hannibal’s hands.

Hannibal draws, the paper rough beneath his fingers. Will does not ask to see, does not press him for a glimpse of what he creates, and for that, Hannibal is grateful. And yet, he finds himself glancing at Will, watching the way his face softens in the firelight, the way his eyes grow distant as he stares into the flames. Will comes to him early, sitting by the fire with his breakfast, his face soft and worn from sleep. Hannibal watches him, his eyes tracing the lines of Will’s face, the tired slant of his eyes, the way he looks almost peaceful. 

The nights are different now, too. Will stays later, lingers by the fire even as the darkness deepens, his voice soft, almost gentle, as he speaks. And they speak, truly speak, not as strangers. They sit side by side on the log, their shadows cast long across the ground, the fire flickering between them, casting their faces in a warm, golden glow.

Will shares stories with him, more than he has before. His voice is low, steady, filled with memories that seem to hover in the air between them, tangible and real. Hannibal listens, his silence a question, his gaze unblinking as he takes in each word, each small piece of Will’s life that he offers. Will speaks of his father, of the bitterness that curls in his words when he mentions him, the hurt that lingers. He speaks of Louisiana, and there is a longing in his voice.

But there are things that Will does not say. He has not spoken of his mother, and Hannibal knows better than to ask. And he, too, has his secrets. He has not spoken of his family, save for his uncle. They are strangers still, in some ways, and yet—he wishes to know everything. 

It feels like hunger.

He does not like to feel hungry. 

When Will rises to leave, Hannibal feels the pull, the tightening in his chest, the desire to reach out and hold him, to keep him here, to trap him in this moment, in this warmth that feels so fragile, so fleeting. He watches him go, his eyes following the curve of his shoulders, the line of his back, until he is swallowed by the darkness. And just before he disappears, Will turns, his face a shadow, and offers a small wave.

Hannibal does not wave back.

The sun rests high today, burning and lazy, its light lying heavy and slow on Hannibal's shoulders. He feels it even through the jacket he hasn’t shed, though sweat is dripping down his back, curling along his spine and pooling in places that stick to him. He keeps his jacket on for this, keeps his sleeves rolled only to his wrists, bare hands gripping the ax that’s grown slick now with his sweat. This way, he thinks, the cold won’t catch him off guard when it creeps down the mountain later, when the day bleeds into night and the sun leaves him for the shadows.

For now, he cuts, just cuts, over and over. Each swing of the ax feels like a rhythm he knows by heart, the sort that’s simple, true in the hand, true to the wood, a heartbeat’s worth of sound in each crack as the logs split beneath him. He has been out here for hours, his boots planted firm in the grass, his back feeling the strain of it, though he doesn’t mind it. The work is honest; it is something with meaning, with purpose, and he sees his work gathering at his feet. The pile of logs is high now, wood stacked upon wood in careful order, something proud in its presence beside him. It will keep him warm, it will hold back the cold another week, maybe more.

And yet, he knows that this work, this excess, is not only for himself. Hannibal admits, if only quietly in his mind, that he notices Will every time he comes down here, notices the way he shivers by the fire. Will, who stomps down from his perch on the mountain with his hands crammed in his pockets, cursing the cold, laughing at how it “makes my damn nose feel like it’s gonna fall right off. ” The sight of him, huddled and blowing on his fingers, cheeks and nose red like autumn apples—it is for that Hannibal works so long, for the satisfaction of seeing Will warmed by his fire, basking in it, if only for a moment. 

The thought of it stirs something almost feverish in him, and he swings the ax down harder, harder than he should. He imagines Will’s skull beneath the ax. Not with horror or hate, he imagines it in curiosity, in fascination, imagines the crack and split of it, the way the bone would yield to reveal the flesh beneath, how his own hands might become painted in the colors of that particular truth. 

He feels something near peace settle in him, that violent thought, and he wonders for a brief moment what it would feel like—if the blood splattered on his face, hot and real, something he could feel. 

But his reverie is broken then, his thoughts interrupted by footsteps, soft but present, moving in the brush. Hannibal pauses, fingers still tight around the ax. He doesn’t move, doesn’t turn, but he inhales, letting the air fill him with scents, and there it is—the unmistakable scent of Will. 

Wild boy, earth, salt, dog.

Hannibal’s heart beats just a little faster, his fingers flexing around the handle as he watches the shape that comes through the trees. Will’s eyes widen just slightly, his mouth parting in a soft, almost startled way, and then he looks down, glancing away, as though his own curiosity is something too sharp to hold onto. 

He keeps his head bowed, but he steps forward, steps closer, hands deep in his pockets. 

“Do you…do you need any help with that?” 

Will isn’t meant to be here, Hannibal knows that. Will should be with the sheep, watching them in their little herd up on the hill, guarding them from whatever might creep from the woods. But instead, he’s here, panting lightly as though he’s run, his chest rising and falling with each breath, his eyes flickering back and forth, like he doesn’t know where to look.

Hannibal doesn’t answer right away. He just watches, just stares, his gaze drawn to the way Will’s fingers fidget, to the way his shoulders rise, tense and careful, as though he’s waiting to be scolded.

Hannibal extends the ax, holding it out to him, and Will’s eyes drop to it, widening just a little. Hannibal knows that ax still holds the warmth of his hands, knows the wood is slick with his sweat, knows the weight of it. And there is something strange and thrilling about giving it to Will, this boy who he has just imagined killing, this boy who stands before him with cheeks so red and eyes so wide.

Will takes the ax, his hand trembling slightly, the blush on his cheeks spreading as he grasps it.

“Figured I’d come down here for a bit,” Will says. “Considering there hasn’t been any coyotes in a couple of days.” He shrugs, his gaze drifting to the trees, to the shadows cast by the sun, and Hannibal feels a flicker of worry spark in him, his mind jumping to the lambs up on the hill. But he reminds himself that Will is careful, careful even when he doesn’t seem to be. If there were danger, if there were reason to worry, Will would be with the sheep, not here.

But Hannibal still doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand why Will has come down here, not fully. And yet, in some quiet place in his mind, he reminds himself that they are friends, or something like friends. Maybe this is what friends do—they come together in strange silence, in the hot light of day, in places where words are not easy to find. Hannibal tries to offer a smile, but it feels out of place on his face, and Will looks away from it almost immediately, as though he is embarrassed by it, or by himself.

Will steps into the space Hannibal has left for him, moving closer to the pile of wood, his hand adjusting on the handle of the ax. Hannibal watches him.

Will shifts his grip, his fingers firm, and then he murmurs something soft, almost to himself, something Hannibal barely catches. “Even Winston doesn’t want my company right now.” 

And then Will looks at him, his eyes bright, his expression softening, a question lingering on his lips.

“Do you?” Will asks. “Want my company?”

Hannibal cannot look away, cannot find any answer but the truth, simple and unadorned. He nods. He feels exposed.

Will’s lips curve into a smile then, a small thing, a gift, and Hannibal feels that smile like warmth spreading through his chest.

Hannibal watches as Will picks up the ax, his movements so sure and strong, as if the blade were made for his hands alone. He raises it with a quiet ease, the muscles in his arm bunching, the veins in his forearm standing out beneath the skin. Hannibal feels his breath catch at the sight, at the way the strength radiates through him without arrogance, without intention. It is something natural, effortless. Will swings the ax, bringing it down in one smooth, powerful motion. The blade cleaves through the wood with a clean, echoing crack that seems to linger in the air, splitting the log into two perfect halves.

Hannibal cannot look away. His shoulders are broad, his waist narrow, his hips moving as though he is somehow dancing and fighting all at once. Hannibal feels a tremor run through his body. He has to sit down, feeling the weight of it all, letting himself sink to the ground. He crosses his legs, hands resting in his lap, his eyes lifted to Will.

Will turns, and for a moment, Hannibal thinks he has been caught, that his gaze has been noticed, his secret laid bare. Will’s brow rises, a small gesture that seems to say he knows, that he sees Hannibal’s quiet hunger. But he says nothing, does nothing to acknowledge it, though Hannibal notices the small hairs at the back of his neck standing up. They glisten in the sunlight, fine and golden. Hannibal wonders if they would feel soft beneath his fingers, if they would tickle or prickle against his skin. He imagines reaching out, letting his hand hover there, brushing against the place where Will’s neck meets his shoulders. But he does not move. 

Without a word, Will turns back to the work, lifting the ax again, splitting another log with the same effortless grace. Each crack of the wood echoes into the stillness of the camp, a sound that feels both final and full of promise. Hannibal watches as Will wipes his brow, his shirt sticking to his back, damp with the effort of the work. 

“I’ve been working on some lures up there,” Will says, nodding toward the distant trees. Will pauses, running a hand over his brow again, leaving a small, glistening trail of sweat. “Figured I could catch us a fish or two for dinner.”

In his mind, Hannibal sees it: Will, standing by the river, casting his line into the water, drawing up a fish, fresh and clean. He imagines the satisfaction on Will’s face, the quiet pride he would feel in bringing something real, something living, for their meal. It is so different from the dried oats and cans they’ve relied on. Hannibal’s lips part, and he looks up at Will, admiring the way the sun frames his face, touches his skin, the way he stands there, strong and sure.

“Can you cook fish?” 

Hannibal’s response is simple, a small nod, precise and confident. He is sure of it, sure he could make something worthy of them both from whatever Will brings him. He could roast it over the fire, season it with what little they have. He will cook whatever Will brings him. 

Will lets out a low chuckle, a sound that rumbles through the air, soft and amused. 

“That’s good,” Will says.

The ax rises once more, falls into the wood, but this time, Will leaves it there, half-buried in the split log, a blade poised, waiting. He stands there for a moment, looking at Hannibal, something unreadable in his gaze.

And then, he steps away from the work, crossing the distance between them. He lowers himself beside Hannibal, though he leaves a wide gap, a space that feels like a wall between them. Hannibal aches to close it, to lean in, to press his knee against Will’s. But he does not. Instead, he pulls his legs tighter, folding himself inward, holding the feeling close to his chest.

Will shifts, digging into his pocket, searching for something small and hidden. When he finds it, he pulls it out and extends his hand to Hannibal, offering it to him. Hannibal reaches out, careful, making sure their fingers do not touch. His skin tingles, his senses alive with the nearness of Will. When he takes the object, he sees it is a lure.

In Hannibal’s hand, it feels alive, like a small bird caught in his palm, a creature that could fly if he opened his fingers and let it go. A desire stirs in him, fierce and sharp, to crush it, to keep it as his own. But instead, he cradles it gently, as if afraid to harm it.

The lure is crafted with care, decorated with bright red and black feathers that are soft under Hannibal’s fingers. There is a piece of bone tied with string, something sharp and beautiful, and at the end, a small, gleaming hook, sharp enough to pierce his skin. Hannibal feels an urge to press it into his palm, to feel the sting of it, to mark himself with something Will has made. He wonders what it would feel like, wonders if Will would notice the small wound, if he would care.

Will shifts again, moving closer by the barest fraction, but Hannibal feels it like a pulse.

“My daddy used to tell me,” he begins, his words slow and careful, “that if you name your bait after someone you care for, and they care for you back, you’ll catch the fish every time.”

Hannibal’s gaze snaps up, drawn to Will’s face, to the small, quiet light that shines in his eyes. Will’s lips curl into a small, shy smile, a curve so delicate it feels like it might disappear if Hannibal looks too closely.

 “You reckon I’ll catch something?” 

Hannibal can only nod. He looks back down at the lure, at the careful work, the softness of the feathers, the sharpness of the hook pressing into his palm. He closes his hand around it, feeling the textures, the warmth of it, as though it holds a piece of Will’s spirit.

He thinks he could keep it, hold onto it like a treasure, a piece of Will he could carry with him always. But he knows it has a purpose, knows it must go to the water, must serve the reason it was made. Friendship is a strange, aching thing. He does not ask what name Will will choose for the lure.

He thinks it should have no name at all.

He reaches slowly into his pocket, pulling out his notebook. He writes with an unhurried patience, as if trying to catch the right words, the ones that might let Will see what he feels. 

I think you will. You are good at this, with your hands. You make things beautiful. Maybe fish will see that too.

Will’s fingers move gently over the edge of the notebook, tracing the paper’s rough edge, his gaze shifting to the lure Hannibal still holds, cradled carefully in his palm. 

“I don’t know about beautiful,” Will murmurs. “Just wanted it to be good enough to work. Sometimes it’s just about making sure it holds together.”

Hannibal’s pencil moves.

It does hold together. I see the way you do this—everything you make has a place, a purpose. Like this, it fits your hands.

Will’s mouth pulls into a quiet, thoughtful line as he reads, his eyes flickering up to meet Hannibal’s. There’s a question there, a softness that makes Hannibal feel suddenly bare. But he doesn’t look away. He lets Will see it, whatever small part of him might be hiding just under his gaze.

Will clears his throat, breaking the quiet. “You—” He hesitates, his gaze falling to the notebook in Hannibal’s lap, then back to his face. “You write things nice, like... you see it in a way I can’t.” His voice softens. “Makes me feel like… maybe I do it right, even when it doesn’t seem that way to me.”

It is right. I can see it. And you make me see the world in a way I didn’t know was there.

He hesitates, then adds, smaller, almost tentative.

I think that is what beautiful means.

──────────── 

Will doesn’t know how Hannibal does it. 

The softness of him, how it doesn’t bother him at all. It’s a kind of softness that you don’t see often in men—or in anyone, really. Not around here, not in folks he’s known his whole life. Men from his part of the world are all rough hands, spit in the dirt, voices like gravel and sun-baked tempers. They’re raised to have sharp edges, to keep them, ‘cause what’s the point in being any other way? A man’s gotta be able to do things for himself. He’s gotta be able to look after himself, his people. 

Will’s learned, over these long days together, that Hannibal isn’t rough and tumble like him, not by a long stretch. That much was obvious from the start. Hannibal’s hands don’t look like they’ve been carved up by work, the coarse grain of calluses that mean hours under the hot, raw sun. Hannibal’s hands are a world apart from Will’s. The things that make Will’s hands his own, they’re missing from Hannibal’s altogether.

And it gets to Will—the softness. It gets to him something fierce. 

Will grew up thinking softness was a bad thing, something that ought to be stamped out young, ‘fore it could turn a person into something they shouldn’t be. There’s things girls do, things boys do, and things men do. And Will, he’s supposed to be doing things men do. At least, that’s what he’s always thought. A man’s meant to be tough, meant to be the sort who can take a beating and never blink, meant to be the kind of person folks would never call gentle. But Hannibal’s not any of those things. Hannibal’s everything else, all the things Will used to think weren’t meant for men at all.

Growing up, Will spent a lot of his time watching the other boys, even if they never noticed him much. He watched them, learned from them, figured he could maybe pick up on some trick to make himself a little more like them if he watched hard enough. The way they moved through the world seemed effortless to him, like they had it all down to a science. They’d call each other names he’d never repeat, crack jokes at each other’s expense, laugh like they didn’t have a care in the world. 

And when they’d get mad, when something set them off, they’d go at each other, right there in the dirt, throwing punches, grabbing each other by the shoulders, knocking each other around till they couldn’t see straight. They’d leave with bloody noses and bruised ribs, but by the next day, they’d be back to slinging arms over each other’s shoulders, acting like they were on top of the world, like it didn’t mean a thing.

Will watched them do that too—how they touched each other, how they didn’t flinch or blush or look away when their hands brushed or their knees knocked together, like it was all just the most natural thing in the world. And he always wondered about that, wondered why his stomach twisted up the way it did when he thought about getting that close to another boy. Wondered why his cheeks burned if someone even mentioned it. Wondered why, for him, it felt like something else altogether.

He’s not built for friendship, he tells himself, not the way those boys were. Never has been. Never could be. And yet, for the first time in his whole life, he’d gone and asked someone to be his friend. And now he’s got one, got Hannibal, and Hannibal’s nothing like him. It makes Will feel like he’s just a kid, rough and clumsy, tripping over his own damn feet in a way he thought he’d grown out of. 

Hannibal doesn’t judge him. And then there’s the way Hannibal is with the animals, with the lambs.  He’s got his books too, with those poets Will’s never heard of, poets with names he can’t pronounce, poets who write things that don’t make a lick of sense to Will but seem to mean something to Hannibal. 

And his handwriting—it’s got this flourish to it, this careful, curving line that looks too pretty to be anything close to Will’s own chicken scratch. When he sees Hannibal write, Will wonders if maybe he’s been doing it all wrong, if maybe there’s a different way to be in this world, a way he never even knew to look for.

One morning, he caught Hannibal picking flowers. Will hadn’t meant to watch, but he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t turn away. Hannibal had bent down, close to the earth, and reached for a little blue flower, cradling it in his fingers with this kind of care that made Will’s chest ache. Hannibal brought it to his face, closed his eyes, and breathed in its scent. Will had only ever seen girls do that, back when he was a kid. He’d done it once too, back before he knew better, and the other boys had taunted him so much he never tried it again. He’d learned to step on flowers instead.

But there Hannibal was, doing what Will had been taught not to do, with no shame, no hesitation. He picked a few more, held them in his hat like a basket, each one a little burst of color against the plain cloth. The morning light hit him just so, making his skin glow, turning his cheeks pink. He looked… gentle, in a way that didn’t seem possible for a man, but there he was. Men don’t do things like that, but maybe boys do, Will thinks, and Hannibal’s a boy. 

Will can’t hate him for being what he is. 

It rattles him, leaves him so off-kilter he doesn’t go down to see Hannibal early that day. He paces around the camp instead, his stomach in knots, his hands restless, like he’s trying to shake off the way that softness made him feel. But by the time the sun’s high, he goes anyway. And when he gets there, Hannibal’s waiting. Will’s heart stutters, trips over itself as Hannibal reaches up, gentle as ever, and tucks the flower behind his ear. He feels like he’s on fire, like the damn thing’s burning him right there, but he doesn’t take it out. He just stands there, his mouth dry, his heart pounding.

“I’m not a girl, Lecter,” he says, voice barely more than a whisper. Hannibal just looks at him, a look that says he understands, a look that’s patient and soft and kind. And for a moment, Will wants to believe that it’s all right, that there’s nothing wrong with feeling the way he does, with wanting something different.

But he knows better. It’s wrong. 

Later that night, he takes the flower, now wilted and dry, and tucks it in with a few crumpled notes Hannibal’s given him. He keeps it by his lantern, a small pile of things he can’t bring himself to throw away, even though he knows he should. He watches it wither and fade, prays for the strength to forget it. But deep down, he hopes Hannibal will give him another, hopes he thinks he got rid of it.

Will’s taken up fishing lately, though it don’t feel like taking up, not really. 

Feels more like he’s stumbled back to something that was waiting for him all along, a little pocket of peace hiding just out of sight ‘til he got tired enough to notice it. So on days when the sheep are quiet, when they’ve settled into their grazing and there isn’t much else to fuss over, Will wanders down to the water with his fishing rod, letting the world slow down a notch. He likes it out here, the way he can leave himself behind for a bit, let his mind slip into that soft hum where nothing matters much. Just him and the stream and the feel of the line in his hand, stretching tight and thin.

The water’s got this hush to it, a gentleness he don’t find in much else, and it makes him feel like he don’t have to be so loud in his own head. He can lose himself here, close his eyes and forget he’s got any kind of name at all. Sometimes he even wonders if he’s the water itself, if maybe he’s just some small part of this whole wide river snaking through the woods. Other times he thinks he might be the fish, darting and twisting in the dark currents, keeping himself hidden ‘cause it feels safer that way. Then there’s days he figures he’s more like the hook, all sharp edges and barbs, waiting to snag onto something just so he can feel it struggle.

But mostly, he don’t think about it too hard. Mostly, he just stands there, feeling the line tug and drift in the current, a thin string tying him to some kind of calm he don’t get anywhere else.

Today, though, he isn’t alone. There’s a soft scratching sound drifting from the tree line, just close enough to make him fumble now and then, his hands slipping on the line. Hannibal’s here, sitting under one of the big oaks a few yards back, legs stretched out like he’s settling in for a spell. He didn’t say much when Will asked if he wanted to come, just nodded that quiet, steady nod of his, like he already knew he was meant to be here. Brought his sketchbook along, too.

Will sneaks a look now and then, trying to be subtle about it, though he isn’t sure why he bothers. Every time he glances over, Hannibal’s bent over his sketchbook, pencil moving in those slow, thoughtful strokes. He’s real focused, watching the trees, the water, anything that isn’t Will, and Will tells himself it’s a good thing. Better this way, really. But there’s a part of him that itches with this ridiculous little hope that maybe, just maybe, Hannibal’s looking at him when he glances up.

He knows it’s dumb—there’s nothing much about him worth putting on paper. He’s not like the mountains Hannibal likes to draw, all bold and unmoving, or the flowers he’s seen him sketch. Will’s just a scrawny thing, hands too big and hair too wild, about as interesting as a crow pecking at scraps on the side of the road. There’s no poetry in him, no grace, just a plain face with too many thoughts crowding behind it. But still.

He’s thinking all this when the line jerks in his hand, a hard, sudden pull that snaps him back to the water. The fish fights him, tugging and twisting, and he grins, feeling his heart pick up in his chest, feeling the thrill of it. The fish thrashes, its scales flashing silver in the sunlight, and Will stumbles a little as he pulls it in. 

He don’t know why, but there’s something about the fight of it, the stubborn way it won’t give up, that makes him feel like he’s done something right for once. The fish puts up a good fight, jerking and twisting in the water, making him work for it. He can’t help but think of the little superstition he told Hannibal about naming the bait for luck, and he laughs, low and almost sheepish, hoping that stupid thing don’t mean anything at all. Or maybe he hopes it does, but that’s a thought he’s not ready to chew on just yet.

With a grin spreading wide across his face, he turns back toward the shore and starts up the bank, boots squelching in the mud, water dripping off his arms. He can feel the weight of the fish in his hands, slippery and cool, its gills opening and closing as it gasps for air. He isn’t much of a trophy-hunter, never cared to show off, but he finds himself wanting to share this, wanting to see the look on Hannibal’s face when he shows him what he’s caught.

Hannibal’s head comes up when he sees Will approaching, a smile flickering on his face, and he sets his pencil down, putting his sketchbook aside as Will bounds up to him. For a second, Will feels a little self-conscious, like maybe he looks foolish standing there, dripping wet and clutching a fish like it’s the crown jewels. But Hannibal don’t laugh, don’t even smirk. He just watches him, eyes soft, a little crinkle at the corner like he’s genuinely glad to see Will. 

“Look at this beauty,” Will says.

Hannibal shifts forward, leaning in close, and Will feels his chest tighten. Hannibal’s face is just inches from the fish, eyes studying it with that quiet intensity of his. He tilts his head, and for a split second, he looks so damn curious, like Winston sniffing out a new scent, and the thought makes Will’s throat catch. 

Hannibal leans in a little closer and puckers his lips, imitating the fish’s gaping mouth, making this soft popping sound as he moves his lips. Will watches, feels his heart stumble over itself as his eyes catch on the curve of Hannibal’s mouth, the soft line of his lips, the way the sun catches on his skin. He’s close enough to smell him, faint and warm, like cedar and leather and something else Will can’t name but don’t wanna let go of.

For a second, it’s just them, the fish flapping weakly in Will’s hands, Hannibal’s face so close he could reach out and touch him. His eyes crinkle a little more as he pulls back, looking up at Will, and there’s this warmth in his gaze, this pride that don’t make sense but fills Will up like a slow sip of whiskey, spreading through him warm and easy.

“Do you wanna hold it?” 

Hannibal nods, his bangs falling across his eyes in that careless way that makes him look softer, younger somehow. Will’s breath hitches as he reaches out, passing the fish over, their fingers brushing for just a split second. It’s nothing, barely even a touch, but he feels it all the way down to his bones.

Hannibal takes the fish, handling it gentle, and Will can’t help but watch him, his eyes fixed on the way Hannibal’s fingers trace over the scales, admiring the iridescent shimmer, the way the fish twists and wriggles in his hands. The light filters down through the leaves, dappled and soft, casting little patches of gold over Hannibal’s face, and Will finds himself staring, caught up in the way he looks in that moment. He don’t think he’s ever seen anything like it, and it hits him in a way that’s both painful and sweet.

“Y’know,” he says, voice a little more even now, “fishing’s funny that way. Isn’t just about catching something. Sometimes, it’s about waiting—waiting till you can’t hardly stand it no more. That’s the part most folks don’t get. It’s like you’re doin’ nothing, but you’re actually doin’ everything, all at once.” He pauses, the words comin’ easier now, like he’s talking about something he knows like the back of his hand. “You sit there, rod in your hand, watching the water, and it’s like the world stops for a bit. You just—listen. If you’re lucky, you catch something too. If you aren’t, well, you wait some more.”

He glances over at Hannibal, offering a half-smile that don’t quite reach his eyes, but there’s a kind of ease in his voice now.

“Lot of folks get impatient,” Will goes on, scratching the back of his neck, “But me? I think it’s the waiting that makes it worth it. You can’t rush the fish, can’t rush the river. Everything’s gotta come to you in its own time.”

He shrugs, letting the words fall out without much thought, but there’s something more in the way he says it.

“You ever notice that? How the best fish... the ones worth catching, they don’t come easy. You have to work for them.”

The thought rises up in him, sharp and sudden—that this, right here, might be the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. It feels too big to hold, this feeling, like it’s clawing its way out of him, and part of him wants to go drop down on his knees, say a prayer or two, beg whatever’s listening to forgive him for this warmth he can’t shake. 

He watches Hannibal with that fish, feeling something take root in him, something wild and green, curling up through the cracks like spring after a long, hard winter.

Will's got his head low, eyes on the ground, as he walks the path back toward camp. He can feel Hannibal a few steps behind him, close enough that the boy’s quiet footsteps seem to sync up with his own. The basket swings by his side, bumping his thigh with every step.

The way Hannibal looked down at that fish, like it was something beautiful and strange. Not like it was gasping for breath, dying slowly under his hands. And that look—it wasn’t for him. He knows that. Hannibal’s got no reason to look at him like that. It wouldn’t make sense. But some part of him wishes, aches, for it anyway.  Life, death, Will doesn’t know what held his gaze. Not him, never him. 

His heart’s thudding fast in his chest, rabbit-quick, and he can’t shake that urge to turn around, just once, to look back and see if Hannibal’s watching him. But he doesn’t. He keeps his eyes straight ahead, tries to match his steps with the beat of his heart, though they don’t want to line up right. Hannibal’s so quiet back there, so damn quiet Will wonders if he’s imagining it, the steady rhythm of footsteps just behind him. Maybe he left him back by the water, still sitting down, fingers splayed wide. Maybe Will’s walking alone, and it’s just his own mind haunting him.

Will tightens his grip on the basket and bolts, breaking into a sudden run, his feet pounding the dirt path. He doesn’t know why he does it, but he doesn’t need a reason. It’s instinct, like he’s gotta run just to shake off this feeling that’s taken hold of him, something wild and reckless and more than a little stupid. 

Sunlight slashes through the trees, catching him in the eyes and blinding him, turning the whole forest into a blur of green and gold, all sharp edges and flashing light.

And then, just like he hoped, he hears the footsteps behind him quicken. Hannibal’s picked up the chase, falling into step, matching his pace, and there’s a thrill that lights up in Will at the sound, a pulse that beats hotter, faster, through his veins. He knows he’s being chased, and it fills him with a kind of wild energy that pushes him forward, makes him run harder, makes his laughter ring out loud and bright against the trees.

He doesn’t know if Hannibal’s laughing too, can’t hear him over the rush of his own breath and the beat of his heart. But he can picture it.

There’s a lightness in his chest that spreads like warmth, and he’s not sure what it is, but he holds onto it as he flies down the trail, feeling the weight of Hannibal’s presence at his back, closer, closer—

For a split second, he swears he feels fingers brushing his shoulder, light as a whisper, and it sends a shiver down his spine. The touch is barely there, just the hint of contact, but it’s enough to make his breath hitch, his heart stutter. 

He’s the fish now, he thinks, trapped in Hannibal’s hands, heart hammering in his chest, desperate and caught, and there’s something that feels half like fear and half like longing. He wonders, just for a second, if Hannibal would look at him the way he looked at that fish, eyes soft. 

If Hannibal would touch him like that.

The thought is so sharp, so raw, that he stumbles, his feet skidding against the dirt as he comes to a sudden stop at the edge of the camp. He doesn’t have time to get his bearings before Hannibal slams into him from behind, and they both go tumbling to the ground, rolling over and over in a tangle of limbs, the weight of Hannibal’s body pressing him down into the earth.

Will’s laughing again, harder than before, and it feels like he’s laughing with his whole body, every muscle, every bone. It’s a wild, reckless sound, something he’s not sure he’s ever let out before, and he can’t stop, can’t hold it back, even as he gasps for air. The world’s spinning around him, leaves and sky and Hannibal’s face above him, all blurring together. So he closes them. 

Hannibal’s hands close around his wrists, pinning them down against the ground. 

Will knows, knows that if he opens his eyes, if he looks up, he’ll see something in Hannibal’s face that he’s not ready for, something that’ll change everything. So he keeps his eyes shut tight, tells himself, Don’t look, don’t look, even though he wants to, wants to see if there’s that same strange softness in Hannibal’s eyes, that same wonder he saw by the water.

He’s still laughing, the sound tumbling out of him without restraint, wild and uncontained, until his chest aches and his eyes prick, and he wonders if he might actually cry if he doesn’t stop. The thought shakes him, so he squeezes his eyes shut, refusing to look up, to meet Hannibal’s gaze.

They’re all tangled up in the dirt, limbs flailing, breath hot and heavy as they wrestle. Will’s got mud smeared across his face, sticks in his hair, and he can feel the rough ground scraping against the skin of his back. Hannibal’s got him pinned one second, then he’s got Hannibal pinned, and they’re flipping and rolling in this wild mess of grass and limbs, Will’s laughter sharp and bright, cut through with something raw. They’re just two boys in the middle of nowhere, grabbing and kicking, half-serious but not really. It feels like a game.

Will's chest is rising and falling hard, every breath fast and rough. His cheeks are redder than sin, and he knows it, feels the flush spreading down his neck. He hollers out a laugh, and then chants, “Uncle, uncle!” 

But Hannibal doesn’t let up. Will realizes that Hannibal probably don’t know what “uncle” means. So he stops fighting it, stops trying to be clever, and instead just bucks up, wild and loose like some spooked colt.

Will’s laughter spills out of him and then Hannibal’s clamping a hand over Will’s mouth, fingers pressing firm against his cheeks, trying to muffle the sound. 

Shh. But Will’s eyes are bright with something close to joy, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter as he tries to squirm free, his lips parting under the rough press of Hannibal’s hand. It’s a strange, heady thing, Hannibal’s palm against his mouth, warm and close, holding him down. It makes Will want to laugh even harder, makes him want to let loose just to see what Hannibal will do.

Then there’s this sharp, sudden pain. Hannibal’s teeth, pressing down into the soft flesh of his hand. Will’s eyes go wide as he feels those canines dig in. He can feel the press of bone under that bite, feel the way Hannibal’s teeth sink in, right up to the point of breaking skin, but then holding back. 

It’s careful in a way that don’t make sense, it hurts, Lord, does it hurt, but it’s restrained, too. Hannibal’s not being gentle, but he’s not letting himself go all the way, either. Will can feel the hot throb of pain radiating up his arm, spreading out in little jolts, sharp and alive. How can Hannibal be both? How? 

He stops laughing, his whole body tense and locked up, caught between wanting to shove Hannibal off and not wanting him to let go. 

This is what friendship’s supposed to be, he tells himself. Roughhousing, wrestling, boys rolling around in the dirt and biting each other like dogs. But there’s something else there. His ma would’ve known, though. She’d have taken one look at him, seen the way he’s breathing all wrong, the way his cheeks are flushed and his eyes a little too wide, and she’d have known exactly what it was. She’d have dropped to her knees by the bedside, wrapped her rosary beads tight around her fingers, and whispered all the prayers she could think of, her voice soft and steady, like a lullaby. She’d have prayed for him, begged God to take away whatever it is that makes him feel this way. But she’s gone now.

Under Hannibal’s weight, with the earth pressing up into his back and the sky stretching wide and blue above him, Will feels alive in a way that scares him. He feels like he’s full of light, like summer has crawled inside him and set his blood on fire. He feels like morning dew.

Part of him wants to throw Hannibal off, to punch him hard in the face just to break whatever spell they’re under, just to remind himself of who he’s supposed to be. But another part of him, the part that he don’t like to think about, just wants to lie there and feel the weight of Hannibal on top of him, to feel that warmth pressing into his skin. 

“Get the hell off me,” he mutters, voice rough and low, barely more than a whisper. It’s a weak attempt at defiance, and he knows it, but it’s all he’s got. Hannibal just looks at him, his face dirty and flushed, his hair mussed up and tangled. 

He looks like Will. 

Will scrambles to his feet, wiping his hands on his jeans, trying to shake off the feeling of Hannibal’s weight, trying to ignore the heat pooling low in his belly. “You… you bit me.” he says, trying to make his voice sound steady, but it comes out shaky, breathless. 

He turns away before Hannibal can do anything. He don’t want to think about the way Hannibal’s chest is heaving, the way his lips are still parted, the way his eyes are following him like they’re trying to read his soul. 

“See you for dinner,” he mumbles, voice low, hoping it sounds normal, hoping it don’t betray anything he’s feeling. He tells himself he don’t care about the teeth marks Hannibal’s left on his hand, tells himself he don’t want them to stay, don’t want to look down and see the faint imprint of those canines against his skin. 

He walks off toward camp, forcing himself not to look back, forcing himself to keep his eyes fixed ahead. He tells himself he won’t think about Hannibal gutting the fish, won’t think about the gentleness in his hands, the way his fingers had traced over the slick scales with a softness that don’t match the sharpness of his teeth. 

He tells himself he’ll think of God.

──────────── 

Hannibal holds the fish in his hands, feeling the coolness of its scales, the smooth, almost slippery skin that glints under his fingers. It is beautiful, he thinks, as he runs the blade along its side, watching each scale lift and fall away in thin, shimmering flecks. His knife is small, kept hidden in the worn leather of his boot. The knife is sharp, though the fish’s skin is stubborn, and he works carefully, slowly, feeling his way through the delicate task of peeling away its scales.

He does not rush, watching the flesh beneath as he scrapes, as he presses just enough to feel the skin give way. This fish, it has come from Will, from the water—gifted, still alive, still gasping, as though it fought to stay in its world. It was a bit of a challenge to handle, not because of the weight but because of what it means, this creature Will had caught, that he had given. 

He is not used to receiving gifts, not used to something being offered to him without taking. And yet, here is this fish, given freely, a gift from Will, the boy who brought it to him with a face full of pride and arms full of the water’s prize.

The guts spill out into his hand, warm and slick, and he watches them, feeling the small thrum of life that was there, the last traces of it. He sets the guts aside, one piece at a time, seeing each part for what it is, each piece a part of the whole that gave this creature life. He cuts off the head, separating it with a steady hand. Will had caught this fish not with violence, not with brutality. 

He imagines the meal he will make of it, simple, humble, but warm and nourishing, something they can share in the quiet of evening, something they can eat together. Hannibal knows he will savor it, each bite a reminder of Will’s offering. He imagines the taste already, imagines how he will let it melt on his tongue, soft and filling, a taste that is both the water and the boy who brought it to him. He does not know how to thank Will in any other way, does not know how to say what this means, and so he cooks, and he prepares, hoping that Will will feel his gratitude in the meal.

The fish is large enough for the both of them, large enough that they will eat with their stomachs full, satisfied. 

As he waits now for Will to return from the sheep, he sketches again, the fish in Will’s hands. He draws the light on Will’s hair, the way his curls frame his face, the way he had looked at him. 

He remembers, the way Will had run from him, his feet light, his laughter bright and free. One moment, Hannibal had been behind him, watching the way his curls bounced with each step. And then, Will had taken off, feet hitting the ground fast. 

Will had darted through the trees, his laughter echoing, bright and clear, a sound that felt like sunlight. He had pushed harder, his fingers reaching out, brushing against the leaves, against the low branches that snapped underfoot, as he chased the boy, as he tried to catch the light that Will carried with him.

And then, they had collided, bodies meeting with the force of stars, tumbling to the ground, limbs tangled, hands gripping, pulling. They had wrestled, bodies pressing, pushing, struggling, each movement a dance, a fight, a breathless, wordless thing. Normal boys. 

“Uncle, uncle!” Will had cried out, gasping with laughter that spilled out in messy waves. Hannibal heard it, saw it, but did not know what it meant. The words felt strange, hanging in the air between them, some kind of plea, but playful, edged with a sweetness he couldn’t quite touch. 

Will’s laughter sounded like a language he could not speak, could not shape in his own throat. It filled the air, filled the spaces between them, but Hannibal’s own laughter stayed caged, buried, something too strange, too foreign to ever reach the light.

It unsettled him, that laughter. It was reckless and loud, as though Will had no fear, as though he didn’t understand the danger of their game. Of Hannibal. 

Will’s face was flushed, eyes wide with the energy of the struggle, still wriggling beneath him, still pushing against his grip with all the useless strength he could muster. Hannibal held him there, feeling the press of his small wrists under his hands, the delicate lines of bones so easy to snap. He knew that with just a single movement, with one sharp twist, he could end it all, break Will in his hands, like something that would never make a sound again. He knew this, felt it as his fingers tightened.

But Will’s eyes met his—open and bright, full of something pure, something unbroken and beautiful. His laughter didn’t falter, not even when he knew he couldn’t get away, not even when Hannibal’s grip grew firm, solid, unrelenting. Will’s laughter only seemed to rise, louder, brighter, each sound daring him, defying him. He laughed as though Hannibal’s hands didn’t matter. 

Hannibal did not understand how Will could laugh, could let go so freely, so unafraid. He could barely breathe with the weight of it, the weight of his own silence, of all the things he could not say, of all the ways he could not reach him. It terrified him, this brightness, this foolish, trusting boy who kept pushing him, kept laughing even as Hannibal held him down, as though he believed, truly believed, he would be safe. It was unbearable, maddening. 

He wanted to snap Will’s neck right there, to feel the break under his hands, to stop the laughter that rose like wildfire between them. He wanted to, more than anything, to quiet that brightness, to press it down, to crush it in his hands. But he couldn’t. Will was too beautiful, too alive, too full of some stupid hope that Hannibal could not break.

And in that moment, in his helplessness, in his own desire to keep Will, to hold him close, he did what he knew. He leaned down, his mouth finding Will’s skin, his teeth grazing, biting. He did not break the skin, but he wanted to. 

Hannibal sits by the fire now, eyes flickering over the bright flames as they lick upward. The soft crackle of fire fills his ears, a soothing, steady sound, and yet inside him, there is a storm. 

It was like the taste of life itself, something raw, something he could take, something he knows he has taken before. But Will is different; Will is… something else. A friend. Will is, soft and kind and somehow, so alive that Hannibal cannot think of him in the same way as all the others, the nameless boys he left behind in the dark, in places he no longer thinks of. Will is gentle, patient. Will is…

But that look, that look on Will’s face when he turned away. It was fear. It was a look of fear.

Now, as the fire flickers, as he stirs the fish in the pan, he can feel it again, that strange sensation curling up inside him. Will had turned from him, had looked away without a smile, without a single glance back, and Hannibal does not understand why this feeling in his chest will not leave him.

The fish sizzles softly, the smell wafting up, filling the cool evening air, but it only makes him feel more alone. He tells himself it doesn’t matter, that he doesn’t need Will here, that he is fine alone. And yet, he waits. The sun slips lower in the sky, casting long shadows, turning the world soft and quiet and cold. Hannibal sits there, back perfectly straight, posture so perfect he can almost feel the memory of hands on his shoulders, rough and unkind, forcing him upright. He doesn’t need to sit like this, but he does. 

He tries to think of other things, of the fire, of the food, of anything but Will’s face, but it’s no use. He has ruined something, he thinks, something he has not had before. It is not his fault, he tells himself, but the thought does not bring comfort. No, Will is skittish, like an animal that bolts at the smallest sound, and yet… and yet…

His hands curl into fists, tight and unyielding, and he feels a strange surge of anger, fierce and hot, something that makes his fingers tremble. Will is mindless, an inconvenience, a boy who knows nothing of the world, who is stubborn and naïve.

He stares down at the fish, now cooling on the plate, the steam rising in thin wisps that seem to vanish into the air, as if even they are leaving him. The thought of Will, alone and hungry, gnaws at him, makes something inside him twist and tighten. He should not care, he tells himself, but the thought of Will, up there in the cold, his stomach empty, his eyes dark and tired—Hannibal cannot bear it.

He could kill Will for making him feel this way. He could tear him apart, rip him open, make him understand this ache, this terrible, awful ache that eats at him, that makes him want to do things he does not understand.

Before he can think better of it, Hannibal is on his feet, moving with a quiet urgency, his steps light and soft, barely disturbing the ground as he walks. He carries their plates, both of them, the fish balanced carefully as he makes his way up the trail. 

The trees close in around him, dark and quiet, the air cool and sharp, and as he draws closer to Will’s camp, he feels the anger settle, heavy and thick. He does not know what he will do.

When he reaches the edge of the camp, he stops, standing still and silent, his eyes scanning the darkness. The sheep are grazing quietly, their heads down, and Winston is nowhere to be seen. He takes a step forward, then stops, listening, his head tilted slightly, his ears straining for any sound.

And then he hears it—a voice, soft and low, murmuring from within Will’s tent. Hannibal frowns, his brow furrowing as he listens. Will is praying.

The realization sends a jolt through him, a strange, biting irritation that he does not understand. Will is praying, speaking to a God who will never answer. Hannibal feels a surge of anger, fierce and sudden, something that makes his hands clench, his fingers digging into the plates he holds. 

It is wasteful, he thinks, to use such a voice, to offer such words to something that does not hear, that does not see, that does not care.

“Lord, I come to You tonight ‘cause I got nowhere else to turn. I reckon You know that better than I do. I’m not here to ask for much, just strength to keep my heart steady.”

He pauses, a heavy breath filling the silence as if he’s gathering the courage to continue.

Hannibal wants to go to Will, to shake him, to make him understand that there is nothing out there, nothing but silence. He wants to tell him that his words are wasted, that they vanish into the night, unheard. Hannibal is here, he thinks, flesh and blood, solid and real, and he would listen. 

He thinks of Will’s tongue, soft and warm, and he wants to hold it, to keep it silent, to make sure it never speaks to anyone else, to anything else. 

Hannibal may be mute, yes, but God is deaf. 

He is walking as softly as he can, but it feels loud, every breath and step. He wonders if Will is expecting him. Wonders if Will even thinks of him at all.

The tent is small, a fragile, flimsy thing barely holding the shape of warmth inside. The light from the lantern spills faintly out, touches the edges of the grass, almost welcoming him, a little crack where shadows dance. Hannibal crouches, letting his knees sink down to the ground, setting the plate there in the dirt beside him as he lifts his hand to the tent’s flap. He hesitates for a breath, just one, his fingers brushing the rough, worn fabric before he opens it, lifting the edge with the slowest of movements.

Inside, Will jolts as if struck, as if Hannibal’s presence has broken something. His hands dart down, and Hannibal sees them leave each other, clasped as if they were holding some secret close, the air of quiet prayer disrupted. Will’s face, something in it falters, a look of shame folding into the lines of his expression, quick and hidden. 

He picks up the plates again and ducks into the small space. Winston lies curled beside Will, breathing softly, his warm, familiar form sprawled on the thin bedroll. Hannibal nudges the dog gently, his knee pressing against Winston’s fur until the dog stirs, shifting with a soft grumble. The dog’s weight presses close against Will and then against Hannibal as he settles in beside him, and for a moment, the tent feels impossibly small, as if there is no room left for breath. 

“Hey,” Will’s voice comes, stumbling, low and cautious. It is not the usual way he says it. There is hesitation in it, something like worry, and Hannibal shakes his head, not letting words form. He does not want the apology, the quiet excuses Will may make. He does not want the distance that words can put between them. Instead, he sets Will’s plate in front of him and lifts his hand, signing “eat.” 

Will’s gaze drops to the plate, then to his own hands, fingers twitching as he swallows. They eat in silence, the sound of metal against the plate the only thing breaking the quiet. The fish, Hannibal knows, is good. He spent time preparing it, making it as well as he could, but as he brings it to his mouth, it feels flat, dull, each bite dry. There is no satisfaction in it, no joy. 

He watches Will out of the corner of his eye, sees the way he chews, slow and thoughtful, each bite careful, as if he knows Hannibal is watching him. And yet, even this does not calm Hannibal. There is a surge inside him, a flash of something that makes his fingers clench around the fork, tight enough that he feels the ache in his knuckles. He could reach out, could grab Will by the chin, hold his face between his hands, could rip open the quiet mystery, could pull it apart with his bare hands if he needed to, if he just wanted to.

Instead, he closes his eyes, forcing the thought to settle, to cool, until his fingers relax, until he can eat without feeling the burn of that anger.

Then Will speaks, his voice soft, barely more than a murmur, “I didn’t realize how much time had passed.” 

Hannibal feels a faint pulse of something—an apology, though Will does not say it outright. It is not enough, not what Hannibal wants, but it feels close enough that he lets it settle, lets it soothe him, foolishly, weakly. He knows it is only his own longing that makes it feel like an apology, but he takes it as one anyway.

He does not respond, does not lift his gaze, letting them sit in the quiet. He feels the tension in Will’s body beside him. He wishes Will would ease, would laugh, would let his shoulder bump against Hannibal’s like he has done before, casual and close, would let those strange Southern words spill from his mouth in that soft, confusing way. Hannibal knows he would learn them all, would take them into himself as he has taken everything else from Will, piece by piece.

A soft sound escapes Will, a quiet, almost inaudible laugh, and Hannibal’s heart jumps, a quick, hard beat that fills his chest. Will glances at him, a small, fleeting smile touching his lips. “You got me good, Lecter,” he says. 

Hannibal looks up, his gaze sharpening, and he sees that Will’s plate is empty, his hand resting in his lap, fingers relaxed. There, on the tender skin of his palm, is a mark, Hannibal’s mark. His breath catches. The bite mark is dark, red and purple, blood vessels broken beneath the skin, a bloom of color that stands out stark against the pale flesh. It should not be there, this mark, this trace of his own teeth, but it is.

His hand lifts, almost without thinking, fingers reaching out to touch the mark, hesitant. He glances up at Will, seeking permission, and finds Will’s gaze steady on him. Will nods, just a slight movement, but it is enough.

Hannibal’s fingers brush against Will’s palm, tracing the edges of the mark, following the curve of each tooth print, the skin warm and soft under his touch. He is careful, his touch light, lighter than when he touched the fish. He has left something of himself on Will, something that will fade but is here now, a mark of their strange friendship, their boyhood, wild and reckless and real.

He feels Will’s pulse beneath his fingertips, a steady, quiet beat, and he smiles, a small, involuntary curl of his lips. He hears the soft hitch of Will’s breath, feels the slight tremor in his hand. They are close, close enough that he can see the small flecks of color in Will’s eyes, the blue deep and dark like the sea. Will’s gaze flickers, drops to Hannibal’s mouth, to the flash of his teeth, and Hannibal feels a small pang, a reminder of what he is, of the sharp edges that he tries to hide.

He closes his mouth, letting his lips cover his teeth, and Will’s gaze shifts, his eyes darting away. 

“You know, when I was a kid, I got bit by this stray dog,” Will says. “Mean little thing, all scrappy and wild. I was stupid enough to try to pet him, thought I’d be the one to get through to him or something.” He huffs a laugh, shaking his head like he can still see himself back then.

“He got me right here.” Will lifts his hand, showing the faint scar near the base of his thumb, a small, pale line almost invisible unless you know where to look. “Sunk his teeth in so hard I thought he was trying to take a piece of me with him. Hurt like hell, too. I ran all the way home, blood dripping down my wrist, didn’t even cry ‘till I got back to the yard.”

He pauses, glancing at Hannibal with a faint smile. “My Pa patched me up, gave me hell for trying to touch a stray like that. Told me I oughta know better. Said some things can’t be tamed, no matter how bad you want them to be. They’ll hurt you before they’ll let you close.” He laughs, a short, dry sound, and scratches the back of his neck. “Guess that lesson never quite stuck. Always had a knack for letting myself get close to things I shouldn’t.”

Hannibal’s gaze sharpens, his expression thoughtful as he studies the bruise he’s left on Will’s hand. He wants to touch it again, to press his fingers over the marks and feel the heat of Will’s skin beneath them, but he resists. 

Will’s gaze drops to the bite on his hand, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Hell, maybe I got a thing for teeth. Maybe I never learned that some things are dangerous for a reason.” He glances up, something a little guarded in his eyes, a touch of irony softening his voice. “Guess it don’t matter. Sometimes, when you want to feel something bad enough, you don’t care if it leaves a mark.”

There is a question in Hannibal mind. He wants to ask why Will prayed, who he prayed for, wants to understand the meaning behind those clasped hands, the look of shame. But he follows the path of Will’s gaze instead, sees the small pile beside the lantern, a glint of blue.

Will’s hand shoots out, fast and almost frantic, his fingers wrapping tight and hard around Hannibal’s wrist. His touch is strong but feels like it might soften or pull away at any second.

“Hannibal–” he says, his voice thick. 

Hannibal feels his own pulse under Will’s grip. But then Hannibal pulls his arm free, moving toward something small and blue on the floor, something half-hidden in the shadows at their feet. Winston lets out a gentle huff beside them. Outside the tent, the soft bleats of sheep rise and fall in a low hum. But here, Hannibal can hear Will’s breathing.

There, scattered and soft in his hands, are his own notes—the small slips of paper he had given Will, written in quiet moments, words that were barely words. He turns them over carefully, the paper light as feathers between his fingers. And then he sees it: the dried blue flower, its tiny petals still clinging to the stem, preserved somehow, almost as if it is waiting. Hannibal rolls it gently between his fingers, the stem rough but so thin it feels almost like air. 

Hannibal remembers when he picked it. There had been a patch of flowers there, wild and blue, their color like little pieces of sky that had fallen to earth. He had chosen them carefully. It had been that blue, a color that reminded him of Will’s eyes, a blue that seemed to always search, never resting. Hannibal remembers watching Will looking at those flowers, his gaze lingering like he was seeing something he hadn’t seen before, something he wanted to touch but didn’t dare. And so Hannibal had taken one and he had placed it by Will’s ear, letting it sit there just to see the color against his face. He wanted to know if the blue would match, but it didn’t—not quite. Will’s blue was stronger. 

“I’m a mess,” Will says. Hannibal looks up. 

Yes, Will is a mess, a mess of things that don’t quite fit together. But it is a mess Hannibal feels he could look through. He feels the weight of Will’s shame, the shadows of his guilt, the lines of his fear, all tangled and caught up in the softness of his gaze. And Hannibal wants to touch it, wants to reach out and run his fingers along those broken edges, to understand the shape of Will’s hurt, to know what makes his voice tremble like it does.

He wants to ask why Will holds his hand that way, why his voice sounds like that, why he kept this small, fragile thing Hannibal had given him. He wants to know what these things mean, to understand what Will’s silence is trying to tell him.

Instead, he reaches out, his fingers moving slowly. He takes the flower, that dried and fragile memory, and tucks it back behind Will’s ear, careful as if it were a thing still alive. Will’s face changes; his smile fades, and Hannibal sees a flicker in his eyes, something dimming, pulling back. Will flinches, his shoulders tightening, his gaze dropping to the ground as though he can’t bear to meet Hannibal’s eyes. 

Hannibal watches the way he moves, the way his hand shakes just a little as it drops down to Winston, sinking into the dog’s fur. He wants to hear it, to pull it out of him, to understand why Will looks at him this way, why he touches him and pulls away all at once. Hannibal wants many things lately.

“You know, I don’t get you, ” Will mutters. “One minute you’re all soft, the next minute… I don’t know, you’re just...” Will huffs a breath, shaking his head.“You’re like... like a damn animal sometimes. All teeth and claws, like you can’t decide if you wanna eat me or fuck me up.”

Hannibal’s chest tightens, like he’s suffocating on his own breath, and his stomach rolls. 

He reaches for the notes Will kept, flips to the blank side. The pencil from behind his ear moves slowly, his words unfolding one by one, each sentence drawn out, and hands it to Will.

Some animals leave marks on us because they cannot stay. And some of us, perhaps, carry teeth like this—teeth that bite to keep others away, though they do not mean harm. 

Will reads the note, and something shifts in his eyes. Hannibal watches him carefully, seeing the way his gaze softens. Will huffs a laugh, low and soft, almost like he’s amused at some private thought.

“You do, huh?” Will murmurs, his voice lighter, touched by something close to wonder. “Guess maybe we’re both a little marked up by things that won’t stay,” he says, his voice quiet, almost thoughtful.

Hannibal pauses, pencil poised above the paper as he considers his next words. He writes again, slowly, carefully.

Maybe we do not have to tame such things. Maybe we only have to know them. To touch them with care. 

He hands Will the note, watching the way Will’s eyes linger on the words, taking them in as though they hold more weight than the thin paper. 

“You know, that sounds like the kind of thing my momma used to say,” he murmurs, almost to himself. He gives a wry smile, glancing at Hannibal with a softness in his gaze. “She had this way of seeing things, like they were all a part of some big picture I couldn’t understand yet. Guess she figured I’d catch on someday."

You see things differently, I think—like you don’t need to understand them to know they matter.

Will tilts his head, reading the note slowly. “You know, maybe you’re the dangerous one, Hannibal. Here I am telling you about my momma and my old scars, and you’ve barely said a word.”

Hannibal’s lips quirk as he writes his response. 

Silence has its own way of listening.

“Guess that’s true. You got that look about you, like you’re always listening to things most folks would miss.” Will leans back, eyes drifting down to his hands.

His hand moves to the page again, his pencil scratching softly as he writes.

I do not know why you tell me these things, but I feel… honored to know them.

Will reads, and for a long moment, he says nothing. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, almost tentative. “I guess… I tell you because you don’t ask for it. You just listen. You don’t try to fix anything, or make it into something it’s not. You just… let it be.”

Hannibal’s breath catches.

I think I understand, Will. Some things do not need fixing. Sometimes, they only need to be seen. 

Will’s lips quirk in that wry, ironic smile he wears like armor, but Hannibal can see the softness beneath it. 

“Careful, Hannibal,” he says. “Might make a guy think you understand him a little too well.” 

I think I do. Or I wish to. 

A quiet falls between them, and Hannibal feels himself sinking into it. Will reaches into his pocket, fingers brushing against the lure he’d given Hannibal earlier. He pulls it out, holding it between his fingers.

“Funny thing about this,” Will murmurs, a faint smile in his voice. “I always thought a lure’s only as good as the hands that made it.” He holds it out to Hannibal. “I reckon you oughta keep it.”

Hannibal blinks, a small, sharp ache blooming in his chest as he takes the lure. He closes his fingers around it, a gesture of acceptance, of gratitude. 

I will keep it. I will take care of it, as you would.

This must be friendship, he thinks. This must be what it is to be bound to someone, to see pieces of yourself in them, to feel them as a part of you even when you don’t understand it. 

Will’s mouth softens into a small, quiet smile. “The fish was good,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, like it is just for Hannibal. Hannibal nods. He reaches out, his hand slipping into Winston’s fur beside Will’s, never touching.

Hannibal feels the calm sink into him, wrapping around his heart like a gentle weight, and he thinks maybe, this is not friendship at all. Perhaps it is something else, something he can never name, something he will never understand, but it is here, and it is his, and he does not need to know what it is to feel it. 

Chapter Text

The bark of the tree feels rough against Hannibal’s head. He leans back into it anyway. The sunlight filters down through the branches, dappling his face and flickering against his closed eyelids. 

There’s a warmth there, dancing in patterns he can’t quite follow. He keeps his eyes shut because it feels safer that way, the light moving behind his eyelids like tiny lanterns swaying in the wind. He lets it flicker, lets it settle into his bones, and wonders if he concentrated hard enough, if he held still and gave himself over to the sun completely, whether he could see pictures in the light.

It’s strange—what he thinks he sees. Shapes, maybe people, or the ghosts of them, drawn in soft, blurry reds and yellows, swimming like fish just out of reach. They dart and shimmer, slipping between his fingers when he tries to hold them in his mind. He lets them go, sighing, and instead focuses on the grass brushing against his hands where they rest at his sides. It tickles, little pricks of movement against his skin, dry and soft like fingers trying to reach for him, playful and shy. He lets his hands lie still, palms open to the earth like an offering, and feels the way the cool blades of grass sway in the breeze.

The breeze carries the faintest hint of coolness, just enough to make him glad for the jacket he hasn’t taken off all day. Will teased him about it earlier, like always, his lips curling into that easy smile that makes Hannibal feel strange, restless. You wear that thing like it’s glued to you, Will had said. 

Will had kept smiling as he tugged his own jacket tighter around himself, and Hannibal had thought, not for the first time, that maybe Will liked to tease because he understood. 

Hannibal’s cheeks sting faintly where the sun has kissed them too long. He can feel the tightness in his skin, the way it has turned pink and tender, already peeling at the edges. It doesn’t bother him. He likes the way it feels, the quiet ache of it. He likes that Will’s face is the same, sunburnt and raw in patches, his nose red and peeling. It makes Hannibal feel something like satisfaction, this sameness between them, this matching set of marks left by the sun. It makes him think of other marks—the bite, mostly.

The bite mark is fading. Hannibal noticed it this morning, how the edges of it have blurred into his skin, the once-deep colors softening into the faintest yellow, barely there now. It isn’t logical, this frustration, this ache at seeing the mark disappear. Marks aren’t meant to last forever. He knows this. Skin heals, changes, forgets.

He wishes the bite had stayed longer, just long enough for him to capture it. He could have taken out his pencils, matched the exact hues, drawn it on paper where it would never fade. Paper doesn’t forget the way skin does. He could have kept it safe that way, tucked away in one of his books where no one would see it but him. But it’s too late now, and all he has is the memory of it, the faint echo of Will’s laugh when he’d said, “I guess I got a thing for teeth.”

Hannibal turns the words over in his mind, again and again, the way he has done since the moment Will said them. The way Will smiled, like it was nothing, like it didn’t matter, like he wasn’t leaving Hannibal with something he couldn’t put down. A thing for teeth.

It sounds like permission, perhaps, if he thinks about it the right way. But every time he tries to act on it, to lean in, to press closer, something stops him. The urge is there, always there.

His teeth ache sometimes when he looks at Will, like they are remembering how it felt to sink into skin, to leave a mark. But it isn’t the same anymore. The thought of biting doesn’t feel violent now. He wants to use his teeth for something different now, not for breaking or tearing but for painting. He wants to leave colors on Will’s skin, reds and purples and yellows that would glow in the sunlight like a kind of language.

Hannibal thought it would be enough, this closeness, this warmth between them, the hours they spend working and talking and simply existing near each other. But it isn’t enough.

Lately, his thoughts have turned strange. He finds himself wanting childish things. He wants to ask Will to stay in his tent at night, to talk until they’re too tired to keep their eyes open, to shine flashlights under their chins and scare each other with ghost stories like boys do. 

The thought makes his chest ache, and he presses it down, sealing it tight inside himself where no one can reach. He avoids the idea altogether, keeps his tent zipped shut at night as though the barrier might keep him safe from his own thoughts, from the calloused hands of a boy.

But it never happens.

Will never stays. He always leaves when the sun sets, trudging up the hill to watch the sheep, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. Hannibal knows it’s his job. He knows this. 

They talk during the day, though, filling the quiet with stories and questions and half-truths. Will is terrifying. The way his hair catches the light makes something inside Hannibal stir, sharp and hungry. The way Will smiles makes him want to destroy everything around him, to smash it all into pieces just to see if Will would still laugh.

He has been learning everything about Will in the quiet hours they share, piecing together fragments of a boy who sees himself as broken. Will thinks he is rough, ugly, like shattered glass on a curb that cuts anyone who steps too close. 

Hannibal doesn’t see it that way. To him, Will is a meadow.

Will has started signing the cross before they eat, murmuring thanks to God for the meal as though Hannibal wasn’t the one who cooked it, as though Will hadn’t named the bait and pulled it from the water himself. It makes Hannibal angry, the way Will’s faith feels like an insult to the work of their hands. He wants to reach across, to shake Will until he sees that the only holiness here is what they have created together. He wants to make Will dream of darkness, to suture up the holes he imagines in his palms with a needle dipped in Hannibal’s own hellfire.

But friendship does not ask for that. Friendship is fleeting touches, the playful chase of throwing grass at one another. Friendship is everything and nothing at once.

Every day, they count the sheep. Every day, the number is the same. 

Hannibal wonders what would happen if it wasn’t.

His gaze, unfocused at first, blinks into the world of colors around him. It is green and blue. 

Always blue.

The first thing he feels is the weight of the lamb on his leg, its small head resting on his knee. It sleeps, chest rising and falling with steady breaths, the warmth of its body pressing through the fabric of his jeans. Hannibal looks down at it. 

Will sits by him, close enough that Hannibal can see the golden dust of sunlight caught in his hair. He is playing the harmonica, the little instrument held between his fingers and his lips. His head tips forward, curls falling around his face in a way that feels unintentional, like the world shaping itself around him without him noticing. His mouth, curved against the harmonica, moves with purpose but also something shy, as though even his music is cautious. Hannibal stares.

The song is not perfect. It wanders, like a child finding its way through the woods, but there is beauty in the hesitance. Will is not bad and the sound grows steadier as it continues. Hannibal listens, drawn to it, but his gaze cannot stay still. His eyes trace the line of Will’s jaw, the slope of his nose, the way his lashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks. Will’s freckles—barely visible but there—dot his skin like scattered seeds, and Hannibal finds himself counting them. 

Hannibal’s breath catches when he looks at Will’s mouth again. It moves so carefully, shaping the notes, creating sound out of nothing. He thinks of all the things that mouth can do—speak, yes, but also shout, laugh, say words Hannibal cannot always understand. 

He swallows, and his gaze drifts back to the lamb. It sleeps on, undisturbed by the sound or by the world. Its trust feels heavy against Hannibal’s leg, and he wonders why it stays. He wonders why he stays. 

Lately, he has been wanting—too much, perhaps, more than he knows how to hold. He wants many things: the freedom of the open sky, the endlessness of the river, the quiet of the grass beneath them. He wants to know what Will dreams of when he lays in the wet fields at night. He wants to be the moonlight that touches him, the earth that holds him.

He knows Will thinks of friendship when he looks at him. Hannibal wants to become that word.

The thought startles him, and he looks away quickly, back to the lamb, as though it might offer him some answer. Its small body rises and falls, so soft and trusting, and Hannibal feels the ache deepen in his chest. His hand tightens again, this time into the grass, pulling at it with a grip he does not notice at first. He wants—he does not know how to put it into words. It is not language but a feeling, sharp and endless, and it frightens him. 

He tips forward, hesitantly, until his head comes to rest on Will’s thigh.

Will stops playing.

The silence is immediate, heavy after the music. Hannibal freezes, his breath caught in his chest, and he can feel the tension in Will’s body beneath him. Will’s voice is quiet, unsure. 

“Hannibal?” His name sounds different in Will’s mouth. “Are you—are you okay?”

Hannibal nods, though the movement feels too sharp, too forced. His jaw tightens, teeth grinding together as his fingers clench harder in the grass. The sound of roots snapping breaks the silence between them, and Hannibal feels his chest squeeze. He does not look at Will. He cannot.

For a moment, the world holds its breath. Then Will does too, drawing in a long, steady inhale before exhaling through the harmonica. The music returns, softer this time, more hesitant, but it grows. Hannibal lets himself breathe again. His grip on the grass loosens, the torn blades spilling from his hand. He gathers them again, his movements slow, as he places them on Will’s knee.

He closes his eyes again, letting the sound press against him like the weight of the lamb on his leg. His hands keep moving, piling the grass on Will’s knee in careful stacks. He imagines, briefly, that if they stayed like this long enough, the grass might grow through them, binding them to this place, to each other.

He wants that too.

Hannibal has not been held like this—not truly—since he was small. Since before he knew what loss felt like, before he saw his mother’s face twisted in pain. She had been warm once, like Will is now. 

The weight of his head presses into Will’s crossed legs, and he wonders, briefly, if it’s uncomfortable for him. He doesn’t know why it affects him so strongly—why the simple movement of Will’s mouth shaping the music feels like a hook digging into his ribs and pulling, gentle but insistent. He doesn’t know why it makes him want to stay here, still and silent, even when every muscle in his body itches to move.

When he opens his eyes, it is slow, reluctant, as though the world above him might not be one he recognizes. But there is Will, framed by the overcast sky, his face soft in the light. Hannibal’s gaze tracks upward to the movement of Will’s throat as he plays, the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple, sharp and pronounced beneath his skin. It moves with every breath, every note, and Hannibal can’t stop watching. He wonders what it would feel like under his fingertips—if it would tremble.

Would it taste of salt? Of life? Of voice? 

He doesn’t let himself follow the thought too far, doesn’t let himself think of tearing it from Will’s throat, of swallowing it whole. He knows it would not give him what he is missing.

He swallows hard, the motion jerky and loud in his ears, and the sound feels like a betrayal. Hannibal tells himself to be still, to remain as he is, a soft, quiet thing resting where he does not belong. He is not this—this creature who lays his head in another’s lap, who seeks warmth where he knows he should not. And yet, he is here. He feels as though he is without skin. 

Will had helped him gut the fish once. He remembers the way Will had held the knife, his grip too tight, his movements too abrupt. Hannibal had watched, silent, as the blade scraped over the fish’s skin, pulling it back in uneven strips, jagged and raw. So much less careful than the way Hannibal does it.

Will treats the thing he calls “God’s gift” with such carelessness. It makes Hannibal wonder, even now, how Will would treat it if Hannibal had been the one to catch the fish for him. If it had been something he had pulled from the water with his own hands, offered to Will as a gift.

Would he be rougher with it, knowing it had come from Hannibal? Would he tear into it with the same thoughtlessness, scrape its scales away without hesitation, as though the act were nothing at all? Or would he pause? Would he look at it, at what Hannibal had given him, and hold it with the reverence Hannibal shows in his own hands? Would he strip the scales delicately, with care, and make the act look like something gentle, something sweet?

Hannibal wants to believe he would make it sweet. He wants to believe that Will, with all his trembling uncertainty, would find a way to make it beautiful. But Will’s hands are shaky, never steady, and Hannibal knows they would falter. He knows the knife would slip, that the act would not be smooth, that the skin would tear unevenly under Will’s touch.

Hannibal sighs, a soft, uneven exhale, and he shifts slightly, curling closer into Will’s lap. His gaze drifts downward, away from Will’s throat, away from the thoughts that linger there. Instead, he stares at the flannel stretched across Will’s stomach, the pattern faint and worn in places. 

The fabric moves with every breath Will takes. Hannibal feels the pull of it, the strange, inexplicable urge to bury his face there, to press himself into the warmth of Will’s body until he is hidden from the world.

The thought is pathetic. He tells himself not to move, not to give in to the impulse, but his body betrays him. Slowly, cautiously, he tilts his head, inching closer to Will’s stomach. The fabric brushes against his nose, soft and worn, and Hannibal exhales into it, a sound that is too close to relief. He feels the tension in his chest ease, just a little, as though the space between them is something he is lucky to exist within.

Will’s playing falters, the music breaking off mid-note, and Hannibal freezes once more. His eyes lift, hesitant, and he finds Will looking down at him, his harmonica lowered. His wide eyes hold something that flickers. Fear, confusion.

“That was Heart of Gold,” Will says, his voice rough and breathless. The words come out uneven, like he’s only just remembered how to speak, and Hannibal watches him.

Will looks away, his gaze turning distant, and he speaks again, softer this time. “There had a wildfire one year—by where we lived.” His words come slow, halting. “Old wood like that burns sweeter than green, and the smoke stayed on my skin for days.”

He laughs then, a quiet, uncertain sound. He doesn’t know what to do with it. Will’s voice softens further as he continues, “I remember combing it out of my hair on the porch while my daddy played the guitar. And he played Heart of Gold. Then the thunderstorm came, rolled in, drank away the stars and the smoke with it.”

Hannibal longs to follow Will, to learn every detail of the soil where he was born, to collect it in a little glass bottle and take it home. He wonders what might grow if he planted the tiny seeds lingering in the dirt. 

Will’s smile is faint, distant, his eyes focused on something Hannibal cannot see. But then his gaze sharpens, returns to the present, to Hannibal, and he studies him for a long moment.

Without warning, Will grabs Hannibal’s notebook, the movement sudden and ungraceful. He slams it onto Hannibal’s chest. Hannibal does not flinch.

Will’s eyes are wide and endless, glittering blue like sunlight skipping over water. There’s shame in Will’s eyes too, tucked into the edges, soft and bruised like overripe fruit. It stings to see it, but Hannibal doesn’t look away. Shame doesn’t belong in Will. It doesn’t suit him. It is foreign and heavy, and Hannibal wants to rip it away with his teeth, wants to make him whole again. 

He wants to ask what it is that makes Will look at him this way, makes him press their moment into silence until it threatens to crack open—but he won’t. 

Will’s hand rests on his chest, heavy and warm, pinning down the little notebook Hannibal always keeps with him. His fingers curl tight over its cover, not hard enough to hurt but firm, insistent, as though he can press the pages into Hannibal’s skin, into his ribs, and make them stay there. Make him absorb what he’s written. 

“Hannibal,” Will says. His voice is quiet, a murmur carried by the breeze. It feels soft against Hannibal’s ears. “Do you ever miss it? Your voice?”

Hannibal feels the question like a blade. Sharp, sudden, and deeper than he expects. The air leaves him all at once, a little sound caught in his throat, and his body moves without thinking, jerking upward. He isn’t sure if he’s trying to escape or answer, but Will’s hand presses him back down, his palm firm against Hannibal’s chest.

Will’s breath catches, just a little. Hannibal hears it, soft and startled, and he watches the way Will’s lips part, how his chest rises and falls in uneven little jerks. He wants to bite Will so badly. He wants to sink his teeth into the soft curve of Will’s wrist or his throat, to hold him steady until he feels safe again. Instead, he turns his head, pressing his cheek against the warmth of Will’s thigh.

“It’s okay,” Will says. “You don’t have to tell me. Sorry.”

Hannibal lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Will’s hand doesn’t move, and Hannibal doesn’t ask it to.

Will has given him so much. Stories, pieces of himself offered so gently. He doesn’t know what to do with it all, how to hold it. The things Will shares are soft, intimate, like lullabies hummed to a restless child. They make Hannibal want to sleep, to sink into the sound and let it wrap around him. They make him want to paint Will’s smile. They make him want to tear into Will’s mind, to pluck his thoughts like flowers and keep them pressed between the pages of a book. 

He wants to make them his, every one.

Quid pro quo, Hannibal thinks. Fair exchange. Will has given him so much—more than Hannibal knows how to repay. But he wants to try. 

His hand moves slowly, reaching for the pencil tucked behind his ear. Will doesn’t fight him, just watches, his eyes soft and wide. Hannibal doesn’t sit up, doesn’t leave the place where his head rests in Will’s lap. Instead, he lifts the notebook into the air, letting it hover there as he thinks.

The words come suddenly, all at once. His pencil scratches against the paper, messy and hurried, the lines uneven because of the way he’s lying. He writes without stopping, without thinking too much. He doesn’t know what he’s trying to say, only that he has to say it. When he finally stops, half the page is full.

He hesitates, his hand hovering over the notebook. He doesn’t want to show Will, doesn’t want to see what his face will do when he reads it. But Will looks at him, his eyes so open and bright, and Hannibal can’t refuse him. 

I find I miss the act of speaking. Not simply the sound of my own voice, though I admit, in moments of honesty, that I miss that too. There’s vanity in it, I know, but it is a quieter sort of vanity, one that surprises me when I find it lingering. The way words form in the mouth, how they stretch and shape the air before they leave it.  A word begins as nothing but thought, quiet and unformed, and then it takes shape, becomes tangible. It exists in the world in a way it didn’t before.

It’s a small miracle, really. How often do we think about what it means to speak, to give a sound to a thought? I didn’t, not when I spoke freely.

Milk-thistle—a word that barely disturbs the tongue. It’s soft, almost lazy, the syllables unhurried. They don’t rush; they tumble out as if they’ve nowhere urgent to be. A word that takes its time.

But a word like violence demands more. It isn’t gentle. There’s a pause within it, a moment where the mouth hesitates, as though deciding whether or not to continue. The “o” stitches the syllables together, but it also holds them apart, making you feel the sharpness of the word even as you form it. 

Words are so many things at once. Poets feel their weight. Linguists guide them like shepherds, bending them into paths that suit their purpose. And etymologists—they pull them backward through time, dragging them through centuries to uncover their roots. Yet through all this, the word remains whole. No matter how it’s shaped or bent, it is still itself.

I think that’s part of why I miss speaking. There’s something alive in it, something raw and real. When you speak, you become part of that life. You don’t just shape the words; they shape you too. They leave a trace of you behind.

And sometimes—more often than I would admit—I think about how it would feel to say your name.

Will takes the notebook carefully, holding it like it might break. His eyes move slowly over the page, his cheeks growing pinker with every line. Hannibal watches the way his lips part, how his breath catches and trembles. 

Will’s fingers tighten on the notebook, his knuckles whitening around the edges. His eyes flick back down to the page, lingering on the words like they might shift if he looks hard enough. The pink in his cheeks deepens, spilling into the tips of his ears, and Hannibal can see the rise and fall of his chest, quick and uneven.

“It’s beautiful,” Will says finally, his voice soft but steady. He looks up, meeting Hannibal’s eyes. “I don’t—I didn’t know you thought about things like this. About words. About...” He trails off, his lips pressing together like he’s afraid of finishing the sentence.

Will shifts his weight, the notebook still cradled in his hands like it’s precious. “My daddy used to say words had power. Like, real power. That you could curse someone if you said the right thing the wrong way. Or bless them, if you knew how to do it right.” He glances down, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “He said names were the strongest of all. That you should be careful who you let say yours, ’cause some people might try to take it away from you.”

Hannibal’s chest tightens at that, the thought pressing against his ribs. He looks at Will, his expression carefully neutral, but there’s something in his eyes that feels like understanding.

Do you believe that?

Will shrugs, a jerky motion. “I don’t know. Sometimes. I think words stick to people, whether you want them to or not. Like burrs. You can pull them off, but the scratch is still there.”

He glances back at Hannibal, his gaze searching, like he’s looking for something he’s not sure he’ll find. “What about you? Do you think names matter?”

Hannibal hesitates, his hand hovering near his notebook. 

Names are heavy things. They hold us in place. But they can also be weights, pulling us under.

Will reads the words, his brow furrowing slightly. “And mine?” he asks, his voice quiet but insistent. “What does my name feel like to you?”

Hannibal’s hand stills over the page. He looks at Will, his throat tightening again, and for a moment, he feels like he might drown in the weight of the question. He doesn’t write anything else. He can’t.

When Will looks back at him, his expression is something Hannibal can’t name. “Can you try? Saying it?” 

Hannibal wants to say yes. He wants it more than anything. But his throat tightens, his mouth stays shut, and all he can do is shake his head, the motion small.

Will nods, his gaze falling back to the notebook. He doesn’t look disappointed—not really—but there’s something soft and sad in the way his shoulders slump. 

“Milk thistle,” he whispers, testing the words on his tongue. He smiles, small and crooked, and says it again. “Milk thistle.”

Hannibal smiles back, his lips twitching just a little. He wants to hold Will’s voice, to catch it in his hands like a lamb and keep it close.

“Violence,” Will says, the word buzzing through the air. His smile fades, replaced by something heavier, more thoughtful. He hesitates, his gaze flicking down to Hannibal’s throat. Slowly, his knuckles graze against it, the touch light and trembling. Hannibal swallows hard, his breath catching.

“I wish I could give you my voice,” Will says softly, his voice unsteady. “I feel like I waste it.”

Hannibal shakes his head, reaching for the notebook again. He writes quickly, his hand sure.

Only when you pray.

Will frowns, his lips pressing into a thin line. “You shouldn’t say things like that.” 

Hannibal writes again.

I listen, not God. 

Will hums, a low, thoughtful sound. His fingers find a blade of grass resting on his knee, and he twirls it between his fingers, his gaze distant. Then, he drops it onto Hannibal’s cheek. Hannibal doesn’t move to brush it away.

Will breaks the silence after a moment. “Can I… can I keep this one?” he asks, holding the page with careful fingers. Hannibal nods.

Will smiles, reaching for his harmonica. “Here. Try.”

Hannibal hesitates, his fingers hovering just over the harmonica. His gaze flicks to the instrument, tracing the way the metal glints in the sunlight, the way the surface is still wet, slick with Will’s spit. It isn’t proper; he knows this. It’s impolite, the way he feels drawn to the faint sheen.

His hand trembles as he brings the harmonica closer. The metal is cool against his lips at first, and then the warmth blooms—Will’s taste, faint but unmistakable, clinging to his tongue. It’s sweet, he thinks, and it fills his mouth in a way that makes him swallow reflexively, as if to trap it there. He tells himself he can keep it forever, that this moment, this taste, this closeness, can linger if only he wills it so.

The first note is hesitant, barely more than a whisper of sound, trembling and raw. It wavers in the air, uneven, but the vibration resonates in his chest, in his throat, like it is pulling something out of him. His fingers fumble along the instrument, unsure, slipping over the ridges of the notes, but he presses forward. Slowly, the sound steadies, filling the air in broken, fragile bursts that somehow still feel whole.

Their spit mingles on the harmonica, a detail that burns at the edges of Hannibal’s mind, setting his chest alight. The thought lodges itself there, impossibly intimate and strange. 

Will’s laugh breaks through, bright and open, spilling into the moment like sunlight. He claps his hands together, the sharp sound ringing out, his grin so wide it looks like it could split him. There is something childish about it. His breath catches at the sight of Will, so alive, so impossibly there.

For the first time in what feels like forever, it is as if Hannibal is speaking.

──────────── 

The thing Hannibal told him doesn’t just stick; it burrows. It gets into the soft, unspoken parts of Will that he doesn’t much like to think about, and it lives there like a parasite. 

A maggot worming its way through flesh, hollowing him out from the inside. Hannibal said he wastes his voice when he prays, and Will hasn’t known a moment’s peace since. The words sit heavy on his chest, like a stone that’ll crack his ribs if he breathes too hard. They make him feel small, like when he was a boy and his daddy used to tell him to stop whining. Like when he got so mad at God for letting his mama go that he stopped saying her name for months.

Now he’s grown, a man by anyone’s reckoning, and he prays because it’s what you do. Because the world’s too big and cruel, and if you don’t lay it at someone’s feet, it’ll crush you under the weight. But when Hannibal said what he said—I listen, not God—it got Will thinking. Too much thinking, the kind that keeps a man awake when he knows he’s got to be up before the sun. He lays there in the dark some nights, hearing Hannibal’s voice—or, not his voice. Hannibal don’t speak, not with his mouth. He writes, and somehow it’s louder than words, loud enough to split Will’s head open.

It rattles him bad. 

He can’t shake it, even when he’s out in the fields working himself to the bone or knee-deep in the water pulling fish from the water. Even when he’s dog-tired and his hands are too blistered to hold a cigarette steady, it’s there. His prayers don’t come easy anymore; they stick in his throat like cotton, and when he does manage to get the words out, they feel thin and brittle.

And God knows Will’s tried.

At night, he lights the little stub of a candle, strikes the match and lets the sulfur sting his nose like it might jolt him awake. But it don’t. He kneels and whispers. And every time, the thought slinks in, curling up in the corner of his prayer like a stray dog with mean eyes.

Hannibal thinks I waste my voice.

It’s worse when they’re eating, and Will bows his head to say grace. He feels Hannibal watching him. It makes the words come slower, heavier, like they’re being dragged out of him. And the whole time, he wonders if Hannibal’s judging him for it. If Hannibal’s thinking about how Will wastes his breath, his voice, his faith.

Thank you for this food, he says, the words sticking in his throat. Bless it, and bless us, and bless the hands that made it. He knows his daddy wouldn’t approve of the last part. Blessing Hannibal. Will don’t care. It slips out anyway.

Sometimes, when Hannibal’s tired, when his armor softens just enough to see the cracks underneath, Will feels it. He swears he does. It’s like emotion bleeding out of him, pooling between them until Will feels soaked through. Grief and anger. Hannibal don’t let on, of course. He’s too blank, too steady, but Will knows it’s there. He can feel it. 

He wishes Hannibal would tell him. Wishes he could ask without his own voice getting caught in his throat. But he don’t, and so he talks instead. He speaks for the both of them, filling up the quiet like a man trying to patch holes in a sinking ship. He tries out the fancy words Hannibal teaches him sometimes, those ones that taste like marbles in his mouth, but his accent twists them up until they come out wrong. He butchers them, he knows. Hannibal never says so, but Will feels it anyway, like his words will never be enough.

He wants to give Hannibal’s voice back to him, somehow. Wants to make it so Hannibal don’t have to stay so quiet all the time, but he don’t know how to do that either. So he does what he can. He catches their fish and watches their sheep, and he talks until there ain’t nothing left to say.

And the dreams—God, the dreams. They’re the worst part. Every time Will lets his eyes close, Hannibal’s there. He’s always there. He’s sprawled across Will’s lap, small in a way that doesn’t seem real. Hannibal’s not small, not in the way men are small, but here he is. 

In the dream, Will touches him. His hands know where to go, even if his mind doesn’t. They press to Hannibal’s chest, feeling the soft rise and fall of his breath, the steady drum of life under his skin. His thumb brushes over the hollow of Hannibal’s throat, where the skin’s warm and thin enough to see the faint flutter of his pulse. 

He dreams like it’s a memory. The two of them, sitting after dinner, picking apart the bones left behind. Hannibal finds the wishbone, holds it up like it’s a prize, and his eyes catch the light in that sharp, almost boyish way he’s got sometimes. They don’t say anything—Hannibal doesn’t talk, and Will doesn’t need to. They both know.

In the dream, they slip out into the grass like kids sneaking away from a scolding. The air smells like summer and the ground’s warm under their bare feet. They find a tree, the tallest one, and Will’s up it before Hannibal can blink. He’s fast, reckless, the kind of climber who doesn’t much care about falling. Hannibal follows slower, more careful, his fingers finding the sturdy holds, his feet testing each branch before trusting it.

Will waits for him at the top, perched on a thick branch like he belongs there, like he was born in the trees. He grins down at Hannibal, his hair a mess, dirt smudged across his face, and he teases him for being slow. Hannibal doesn’t write anything down, but the look he gives Will says plenty.

When they’re both settled, legs swinging over the edge, they hold the wishbone between them. One side in Will’s hand, the other in Hannibal’s. The sky’s a blaze of gold and orange, the sun sinking low over the hills, and for a moment, it’s like the whole world’s on fire.

In the dream, Hannibal glows in that light. His shirt’s gone, his skin streaked with mud, and he looks wild. Will stares at him, at the curve of his shoulders, the scars that map his back like constellations. He wonders what put them there, wonders if Hannibal’s ever going to tell him.

They trade their scars, in a way. Will shows his—the jagged ones on his arms, the ones on his knees from falling off a bike when he was ten. 

“If I get the longer side,” Will says, his voice low and steady, “I’ll wish for it all.”

Hannibal doesn’t answer.

The dream shifts, then, like all dreams do. One moment they’re boys in a tree, and the next, Hannibal’s mouth is on him. His teeth sink into Will’s arm, sharp and unrelenting, and Will feels the hot rush of blood spill down his skin. It should hurt more than it does, but it doesn’t. Hannibal drinks from him, his eyes dark and endless, and when he pulls back, his mouth is red and wet.

Will wakes up gasping, his chest heaving, and shame wraps around him like a noose. It makes his stomach churn, makes his hands shake, and he can’t stand it. He rolls out of his blanket and he prays. 

Free me, Lord. Free me from the flesh you trap me in. From the thoughts you plague me with.

He says it over and over, his voice cracking, his throat raw. 

I listen, not God.

And the next day, when Hannibal looks at him, Will doesn’t look back. He keeps his head down, his words short, and he avoids him.

Will spends the whole damn day trying not to think about Hannibal. Tells himself he’s got better things to do, things that need doing if the world’s gonna keep turning. There’s the fence that needs mending where the sheep busted through last week, and the water trough that’s almost dry from the heat. 

By the time the sun starts dipping low, he’s restless. Can feel it in his chest, a tightness that don’t let up, like he’s forgot something important or left the stove burning back home. The sheep are bleating soft as the twilight sets in, and Winston is dozing near his feet, but none of it feels right. There’s something missing.

And Will knows exactly what it is.

Hannibal’s like nothing he’s ever known. Like nothing he’ll ever know again, and it scares the hell out of him, truth be told. 

Most folks fit into neat little boxes in Will’s head—this kind’s a gossip, that one’s a liar, the other’s just plain boring—but Hannibal don’t fit nowhere. He’s too sharp, too clever. 

It’s pathetic, how much he’s drawn to him. Will hates himself for it, like a drunk hates the bottle but still reaches for it every night. Being around Hannibal’s like trying a new kind of tobacco—something richer, smoother, but twice as addicting. You tell yourself you’ll take just one drag, one little taste, but by the time you realize you’re hooked, it’s too late. That’s how it is with Hannibal. 

He tells himself they’re just boys. Normal boys. That’s what he clings to, like it’s the only truth that’ll save him. Normal boys wrestle. They run through fields, tackling each other like wild animals, and laugh when one gets a face full of dirt. They lean on each other when they’re tired, and it don’t mean nothing when Hannibal’s shoulder feels steady and warm under his head. It’s just what boys do.

Up in the camp that night, it don’t feel fair. The stars are bright, scattered like salt across the black sky, but they don’t bring no comfort. The air’s too quiet, too still, and Will’s got nothing to do but sit there and think. His mind drifts back to Hannibal, like it always does. To the way Hannibal writes, his head bent low over the paper, the firelight catching on the angles of his face. 

He don’t notice the coyote until Winston barks, jerking him out of his thoughts. The damn thing’s standing just outside the firelight, its eyes glowing like two little moons. Will grabs his rifle, quick as he can, and fires. He misses. The coyote runs off.

It’s too much then, all of it. The frustration, the longing, the shame. He kicks a rock hard enough to make his foot throb, gritting his teeth against the pain. “Bullshit,” he mutters.

When he limps into camp the next day, Hannibal’s waiting. Of course he is. 

What happened? Hannibal asks.

“Tripped,” Will says, and it isn’t even a good lie, but Hannibal just nods, like he believes it. Maybe he does. It’s the kind of thing Will would do, after all.

That’s the worst of it. Will knows he’s an idiot. A damn fool. A boy who’s so twisted up in shame and fear he don’t know which way’s up half the time. He wishes he could be someone else. Anyone else. But he’s not.

He’s just Will.

Hannibal’s like a fox, all sly and sharp-eyed, never staying in one place long enough for Will to figure him out. Will’s just a boy. A dumb, simple boy.

Will can’t stop chasing him. Can’t stop remembering Hannibal in his lap. 

Everything had melted away then—no sheep, no chores, no shame—just the weight of Hannibal in his lap and the vibrations in his chest. In that moment, he’d felt like he’d been turned inside out, like Hannibal had reached in and pulled all the warmth out of him until there wasn’t nothing left but light.

It felt good. Easy. Just being warmth for Hannibal. Will wishes he could be that all the time. 

It’d be better than whatever he’s feeling now.

The sun hasn’t been kind today.The air clings thick, smelling like dust and crushed grass, and Will can feel sweat gathering at the back of his neck, trickling slow and mean under the collar of his shirt. 

Will agreed to come out here because, hell, there wasn’t much else to do, and Hannibal had said he needed some for a sauce he was fixing to make for the fish. Fancy little thing, Will thought, but that was Hannibal all over.

So here they are.

The blackberry brambles sprawl in a messy tangle, all thorns and twisted limbs, the berries dark and shining like wet ink against the green. Will’s fingers are already sore from pulling at them—half the time he comes up empty-handed, the fruit crumbling to mush before he can wrestle it free. He licks the sting of a fresh scratch on his thumb, watching Hannibal a few feet away.

Hannibal moves like he’s done this a hundred times, maybe more. His hands are steady, careful, and quick all at once. Every now and then, he crouches low, his hat tilting just enough to shadow his face, and he slips a handful of berries into the basket hanging off his arm. 

Will watches the way Hannibal’s fingers work, how they find the best fruit almost by instinct, plucking them free with a gentle twist that leaves the vine undisturbed. He moves like he’s reading something in the brambles.

“Reckon you got a knack for this,” Will says finally, his voice breaking the quiet. He half-expects Hannibal to ignore him, or maybe just nod and go on picking, but instead, Hannibal straightens up slow, turning his head to glance over at Will.

He reaches for the notebook tucked into his back pocket, pulling it free and flipping it open. His pencil moves quick and clean, and then he holds it out.

It’s a simple matter of observation and knowledge. Knowing what to look for, what to avoid. It’s not so different from other forms of study.

Will reads the words twice. He huffs out a small laugh through his nose and scratches at the back of his neck.

“Yeah, well,” he says, handing the notebook back, “I’m too good at studyin’ anything, so maybe that’s my problem.”

The question slips out before Will can think better of it. “You ever go hungry?”

Hannibal pauses, his hand still hovering over the brambles. The air between them feels heavy all of a sudden, the kind of quiet that don’t come easy. He just stands there, still as a statue,.

His eyes flick up at Will, thoughtful, maybe even a little sad, before he writes something down. When he turns it around, Will has to step closer to read it.

Hunger is a powerful teacher. It leaves a mark, one that doesn’t fade easily. But it also sharpens the mind, makes one resourceful.

Will lets the words sink in, his gaze tracing the curve of Hannibal’s letters. He knows better than to press for more. Whatever hunger Hannibal’s talking about, it isn’t something he’s willing to hand over just like that.

“Guess it does,” Will mutters finally. 

Hannibal doesn’t say anything, just watches him for a moment longer before turning back to the berries. Will stays where he is, though. He’s thinking about what Hannibal said, about the kind of hunger that leaves a mark. He knows that kind. Knows what it’s like to feel your ribs pressing hard against your skin, to count the days between meals.

But there’s another hunger too. It’s a different kind of empty, one that’s tied up in the way Hannibal moves, the way his hands brush over the berries.

Will wonders if that kind of hunger’ll ever make him smart, if it’ll ever teach him anything worth knowing. Somehow, he don’t think it will.

Later, the world feels too wide, and Will’s standing at the edge of it. 

The cliff isn’t high, not really—he’s seen taller ones out west, cliffs that make you feel like the earth could swallow you whole. This one’s modest, small enough for kids to climb down if they were bold and stupid enough. 

But looking over it now, his heart beating uneven in his chest, Will feels like he’s standing on the top floor of one of those towers back in the city. It’s not the drop itself that gets him—it’s the idea of it, the possibility. It makes his head swim.

He toes the edge carefully, scuffs his boot against loose dirt that tumbles over and disappears into the creek below. The water’s running fast today, swollen from last week’s rain. It glitters in the afternoon sun, moving in quicksilver ribbons that shimmer and bend as the current pulls them along. 

It makes Will feel small, like one of those tiny pebbles down there getting carried along, worn smooth by time and water.

“Hell,” he mutters. “You reckon we’d die if we jumped?”

He doesn’t know why he says it. Maybe to break the quiet, or maybe because the question’s been rattling around in his head ever since they found this spot. Hannibal turns to look at him. His gaze moves from Will’s face to the water below and then back up again, his expression calm, almost thoughtful. He shakes his head once.

No. They wouldn’t die.

Will lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. He hums softly, a sound that’s more feeling than thought, and lets his eyes wander back to the creek.

He glances up at Hannibal, just for a moment.

Hannibal’s standing at the edge of the cliff, his hands loose at his sides, his face turned toward the creek like he’s studying it, like he’s trying to understand something. The sunlight hits him just right, catches in his hair and turns it to gold, makes it glow like some kind of halo. For a second, Will forgets how to breathe. 

His lips sting, sharp and sudden, like he’s bitten into something bitter. He swallows hard, his throat dry, and wonders if it’s because he’s been saying Hannibal’s name too much—thinking it too much. Like it’s worn his mouth raw, left it aching and bleeding in ways he don’t know how to fix. 

Hannibal looks at him like he’s known him forever. It’s terrifying, and it’s comforting, and it’s too much all at once.

Will thinks of angels—of the stories the pastor used to tell him about men who saw the face of God and fell to their knees, trembling with fear and awe. He thinks of Daniel, sick for days after seeing the angel Gabriel, how his body couldn’t handle the weight of something so holy. 

He wonders if this is what it felt like.

But he’s not afraid of Hannibal because he’s terrifying. He’s afraid of him because he’s beautiful. Because he’s soft in ways Will will never be, because he moves through the world like he understands it.

Will wants to be known like that. 

The thought scares him so much he can’t hold it. He looks back down at the creek, at the water churning and rushing below, and lets the wildness in him grow. He feels reckless, desperate, like he could leap off this cliff and let the fall break him apart, just to feel something sharp and real. He doesn’t care if the water breaks his bones. He doesn’t care if it takes him under.

Will doesn’t think about it much when he grabs the hem of his flannel and pulls it over his head. The shirt sticks a little to his skin, damp with sweat from the afternoon heat, and he has to tug it harder to get it free. When it finally comes off, the fabric bunches in his hands, and he tosses it down into the dirt without thinking about where it lands. His chest is bare now, pale and bony.

He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t dare to. He can feel Hannibal watching him, feel the weight of it like a second sun, but he keeps his gaze on his belt buckle instead, fingers moving there as if undoing it will give him something to focus on besides the way his heart’s thumping too loud in his chest.

Then there’s a hand. It comes out of nowhere, wraps around his wrist firm but not rough, halting him just as he starts to undo the buckle. Hannibal’s hand is warm against his skin, his grip careful, almost too careful, but it’s enough to send a jolt through Will’s body like he’s been shocked.

It’s not just the touch that does it—it’s where Hannibal’s hand lands. Close. Too close. Right there near the zipper of his jeans, where the skin of his stomach peeks out, damp and sensitive. Will’s breath hitches, and he yanks his wrist back like he’s touched something too hot. His head snaps up, his eyes locking with Hannibal’s for the first time.

Hannibal’s looking at him, head tilted just a little, expression soft but curious. Like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle, like maybe Will’s gone and done something unexpected, something that doesn’t make sense to him. Will clears his throat, rough and awkward, and forces his hands back to his belt. He tugs at it with jerky, uneven movements, more to have something to do than because he needs to.

“I’m jumpin’,” he says, his voice too sharp in the quiet. His shoulders jerk up in a shrug, the motion all wrong, too stiff to look natural. “You said we wouldn’t die.”

He risks another glance up, swallows hard, and asks, “Are you coming?”

Hannibal doesn’t answer right away. His hand falls back to his side, and his eyes drift downward, catching on the ground where Will’s shirt lies crumpled in the dirt. There’s something heavy about the way he looks at it. He swallows—Will can see his throat move—and then shakes his head.

Will bites down on his bottom lip, hard enough to feel it. His chest is moving too fast now, rising and falling with short, shallow breaths that make him feel like he’s running even though he hasn’t moved an inch. He looks down at the water below, glittering under the sun, and says, softer this time, “It’s okay.”

His voice wavers, just a little, but he presses on. “It’s hot today. I won’t let you get cold, I promise.”

That gets Hannibal’s attention. His eyes are dark, syrupy in this light.

Will doesn’t know what Hannibal’s looking for, but it makes his skin prickle all over, like the sun’s decided to crawl underneath it. He imagines, just for a second, that Hannibal’s gaze dips lower, following the lines of his ribs or the way his skin stretches tight over his chest. He imagines Hannibal sees him like the water below.

But that’s stupid. He’s not beautiful. Not like that.

Hannibal’s lips part like he’s about to say something, but all he does is take a sharp breath through his nose. His hands go to his jacket, and he pulls it off in one smooth motion. He holds it out to Will, his fingers trembling just a little. Will hesitates, his own hands hovering awkwardly before he takes the jacket.

It’s heavier than he expected, warm from Hannibal’s body, and it smells faintly like him. Will holds it for a moment too long before letting it drop to the ground beside his shirt.

They’ve bathed in the water before, but never like this. Never together. It’s new, and it feels big in a way Will doesn’t know how to handle. He tells himself it’s normal, like he used to never tell himself it was normal to sneak glances at the boys in the locker room back in high school.

But Hannibal’s not them. 

Will watches as Hannibal’s fingers move to the buttons on his shirt. He unfastens them quickly, one after another. Will doesn’t want to look. Knows he shouldn’t. But he does.

Hannibal’s skin catches the light, golden and wam. There’s some hair on his chest, dark and soft, the kind of thing that makes Will swallow hard and feel stupid. He looks like Louisiana itself, all fireflies and honeysuckle and heat that makes your head spin.

Will feels like he’s disappearing into the dust motes floating around Hannibal’s head, turning into something small. Hannibal’s shirt falls from his shoulders, revealing more golden skin, more little marks Will wants to ask about but won’t.

Hannibal shivers, and they’re both standing there now, down to their boxers, silent and still. Will feels like he might explode from it.

Then Hannibal steps forward, and his hand finds Will’s. His touch is soft, careful. Will doesn’t pull away this time. He can’t.

And all Will can think about is what it’d be like to jump and miss the water, to hit the rocks instead. Would Hannibal come down after him and pick him apart like roadkill? 

Hannibal tugs his hand, gentle but insistent, and suddenly they’re at the edge. Hannibal doesn’t hesitate. He jumps, pulling Will with him, and the world drops out from under their feet.

The air whips at them, the sun blinding, and for a moment, it feels like flying. Their hands disconnect when they hit the water, the coolness swallowing Will whole, pressing against his skin.

For a second, it’s quiet. Muted. Just the water and him.

Will explodes out of the creek’s surface like something feral, coughing and dragging in air that tastes like sweet grass and the sun. His chest heaves, his arms cutting lazy strokes through the water as he lets himself float, adrenaline still simmering from the jump. 

His head tilts back, droplets sliding down his cheeks and into the corners of his mouth, tasting like dirt and algae and childhood. He shakes his hair out with a rough motion, water spraying in arcs, then swivels his head to look around. 

And then he sees Hannibal.

The creek’s light catches on his skin, painting it gold where it isn’t dripping wet. 

Will lets himself sink just a little, the water lapping at his chin now, like being lower might stop the feeling creeping over him. Hannibal’s head tilts, his wet hair sticking in inky lines across his forehead, and his face softens in a way that should make him easier to look at, but it doesn’t. 

He’s like the knife Will’s dad keeps in the truck toolbox—sharp as hell but smooth in the hand, deadly if you don’t hold it right. 

Will doesn’t know if he’s holding him right.

Hannibal’s gone. He sinks below the water so fast Will doesn’t even see the ripple.

“Hannibal?” Will calls out, his voice shaky, cracking on the second syllable. He looks around, turning in the water, his arms starting to tread just a little faster. The creek stretches quiet and glittering, the birds still singing their lazy afternoon songs, the same as before.

A hand clamps around his ankle and yanks.

Will lets out a strangled yell, the sound bubbling in his throat as he’s dragged under. His body twists instinctively, legs kicking, arms flailing, but the grip on him only tightens, dragging him deeper into the creek. His chest tightens, the cool water pressing in on all sides, and panic surges through him, hot and immediate. 

The water shifts around him, blurring, and his lungs start to burn. He struggles harder, his head spinning, the need for air screaming through his veins. 

For a second, he thinks maybe this is it—maybe this creek, this day, is going to take him.

And then the hand lets go.

Will shoots up out of the water like a bullet. His whole chest feels raw, scraped clean, but he’s laughing anyway, the sound loud and wild, pouring out of him like he’s got no control over it. He smacks the water with one hand, sending out a little splash that doesn’t go anywhere. 

“You’re—you’re fuckin’ crazy,” he chokes out between heaving breaths. 

He rubs his eyes with a wet hand, trying to push the panic back down where it belongs.

Hannibal surfaces a few feet away, slow and smooth. His face is calm, but his eyes glint with something dangerous, something wild, and it makes Will’s laugh turn softer. Hannibal tilts his head, water dripping from his chin, his expression unreadable.

“You’re insane,” Will says again, quieter this time.

Hannibal doesn’t respond, not with words anyway. He just lifts one arm and sends a splash straight at Will’s face, the water hitting him square in the chest.

Will gasps, grinning despite himself, sending an arc of water back at Hannibal. It catches him on the side of the face.

They go at it for a while, splashing and shoving like kids. Will’s muscles ache, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t want to stop. 

At some point, Will jumps onto Hannibal’s back, wrapping his arms tight around his shoulders. Hannibal stumbles a little under the weight but doesn’t shake him off, just keeps moving through the water like it’s nothing. Will rests his chin on Hannibal’s shoulder for a second, his eyes catching on the scars scattered across his back.

Hannibal shifts, and Will’s grip loosens just enough for him to tip back into the water, laughing as he goes under again. When he comes up, spitting creek water, his smile is wide enough to hurt.

He thinks about the bottom of the creek, the shifting sludge that hides everything it’s ever swallowed—mud, coins, bones, secrets. He wonders if people are like that too, if he and Hannibal are. 

If this is what nineteen feels like—messy and bright and wild—Will doesn’t want to be anything else. 

The water curls around Will’s waist, cool where the sun hasn’t touched it, and the silt swirls under his feet. He splashes idly, his hands scooping up water and letting it drip back into the creek. 

Will laughs again. 

Hannibal’s palm is warm, soft, pressing firm over his lips to shut him up like last time. Will’s lips part just enough for his teeth to graze Hannibal’s skin—a quick, instinctive nip.

Hannibal’s hand jerks back, water trailing down his wrist, and Will spins around, ready to splash him for good measure. He raises his hands, the water cupped and ready, but he stops cold when he catches sight of Hannibal.

Hannibal’s laughing too. Quiet as anything, like he doesn’t quite know how, but it’s there. His shoulders shake, his chest heaves, and his mouth stretches wide, his teeth catching the sunlight. It’s a smile that doesn’t belong in the world Will knows him from. 

It’s not just a skipped beat. A wild, wrong ache in his heart that makes him want to turn and dive headfirst into the water. But he doesn’t. Something drags him forward instead. 

He swims to Hannibal, the distance shrinking until he’s so close he can feel the faint warmth of Hannibal’s breath, can see the way the water clings to his skin like glass.

He tells himself to stop, to back away before he does something stupid, but his body doesn’t listen. His hand rises out of the water, trembling slightly, and for a second, he just stares at it, like it belongs to someone else. Then it moves, and before he can stop himself, his fingers are brushing Hannibal’s face. They drift over the curve of his cheek, down to the sharp point of his canine.

The touch feels like sacrilege, and Will knows it—knows it in the way his stomach flips and his throat tightens. He watches Hannibal’s smile fall, sees the way his jaw tightens. And then there’s Hannibal’s hand, strong and unyielding, wrapping around his wrist and pulling it away with a force that makes his bones groan.

For a moment, neither of them move. Hannibal’s grip doesn’t loosen, and Will’s heart pounds so loudly he’s sure Hannibal can hear it. It’s wrong, all of it—so wrong he feels like he might split open from it.

The wanting is sharp. He thinks of that jar, golden and sticky, the way he’d pried it open as a boy to steal a taste, sweet and sinful on his tongue. This feels the same, like he’s stealing something that doesn’t belong to him.

And the thoughts—the thoughts about Hannibal’s mouth, the way they grip him, clawing their way through his head until they take over everything. His mouth, sweet and burning and so close, so close–

Hannibal moves. His hands, soft despite their strength, cup Will’s face. Will stiffens, the muscles in his neck pulling taut, but he doesn’t pull away. He couldn’t if he tried.

Hannibal leans in slowly, so slow it feels like time’s stopped altogether. His lips brush the space between Will’s brows, a ghost of a kiss, lingering there like ash on Wednesday. 

And then it’s over. Hannibal pulls back and swims away, leaving Will frozen in the water. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t follow. He stays there, chest heaving, staring at the ripples Hannibal leaves behind. His thoughts twist up in him, tangling and choking like kudzu. 

He tells himself it doesn’t mean anything, that it’s not what it feels like.

They climb out of the creek and lay in the grass where the sun bakes their skin dry.

Will’s feet hum against the burning rock, nerves still sparking like they don’t know how to settle. Butterflies swarm lazily around them as they drift over pruned fingertips. One lands on Hannibal’s cheek, right on the soft apple of it, and Will’s breath hitches in his chest. Hannibal doesn’t move, just lets it sit there, his smile soft. 

He looks like he’s worth a million bucks, a billion even, or maybe just a shiny penny tossed into the cool, aged stone of a wishing well. Will’s throat tightens, his thoughts blooming like wildflowers he doesn’t dare pluck.

So instead, he speaks. “You ever hear about the Rougarou?”

Hannibal doesn’t answer, just tilts his head slightly, the butterfly shifting with the movement. 

“My daddy used to talk about it,” Will says, clearing his throat. “He said there was this man, long time ago, lived in the bayou. Quiet fella. Kept to himself mostly. But one night, folks started hearing these screams coming from the water. Like something was being torn apart. And the next day, they found the man’s cabin all busted up, like a storm blew through it, but the man wasn’t there.”

Will pauses, his fingers twitching at his sides. He’s not looking at Hannibal now. “They said he got cursed. That he’d done something—nobody knew what—but it made him into the Rougarou. Like a wolf, but not a wolf. Something worse. Bigger. Hungrier.”

Hannibal hums softly. Will swallows and pushes on.

“Daddy said you’d know it was close if you smelled something sweet, like roses, or honeysuckle. Said that’s how it lured you in. Made you think it wasn’t dangerous. Made you think it was something good.” His voice dips lower. “But if you looked it in the eye—if you saw its face—you were done for. It’d take you down into the swamp, drag you under, and you wouldn’t come back up.”

Hannibal’s eyes are still on him. Will shifts on his feet, the heat of the rock biting into his skin. “I asked my daddy once if he believed it. He just looked at me and said, ‘Doesn’t matter if you believe it. It matters if you don’t respect it.’”

He huffs out a laugh, sharp and bitter. “I didn’t get it then. Thought it was just another one of his ways of making the world seem scarier than it was. But now…” He trails off, his voice catching. He glances at Hannibal, the corner of his mouth twitching up in something too weak to be a smile. “Now, I think maybe he was right.”

The butterfly finally flits away, its wings catching the sun one last time before it disappears into the trees. Hannibal doesn’t move, his gaze still locked on Will.

Will shifts again, clearing his throat. “Anyway,” he mutters. “Just a story.”

His eyes drift over Hannibal, the sunlight catching on his damp skin, and he imagines him as the smoke of a wildfire. Orange light dances in his mind over Hannibal’s flesh, his touch warming Will from the inside out until there’s nothing left of him but ash and heat.

Will swallows hard and thinks of what he told Hannibal. 

Old wood like that burns sweeter than green, he’d said. And the smoke stayed on my skin for days.

──────────── 

The water wasn’t deep. It wasn’t dangerous, not really, not to anyone else, not to someone who did not feel the same things Hannibal felt. It was a creek, shallow and slow-moving, where the sun dappled through the trees and made the surface glimmer like glass. The stones beneath were smooth and warm, their edges worn soft by time and touch, and the water ran cool over them, gentle, even kind. 

But it had felt dangerous then. It had felt alive somehow, like it was watching him, daring him to do it. 

Or perhaps it wasn’t the water at all. Perhaps it was just him.

Hannibal doesn’t know why he did it. He doesn’t have the words to explain the feeling that had risen in his chest, sharp and unyielding, like a blade pressing against the inside of his ribs. It had been there all at once, the want. The need. His hand closing around Will’s ankle had been instinct more than thought. A decision made somewhere beneath his skin, far below the reach of reason. Will had yelped, startled, as Hannibal yanked him down, his bony legs folding awkwardly beneath him as he hit the water.

And then he had held him there.

Hannibal can still feel it, the way Will had thrashed against him, his body alive with motion, twisting and kicking as though the water had suddenly become his enemy. The creek bed was soft and slippery beneath their feet, the mud shifting with every movement, and Hannibal had to plant himself firm to keep his hold. His fingers gripped tight around Will’s ankle, and through it, he could feel everything. The tension in Will’s muscles, the frantic beat of his pulse, the rush of life that thrummed through him. It had been maddening. Beautiful.

Will’s arms had lashed at the water, his hands clawing against it, but his movements weren’t desperate. Hannibal had been watching, even then, through the distortion of the water, the way Will’s face twisted not in panic but in confusion, the way his mouth opened as though to speak even though no words could reach him there. He’d blinked against the sting of the water, his eyes wide and clear and searching, but there was no fear in them. No fear at all.

Hannibal wonders what might have happened if there had been. If Will had looked up at him through the surface with fear in his eyes, if he’d begged or screamed or called his name. Would it have made a difference? Would he have let him go sooner? Would he have let him go at all?

It would have been easy. Too easy. A little more force, a little more time. Hannibal could have kept him there, could have watched as the life in him flickered and dimmed, as the light in his eyes faded into something unknowable. He could have felt the moment Will’s heart stopped beneath his skin.

He thinks now of what it would have been like, after. If he had done it. If he had gone too far. He can see it in his mind, too clearly, the way Will’s body would have looked when it stilled. His limbs gone limp, his head lolling back, his wild curls plastered to his forehead. Hannibal thinks he would have closed Will’s eyes. He would have had to. 

He couldn’t have borne the sight of them staring back at him, empty and dull. Even that, even just imagining it, feels like too much.

But he would have been beautiful, Hannibal thinks. Even in death, Will would have been beautiful. His skin pale but sun-kissed, his freckles like constellations scattered across him, his mouth soft and slack. 

He wanted to press his mouth to them, to feel them soften and dissolve under his tongue like meat. It was a thought he should not have been having. But there it was.

He doesn’t want to forget the way Will had looked when he rose from the water, laughing like it had all been a joke, like it had been a game to him. Hannibal had let him go then, had released his grip and watched as Will broke the surface with a sharp gasp that turned into a grin. 

His teeth had flashed white in the sunlight, his hair dripping. Only trust.

Hannibal had stared too long at Will, at his wild curls sticking damp to his forehead, at the way the water on his stomach glistened in the light. He had stared and wanted, wanted to press his face there again, to bury himself in the heat of Will’s skin, but he did not. He couldn’t. 

The memory of it burned enough—the way Will’s forehead had felt against his lips, warm like fire. That warmth had stayed with him even when they left the water. He hadn’t shivered once, not even when the breeze turned sharp against his damp clothes.

And the teeth—Will’s teeth, so sharp and quick, brushing against him like a warning, a promise, a laugh. 

Hannibal felt their nip. He had tried to drown Will. Will had only smiled. Will had called him crazy. And Hannibal had been grateful. Grateful for the way Will smiled, for the way he felt when he kissed him afterward.

He thought of the way Will’s back arched when he moved, his muscles shifting beneath his skin. He thought of him, and he thought of him, and there was no end to it.

Hannibal knew a flower was not a weapon, not in its intention, but the potential for harm remained. He had learned that lesson himself, walking fields as a boy, chasing the borders of worlds he’d been told were there but could never quite find. He had cut himself open searching for them, just as he had cut open the fields themselves, digging for something sharper than himself, something he could destroy or wield as proof of his existence. But now, he understood something different. 

Now, he no longer wished to conquer or annihilate. He only wished to see. To see the snakes coiled at his feet, the life moving beneath his steps, and to care for where he placed them. Even his darkest knowing seemed to seek the light, not as an enemy but as something like a mother.

He asked the light for guidance. It should know, he thought. It had been here longer than him, touching everything it could reach with a tenderness Hannibal envied. It killed nothing, not truly. Even when the night came, the light did not fight it. It simply waited, shepherding the darkness to rest until it could rise again. Hannibal envied that patience. He envied how the light returned. He envied most of all the way it touched Will.

Will was not just beautiful. Will was dangerous, not because of the harm he might cause but because of the harm Hannibal might cause because of him.

Evening is coming. He knows they’ve stayed too long by the creek, that they should have gone back up the hill already, back to the sheep. The sheep are waiting, wandering somewhere in the pasture above, but Winston is there. Winston watches them. Winston protects them.

The spiked collar they put on him earlier, it is for the coyotes. It gleams dull around his neck, a strange kind of armor for a dog who does not know why he must wear it. Winston is silent, patient. Hannibal had buckled it himself, careful not to pull the leather too tight. The dog stood still for him, as if he understood. Hannibal finds it strange, connecting to an animal this way. Winston has no voice. He cannot speak, cannot say what he wants or what he thinks, but Will knows him anyway. Will understands him in the same way he seems to understand Hannibal, without words, without asking.

Hannibal wishes, sometimes, that he could be like Will is with the dog. Will’s voice softens when he speaks to Winston. Good boy, he says, his words slow and warm. He does not speak to Winston that way. Instead, he pats the dog on the head, firm and quick, and that is all. 

He sits now on a log by his tent, still damp from the creek. Hannibal’s clothes are mostly dry. 

I won’t let you get cold, Will had said then. And Hannibal had not been cold, not even when the wind had tugged at his hair and crept under his sleeves. Now, though, as the sun falls lower, he knows he will feel the cold again soon. Not yet, but soon. When Will leaves, when he climbs back up to his own tent, Hannibal will feel it. 

The thought of it makes him feel restless.

Will sits down beside him, the log shifting slightly under his weight. Hannibal tenses, his body going rigid, though he doesn’t mean to. He turns his head to look at Will, watching as he pulls his shirt over his head and uses it to rub at his hair. The fabric clings to his hands, damp and wrinkled, and his curls spring back in wild shapes as he dries them. When he is done, he shakes his head like a dog, sending droplets of water flying. A few of them land on Hannibal’s face, cool against his skin, but Will doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and doesn’t care.

Will reaches into his pocket and pulls out his knife, the blade small but sharp. He grabs a piece of wood from beside the log, something he must have found earlier, and begins to carve. The sound of it fills the air, a slow, rhythmic scrape as the blade bites into the wood. Hannibal watches his hands. Will’s arms are freckled and sunburned, and Hannibal notices how the fine hairs there stand on end, as if they can feel his gaze. 

The knife slips suddenly, and Will curses under his breath. Blood wells up on his thumb, bright and red, pooling quickly before it begins to run. Hannibal stares at it. 

Will lifts his hand to his mouth, sucking at the cut, and the simple, thoughtless gesture makes Hannibal feel like the ground beneath him is crumbling.

He stands abruptly, his movements sharp and unsteady. He needs to do something, anything. He walks to his tent, his hands moving without thought as he pulls out his sketchbook. He opens it to a drawing he made days ago, a picture of Will standing by the creek, holding a fish out to him. The lines are rough but careful, the shading soft. Hannibal stares at it for a long moment. He promised himself he would never show Will these, that they were his private things, his secrets. But now, here he is. Foolish. Desperate.

He sits back down beside Will, the sketchbook heavy in his hands. His fingers hesitate on the page, trembling slightly, before he turns it toward Will, offering it silently. He cannot speak. He does not know what he would say if he could.

Will makes a sound—a soft, breathy gasp that seems to catch on the edge of his teeth before slipping free. It startles Hannibal, though he does not show it. Hannibal feels that he might look away. That he should look away. But he doesn’t. Instead, he watches, quiet and still, as Will lowers the knife and piece of wood he’s been carving.

His hands reach for the sketchbook—not in haste but with a kind of care Hannibal doesn’t expect. Fingers, rough from work but somehow so gentle, brush the edges of the paper. Hannibal’s stomach tightens.

Hannibal feels bare. His hands twitch where they rest in his lap, the muscles beneath his skin pulling tight as if preparing to flinch. Vulnerable. That is the word for this feeling. He doesn’t like it, but he also doesn’t pull back. He has given this drawing to Will, and it cannot be taken back.

Will’s lips part, and when he speaks, his voice is soft and uneven. “It’s beautiful,” he says, and Hannibal is sure he means it. But he cannot bring himself to look at the page, not now. He looks at Will instead. Hannibal nods once.

Will keeps looking at the drawing, his brows furrowing slightly. 

“I don’t—I don’t look like that.” He pauses, a faint, nervous smile tugging at his lips before it falters and fades. “You made me too pretty. Prettier than I’ve got any right to be.”

Hannibal frowns, shaking his head. It is not true. Not to him. Will’s gaze drops back to the page, avoiding Hannibal’s eyes, and something in his posture changes. A slight stiffening of his shoulders, a tightness in his jaw. Hannibal feels the pull again, the strange, contradictory urge to drown Will in his reflection.

The sketchbook is held out again, his hands shaking just slightly as he offers it back. Hannibal takes it, though his fingers pause on the edges of the page. He does not let go, not yet. His hand moves to the drawing, lifting the corner with the intention of tearing it free. 

But before Hannibal can tear it, Will’s hand darts out, stopping him. “I don’t need that one,” Will says, and Hannibal catches on the peculiar phrasing. 

Need. It is something else entirely. Hannibal lowers his hand, but he does not release the page. He nods, but his fingers hold the drawing tighter now, unwilling to let it go. He likes this one, too much to part with it. He will keep it, though he wonders at Will’s collection—the others he has quietly stowed away.

Hannibal keeps everything too. The lures Will has crafted. The strands of hair he has collected from Will’s curls. He remembers Will falling asleep at dinner, his head nodding forward as exhaustion overcame him. Hannibal had moved his knife carefully.

Will is still staring at him, his brows pulling together as if caught on a thought he cannot say aloud. Hannibal’s hand tightens around the sketchbook, the impulse to lean forward rising in him like a tide.

But he doesn’t move. Not now. There is no excuse for it this time, no shared gratitude to justify the act.

“Could you—could you make me one of—of you? Instead?”

Will’s voice breaks the quiet in a way that doesn’t feel like breaking at all. It’s soft, barely above a whisper, and Hannibal almost doesn’t catch it. 

Hannibal blinks. The question does something strange to him. He wants to touch his face to see if it burns as much as it feels.

For a moment, he wants to stand up, to find an excuse to leave—to say he needs to look for milk thistle. Anything to escape the way Will is looking at him now. But Hannibal nods instead, a small, careful motion, and stands to fetch his pencils from his tent.

When he returns, Will is waiting in the same spot. Hannibal sits beside him, close enough to feel the warmth of his body, close enough to catch the faint scent of earth and salt and sheep that clings to him.

Hannibal opens his notebook to a clean page, his pencil poised in his hand. 

It may be inaccurate. We have no mirrors here.

Will leans closer to read, his brow furrowing as his eyes trace the words. He frowns, not out of displeasure, but in that thoughtful way he does when he’s piecing something together in his mind. 

“I’ll describe you,” he says.

Hannibal nods again. His hand moves to the pencil, and he waits.

Will’s gaze settles on him, and Hannibal feels it in every part of him. It’s not the kind of look he’s used to. Will’s eyes hold him.

“All right,” he says, glancing down for a second, then back up. “Your face—it’s... clean. I mean, not just like you washed it or something, but the lines of it. It’s sharp in some places, sure, but it’s smooth, too.”

His lips press together for a second, his eyes narrowing, like he’s measuring out the next words. “Your nose—it’s real strong. The bridge is straight, but it’s got this little curve near the tip. Not too much, just enough to make it softer, I guess.”

He glances away, his hands fidgeting at his sides. “Your mouth’s... full. But not like some girls’ mouths, all pouty. It’s... balanced. Your top lip’s thinner, your bottom one’s just a little fuller. And the corners—they tilt down, but only just. Makes you look serious, I guess.”

His voice softens even more, like he’s almost embarrassed now. “I guess you’ve got one of them faces people notice. It’s quiet, but it makes you wanna look twice. Everything’s... in the right place, I guess. You’re real put-together. Pretty.”

The world around them seems to fade as the drawing takes shape, but Hannibal still notices everything—the way the bugs skip over the grass, the sheep calling to one another, the sharp little barks of Winston as he chases after them. It all feels distant, though, as though it belongs to another place, another time.

When the drawing is done, Hannibal sets the pencil down and looks at it. The face on the page is his, but it isn’t. It’s softer, kinder, lit by something he doesn’t recognize. The hair is wild, the jawline sharp, the eyes shadowed but alive.

He hands the notebook to Will, who takes it carefully. Will’s eyes brighten as he looks at the drawing, his lips curling into a wide smile.

“Perfect doesn’t even cover it,” he says, his voice almost a whisper. He runs a finger along the angle of Hannibal’s drawn jawline, and the touch, even though it isn’t real, sends a shiver through Hannibal’s skin.

Hannibal watches him for a moment, then writes, his hand steady, the pencil scraping faintly against the paper.

What you see is what you choose to see. Tell me, Will, what does that make you?

Will lets out a quiet breath. “I don’t know yet.” 

Hannibal’s thoughts drift, unbidden, to what it means to be known. 

To friendship. 

There are those who live to have it. And there are those who live to give it, for whom it spills out of them unbidden, as effortless as water from a spring. 

There are those for whom both are true, but never in the same measure. Balance is rare; symmetry rarer still.

Those who have it to give are like cardinals in the snow—brilliant, fragile things that catch the light just so. They flit through the world with ease, their vibrancy standing out against even the harshest of landscapes. Beautiful, yes, but so very exposed. They do not hide. They cannot. Their generosity is their color, their song.

And then there are those who want it, who crave it endlessly, hungrily. They circle the others with eagle eyes and sharp talons, searching for something soft to seize. Willing to tear, to take, to fill the void inside them. Any furred thing will do.

Hannibal knows what he is.

Chapter Text

Will’s been staring out past the flap of his tent since the stars started fading, gray light spilling over the ridge and chasing shadows into hiding. 

He hasn’t moved much—just sitting there, jaw clenched tight against the air. He hasn’t slept. Hell, he don’t even remember what it feels like to sleep proper. His head’s a mess, every thought coming hard and fast like water.

He wonders if Hannibal’s got the fire going down at camp. If he’s sitting there, cross-legged on the ground, that jacket of his pulled tight against the cold.

The sheep never stop. They bleat and grunt and shuffle all through the night. Will reckons they’re worse than the coyotes sometimes. At least the coyotes have the decency to slink off when Winston starts barking. The sheep don’t give a damn.

He’s starting to hate it up here. 

The hilltop feels like its own little world, all cut off from everything else. Winston’s good company, but Will’s stuck with himself and his thoughts, and neither one’s much good at keeping him calm. He’s restless, pacing inside his own mind, but there’s nowhere to go. Every road loops back to the same place, the same thought. 

Always Hannibal.

Will tries to focus on the work up here, but Winston’s doing more than his share. The dog’s out there chasing off coyotes, keeping the flock safe, while Will sits here stewing in his own uselessness. He should ask Hannibal to switch places, but the thought makes him balk. Hannibal’s good at everything—cooking, cleaning, keeping track of supplies—and Will isn’t. If he tried, he’d just screw it all up.

So here he is, curled up in a blanket in his damn tent, waiting for morning to really settle in. His stomach aches from hunger, but he don’t feel like eating. His head’s heavy, but sleep won’t come. All he’s got are Hannibal’s notes and… that drawing.

Will’s hands twitch, like they’re itching to reach for it again, but he stops himself. He’s spent all night looking at it, holding it up to the faint light of his lantern, tracing the lines with his eyes. It’s burned into his brain now, carved out a space where nothing else fits.

Hannibal’s got soft hands, hands that should be used for things like flowers and sunsets and the curve of the mountains at dusk. Not for Will. Never for Will. Thinking about Hannibal sitting there, sketching his face, makes him feel wrong in his own skin. It’s too much, too tender. 

Will don’t know what Hannibal sees when he looks at him, but it sure as hell can’t be beauty. It makes him want to curl up, hide away where Hannibal’s eyes can’t find him.

The other drawing, though—the one of Hannibal—won’t leave his mind. Watching him work on it, coaxing out those lines with only Will’s descriptions to guide him, had felt like magic. Like conjuring. Will had barely been able to breathe.

Saying the word pretty out loud had damn near killed him.

He’d wanted to reach out, to trace the bridge of Hannibal’s nose, the sharp angle of his jaw. To see if the boy was real, if he’d melt away like a dream under Will’s hands. There’d been things he left out of the drawing, little details he couldn’t bring himself to say, like the scar on Hannibal’s nose or the way his lips looked full and soft even when he wasn’t smiling.

But it didn’t matter. The drawing had been perfect.

He’s perfect.

Will wonders if Hannibal knows it, if he has any idea how he looks when he smiles that small, knowing smile of his. Will wants to tell him, over and over. Maybe then Hannibal would believe it.

And maybe—just maybe—it’d make Will feel less like the pathetic thing he knows he is.

The longing is unbearable. It’s the kind of ache that makes you feel like you ought to lay down and let the world swallow you whole. Will don’t know how much longer he can take it, but he knows what Hannibal would say.

Hannibal would tell him to rest, to eat, to take care of himself.

Will’s never had anyone care for him like that before. Never had anyone see him like Hannibal does, and it scares him to his core.

The gun at his side and Winston’s sharp teeth might keep the coyotes away, but nothing—not a single thing in this world—can protect him from Hannibal.

Not from the way his eyes glow, warm and golden like sunlight through honey. Not from the way they deepen, rich and red, like the ripest strawberries in the height of summer.

Nothing can protect him from that.

Nothing can protect Will from the thoughts he has about Hannibal’s mouth, the way it moves, the way his lips part when he tries to speak like he’s got a secret just for Will, if only Will were brave enough to take it.

Nothing can protect him from how it looked that day at the creek, sunlight pooling golden over every inch of him, making his skin look like it might burn to the touch. Hannibal was all wiry muscle and sharp edges, too much bone, too little soft. 

Will swallows hard now, the memory playing on a loop in his mind like some cruel joke. He thinks about how much he’d wanted to be wanted back, to crash into Hannibal like two trains on the same track until there was nothing left of either of them but wreckage. It’s the kind of wanting that leaves bruises, that makes you feel like you’re choking even when you’re breathing just fine.

Hannibal is so beautiful it hurts. It’s summer, and everything smells like dirt and grass and the kind of heat that makes the air feel heavy in your lungs, and Will knows this is suicide. 

He thinks of how it felt when Hannibal had held him under the water. 

Will wants that again. Wants to feel Hannibal’s hands on him, holding him down, pulling him apart. He thinks he deserves it, too, because he wants to touch Hannibal in ways he knows he shouldn’t. Wants to run his fingers over his lips, press his thumb to the hollow of his throat, feel the sharpness of his collarbone under his palm. This kind of wanting feels like punishment, and Will figures that’s fair.

He thinks about all of this, and none of it is enough to keep his hands still. His fingers twitch towards the drawing again. He picks it up now, holds it in his hands like it might fall apart if he breathes too hard. The lines are soft, smudged in places where Hannibal’s fingers must’ve brushed the page. 

It’s early. Hannibal won’t be up for hours, and Will can’t bring himself to go and wake him, to disturb the way he looks when he’s quiet, when the world isn’t pulling at him. Will’s never seen him asleep before, but he imagines it now, the way his lashes would lie dark against his cheeks, the way his mouth would soften, the tension in his jaw gone for once. He imagines Hannibal looking younger, smaller somehow, his hands clutching at the blanket like he’s trying to hold onto something. 

Every bit of the little boy he must’ve been once.

Will’s thought of this before. He’s thought of it too many times, and every time he does, he imagines God leaning down to whisper in his ear, telling him there are things both holy and sweet in the world. Telling him it’s okay, that he can want this, that he can reach out and take it without losing himself in the process. But God never comes.

So Will wastes his voice. He wastes it like Hannibal wastes his hands drawing him, like they’re both trying to make something out of nothing and failing every time.

He should pray. He knows it. He’s known it since his knees first hit dirt at the edge of his daddy’s bed when he was six, knuckles pressed so tight together his hands ached. Back then, he used to mumble the words, soft as the rain tapping on the roof. Bless Mama. Bless Daddy. Make me good. Make me better. He doesn’t even know who he was asking, but it felt like it worked for a little while.

But this—this thing—makes him feel so far gone he doesn’t think a thousand prayers could pull him back.

Instead of doing what he should, Will turns onto his back, staring at the sagging fabric of the tent above him for a second before grabbing the paper beside him. His hands are unsteady as he brings it up over his face, close enough that the faint smell of graphite reaches him. He holds it there, the light catching on the edges, and lets himself look.

Hannibal stares back. His face, still as stone, looks at him with that half-smile Will knows so well, the one that could mean anything or nothing. It’s almost too much—those dark eyes, that hair falling in messy waves over his forehead like it’d been caught in the wind. 

It’s embarrassing, this wanting. It sticks to him like mud, clings to the edges of every thought, makes him feel heavy and slow and wrong. He hates how obvious it is, how it sits right there under his skin.

He doesn’t want to think about the kiss, but it creeps in anyway. Hannibal’s lips pressed soft and sure against his forehead. It wasn’t the kind of kiss you think about twice, but Will’s thought about it a hundred times, a thousand. 

He shouldn’t think about Hannibal like this at all. His best friend. His only friend.

It’s disgusting, he knows that. The thought of it, the feel of it crawling up his spine like something alive and slick and shameful, makes his skin crawl. He imagines Hannibal knowing and the shame is enough to choke him. He should be hit for this. Thrown out, told to pack his things and go.

But Hannibal’s too pretty, even in pencil.

Will’s lips twitch into something like a smile, bitter and fleeting. He doesn’t look like the men in those magazines, with their broad shoulders and strong jaws, their muscles coiled like they’d been built for something bigger than this world. Will’s all wrong angles, ribs that show too much, a thinness that feels hollow and weak, and Hannibal—Hannibal’s better. Hannibal deserves better.

Still, Will can’t stop staring.

The shading in the drawing catches the faintest flicker of light, and it makes him think of Hannibal after cutting wood in the mornings, when his cheeks flush red from the cold and the effort. Or when they sit by the fire and eat oatmeal, the steam curling up and catching the faintest color in his face. 

Will’s stomach twists. Hannibal touches him sometimes…not often, not in any way that should mean anything. Just hands on his shoulders, a squeeze on his wrist, little things to make up for the fact that he can’t say what he wants to say. It shouldn’t mean anything. It’s not for him. But God, the way Hannibal looks at him sometimes, like he’s trying to figure Will out, trying to get inside his head and see all the broken parts of him—it makes Will feel like he’s worth something.

But Hannibal doesn’t think about him. Not like this.

Will knows that.

He knows it, and yet his chest feels tight, like the air’s been pressed out of him. He lowers the drawing to his lap, sets it carefully beside him on the blanket and leans forward, his stomach pressing into the ground. The edges of the tent feel too close now.

Hannibal’s face looks back at him, clearer than it has any right to be. Those sharp cheekbones, that dark gaze. His hand hovers above the paper, shaking. He doesn’t want to touch it. Doesn’t want to ruin it.

He tells himself it’s just a drawing. God isn’t watching.

He tells himself it’s loneliness. Two boys out here with no women, no anyone else for miles, with nothing but their own company to keep. But loneliness doesn’t make his chest ache every time Hannibal smiles at him, sharp teeth and all. It don’t make him want to press his face into Hannibal’s back and breathe in the scent of him. 

Will’s fingers trace the curve of Hannibal’s lips on the page, soft and hesitant, like touching it too hard will make it real. His breath comes shallow and fast now. He knows he shouldn’t, but his hand moves lower, down his stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of his jeans.

He thinks of the way Hannibal looks at him sometimes, the way his hands linger just a little too long, the way his chest presses to Will’s when they wrestle in the dirt, breath mixing in the space between them. Will closes his eyes and lets himself think.

He’s hard, aching in more ways than one. 

Will strokes himself, face pressed against the rough canvas of the tent floor, his breath coming in shallow bursts. Hannibal’s eyes stare up at him from the page, a version of the boy that Will created but doesn’t quite feel like he could ever reach.

The real Hannibal—God help him—looks like the kind of boy who could catch a bird right out of the air, the kind of boy whose hands wouldn’t crush the fragile bones, whose grip would cradle. Will knows his own hands, rough and clumsy, could never hold something so delicate without breaking it, no matter how much he wants to. He longs for that gentleness, envies it, hates himself for not having it. 

He presses his lips to the inside of his wrist, imagines it’s Hannibal’s Adam’s apple instead, the way it bobs when he swallows,. 

Lord, forgive me for these thoughts. But Thinking like that would mean Hannibal’s the one in the wrong, and Will knows better. It’s him. Always him. 

Hannibal is his friend. Will doesn’t even think Hannibal likes him all that much. But God, Will still wants him around. It’s not just wanting to be near him; it’s needing it. He doesn’t like how that feels, either. It’s too big. Too heavy. Too much for someone like him to carry, but he does anyway.

In the quiet of the tent, he lets his mind wander to places it shouldn’t go.

He imagines Hannibal in those magazine poses. He thinks about Hannibal’s shoulders, broad and tan from days spent under the sun, and the faint line of hair trailing down his chest, disappearing into the waistband of jeans that always seem just a little too loose. He thinks about Hannibal blushing.

Will’s face burns. He buries it in his blanket, but his eyes stay locked on the drawing. His strokes are rough, hurried, and he knows better than to do it like this. It’ll hurt if he keeps it up, but he doesn’t care. His hand’s too dry, and he should stop, spit on his palm or something, but he can’t make himself pull away. It’s pathetic, he knows that, but the shame of it just makes it worse—makes him want it more, want him more.

Hannibal would taste like nectar and salt, he thinks. Like apples. Like pollen and stars and the kind of hope Will doesn’t think he deserves to hold. He bites his lip hard enough to taste blood and lets the thoughts come, lets them swamp him. 

Hannibal pinning him to the grass, to the dirt, holding him down until all that guilt melts away and there’s nothing left but the wanting. He imagines Hannibal’s lips, soft and sure, brushing against his, imagines those hands on his hips, guiding him somewhere Will doesn’t think he could ever find on his own.

He moans into the blanket, muffling the sound so it doesn’t carry, and his free hand curls into the fabric. His whole body feels like it’s about to come apart, like every nerve is sparking, and it’s too much and not enough all at once. God, he’s sick. There’s something wrong in him. 

And still, he can’t stop. Won’t stop. Not when the image of Hannibal’s face, soft and smiling, is burned so bright behind his eyelids. 

He thinks of the way Hannibal looked at that fish last week, the one they caught together. How he’d cupped it in his hands, its scales flashing in the sun, and mimicked the way it gasped for air, like he understood what it felt like to need something that bad. 

Will thinks of the sharp edges of Hannibal’s teeth, wonders what it would feel like to brush his tongue against them, to taste the wildness there, and the thought makes his hips jerk.

He’s kneeling now, barely aware of the shift, his whole body trembling. His strokes are faster, messier, and Hannibal’s face stares up at him from the page, soft and clear, and it’s too much. Will bites down on his lip until it hurts, until he tastes copper, but it doesn’t stop the noise that escapes him as he comes, rough and hard and shuddering.

It almost hurts, the way it feels, and he gasps for air like that fish, chest heaving, eyes blurring as he comes down. 

Will pauses for just a moment, his body slack in the aftermath, like every bone in him has melted and left nothing but loose skin and nerves frayed raw. His breath is shaky and uneven, the rise and fall of his chest sharp. His hand hangs limp where it rests, smeared and sticky, and the realization of it makes his stomach churn. 

He doesn’t look at it. Can’t. Instead, his eyes are drawn down to the paper.

It’s untouched.

He lets out a low, shuddering breath that feels like it’s been stuck in his chest for hours, relief washing over him so fast it makes him dizzy. Not a single smudge mars the pencil lines, no dark streak where his fingers might’ve dragged something wet and unholy across the page. 

The idea of ruining it, even accidentally, tightens something behind his ribs. He doesn’t know what he would’ve done if he’d destroyed it. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. He thinks it might’ve broken him in a way that couldn’t be fixed.

He grabs the red bandana from beside his pillow. It’s soft in his hands, worn thin in some spots, and for a second, he hesitates. He doesn’t want to ruin this, too, but the thought of leaving the evidence of what he’s done lingering there, glistening, makes his skin crawl. He wipes it clean from his hand, from his stomach, from the pale streak on the tent canvas. 

When the bandana is crumpled tight in his fist, he throws it to the side, out of sight. The corner of it peeks out from beneath the edge of his blanket, but he doesn’t care enough to tuck it away. He feels hollow now, drained and useless.

He lays back down, his hands trembling as they clutch at the blanket. He wants to close his eyes and disappear for a while, let sleep take him somewhere else. Somewhere better. 

But instead, his mind turns.

He thinks about Hannibal, the shape of him, the curve of his face in the soft light of evening. 

Will’s chest tightens, his throat raw like he’s swallowed something sharp.

He wishes he could be something bigger. Something more. He wishes he could be tough, bright, golden like the morning sun. He imagines himself with wings, tearing through his back in a bloom of blood and bone, unfurling huge and terrible behind him. Gore dripping from the feathers, the joints bent and strange, and yet Hannibal would look at him and call him beautiful.

That’s the word that sticks, snagged on something deep inside him like a barbed hook. Beautiful. Will doesn’t feel that way. Not now. Not ever. He feels small and ugly, a lump of flesh that’s nothing but sweat and mistakes. A waste of space and air.

His hands clutch tighter at the blanket as he closes his eyes and swallows hard against the ache in his chest. This won’t happen again, he tells himself. It can’t. He won’t let it. He’ll pray until his voice is hoarse, until the words are so dry they scrape against the roof of his mouth.

But he knows it’s a lie.

It will happen again, and again, and again, and each time, the guilt will come clawing back. And each time, he’ll pray harder, waste more of himself on it, because that’s all he knows how to do.

Then, finally, sleep takes him.

His dreams are dark, black as tar. There’s no light, no faces, no voices. Just a yawning emptiness that feels more like a curse than a relief.

He wakes to the sound of shuffling, a soft noise that barely registers at first. He groans, his body stiff as he stretches out under the blanket. For a moment, he thinks it’s Winston. Will doesn’t open his eyes.

But then there’s a hand on his face.

It’s warm, soft, and it lingers longer than it should.

Will’s breath catches, and his eyes flicker open, heavy with sleep.

Hannibal is kneeling over him, his face close, his dark eyes fixed on Will’s. There’s a softness there. Hannibal’s hair is messy, his cheeks pink from the cold or the climb, and his lips curl into a smile.

Will blinks up at him, bleary and dazed, and for a moment, he doesn’t know where he is. Doesn’t know what he’s done.

Will’s chest tightens as he scrambles upright, the weight of the moment slamming into him like a fist. His eyes dart around the small tent, frantic and wild. The bandana. Where the hell is it? He swears he put it down right there, right next to the blanket where he threw it in his rush to clean himself up. It should be there—right there—but it’s not.

His stomach knots, the air catching sharp and sour in his throat as he throws a glance at Hannibal. Hannibal is still kneeling, still watching him, head tilted slightly. His dark eyes are patient, curious, and it makes Will’s insides feel like they’re folding in on themselves.

He looks away fast, his hands clutching at the blanket like it might save him. His fingers curl into the fabric, knuckles going white as his gaze sweeps over the corners of the tent, looking for any sign of red. The bandana isn’t there. It’s not anywhere. It’s like it’s just disappeared, swallowed up by the ground itself.

God, he hopes Hannibal hasn’t seen it. He hopes it’s tucked somewhere out of sight, somewhere Hannibal won’t notice or think twice about. His mind races, spinning excuses in desperate, clumsy loops.

If Hannibal finds it, he could laugh it off, right? Say something casual, something stupid like boys will be boys, like it’s a joke. Maybe Hannibal wouldn’t even ask. Maybe he’d just glance at it, ignore it, and move on. Maybe he’d pretend not to know.

But then, what if he doesn’t?

What if Hannibal looks at him, head tilted just like it is now, and asks?

The thought makes Will’s throat close up, makes his chest feel too tight to hold air. He thinks he’d break apart right then and there, crumble into a thousand pieces at Hannibal’s feet. Maybe he’d cry. He can feel it pressing at the back of his throat now, hot and heavy, but he shoves it down. He won’t cry. Not here. Not now.

His heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might split his ribs, but he keeps looking, his gaze darting over every inch of the tent like a trapped animal. The panic tastes bitter, sharp on his tongue. He clears his throat once, twice, trying to steady himself, trying to stop the shaking in his hands.

Hannibal’s eyes don’t leave him.

Will’s mind won’t stop spinning, circling back to the same awful thought: he doesn’t know. He can’t know.

Then Hannibal lifts his hands, signing the word: eat.

Will stares at him, dumb and silent, before managing to croak out, “Breakfast?” 

Hannibal nods.

And then, before Will can think, Hannibal reaches down and takes his hand.

Will’s breath stutters at the contact, and he’s sure Hannibal can feel the way his pulse jumps through the thin skin of his wrist. He tries not to think about what that hand is touching—what it touched—but the memory creeps up the back of his neck.

Mortification floods him, fast and heavy. It pools low in his gut and claws at his chest, rising like bile. He tries to pull away, his movements jerky and awkward, but Hannibal only tightens his grip. His fingers curl firmly around Will’s.

Will stares at their joined hands as if they don’t belong to him, as if they’re part of someone else’s body, someone else’s shame. His shoulders hunch, his head dipping low, like maybe if he makes himself small enough, he can disappear entirely. His heart is pounding too hard, so loud he’s afraid Hannibal can hear it, but Hannibal doesn’t let go. He doesn’t say anything either, and that almost makes it worse.

Hannibal’s hand is clean, unblemished, untainted by the filth Will can’t stop carrying with him. It doesn’t belong in his, not after what he’s done, but Hannibal doesn’t let go.

They step out of the tent, the early morning light casting everything in soft gold, but Will can’t focus on it. His attention is stuck on the weight of Hannibal’s hand, the gentle pressure of his fingers wrapped around Will’s. 

As they walk down the hill toward the camp, Will stops trying to tug away. Hannibal’s grip is unyielding but not harsh, and it feels like… something. Will doesn’t know what. All he knows is that he doesn’t want it to end, even though he’s certain he doesn’t deserve it.

Hannibal’s a good friend.

──────────── 

Hannibal thinks Will sleeps so coiled, so tightly wound. His hands were fisted beneath pillows, clenched above the blankets. He looked as if he was at war even in his sleep. 

They are alike in this way. 

He wishes he knew what Will dreams about—what makes him twitch and frown. The boy fights battles in the dark, alone, wrapped in the isolation of his mind. Hannibal had watched him for a very long time that morning.

He had built a fire first, like always. The cold was sharp that morning, biting at the edges of his thoughts and filling the air with a brittle stillness. He could not stop imagining Will shivering, the cold sneaking beneath the blankets to steal his warmth. Even with all his strength, Will is still a boy—his youth written in the softness of his skin, in the fragile curve of his neck, in the quiet sighs that escaped his lips. 

And the cold cares little for age or resilience. 

There is something so fascinating, so deeply intimate, about seeing another in sleep, to witness the private torment of their minds when they cannot defend themselves. 

Will had been beautiful like that, his face slack. Hannibal thinks perhaps the boy doesn’t sleep at all during the night, that what he saw was only the exhaustion of someone who cannot fight any longer. 

He had leaned close, the sun casting its faint glow over Will’s skin, and traced a finger over the lavender circles under his eyes. Such delicate bruises. Hannibal had wondered why Will does not come to him, why he lies awake instead of sharing the burden of his thoughts. 

Does Will think of God in those hours? A God who does not care, who has turned his back on him, who watches but does not intervene?

Hannibal wishes he could cut Will’s shame out of him. 

Wishes it so fiercely it feels like a blade in his chest. But he does nothing, because there is nothing to be done. 

He remembers how warm Will had been beneath the blankets, how his lips had been pink like freshly cut strawberries, so inviting in their soft imperfection. What a strange thing, what a deeply human thing, to have the impulse to press your lips to another’s. 

Hannibal has never felt anything like it before. And yet, as he watched Will sleep, it was all he wanted to do. 

What would it feel like, to press his mouth against Will’s bitten lips? Softly? Roughly? Tenderly? He did not know, but he had wanted it. Does friendship allow for such desires? Does friendship permit this kind of longing? Hannibal does not know, but he suspects it does not. And still, he had wanted it. He remembers the want now, burning as brightly as it had then.

He remembers, too, how he once wrote to Will about whales. He had told him about seeing them—great, fantastical creatures of blue water. 

He had lied. 

He had never seen them. But he had wanted to see the way Will’s blue eyes would light up, and they had. Will had smiled so wide, punched Hannibal on the shoulder in that playful way of his, and Hannibal had felt something like triumph. He will never tell Will that it was a lie. He wishes it were true. Wishes he could tell Will more about those creatures. 

But sometimes, Hannibal thinks, you want something so much you have to lie about it, just so you can hold it in your mouth for a moment. See how it tastes. Will’s name in his mouth tastes like whiskey and sweet grass. Hannibal does not feel ashamed for what he did, for the lie. 

Nor does he feel ashamed for what he took from the tent.

The tent had smelled of Will. Hannibal had crawled inside, beside him, breathing it in, letting it fill his lungs. The blush on Will’s sleeping cheeks had been arresting, as if it had been placed there just for him, a gift. 

And the drawing—carelessly left beside him, waiting as though Hannibal’s place had been saved there. 

He had wondered what Will thought about as he did it, what had moved his hands in those soft strokes, what had lingered in his mind. Hannibal had wanted to wake him, to ask him, to hear it in Will’s own voice. 

But then he had seen the bandana, its fabric stained in ghostly white, used to wipe away all evidence. 

Hannibal had put it in his pocket before he could think. 

What a terrifying thing, to desire someone like this.

Hannibal does not know how the boys at school spoke of it so easily. This feeling is not easy. It is not casual. It is terrifying, how the thought of Will thinking of him makes Hannibal feel. And yet, even now, he does not regret it. He thinks of Will’s sleeping face, the way his lashes cast shadows over his cheeks, and he feels that same longing again.

Will has run off to the creek to wash himself, telling Hannibal he didn’t have to come. He’d looked afraid, rushed as they ate breakfast together, sparing no time to speak to Hannibal before he finished and went to bathe. Hannibal watched him leave, his hands lingering over his own plate, the sudden quiet pressing in like a hand over his mouth. 

He wants to know why Will is ashamed of what he did, and wants to know who taught him that doing such a thing was wrong. 

He hasn’t had time for things like that, or for shame or its shape. He’s always been too occupied by everything else—leaving the orphanage, moving to Paris, starting at boarding school. Too occupied to think of things like that, to want things like that. The doctors had told him once, in their careful, sterile way, that his disinterest was not normal. 

Hannibal had not cared. But now he has interest in a boy who thinks it is wrong to have it at all. 

They are friends. That is what they tell each other. Yet Hannibal is beginning to think the word means nothing at all. It feels hollow when he tries to speak it, when he tries to shape it around these feelings that leave him disoriented and restless. The word makes him angry. It makes him angrier still when Will comes back to the camp because, in his haste, he forgot his clean clothes. 

He appears suddenly, glowing in the sunlight, goosebumps rising on his pale skin from the cool air as he rifles through Hannibal’s clothes. They share a wardrobe because they are the same size. Because they are friends. 

Will’s old shirt is clutched tightly in his hands, and Hannibal’s throat tightens at the sight of him. Bare, his damp skin catches the light like marble.

He is beautiful, Hannibal thinks. A wild thing, his edges smoothed only slightly by the water’s touch. The sides of his waist curve inward like the arches of a cathedral, and Hannibal remembers the urge he had to touch the stones of the ones he visited in France. But Will is much softer than stone. Much softer. 

Will avoids his gaze as he dresses. He pulls on pants first. Hannibal pretends to read, his eyes fogged as they trace the same line of text over and over. His hands clutch the book tightly, his nails pressing into the leather cover. He wishes to rip it to shreds, to let the pages scatter in the wind. But books do not deserve that. 

Neither does Will.

Hannibal’s gaze betrays him again, slipping over the edge of the book to where Will’s body gleams with droplets of water. The way it moves down his shoulders, how the water touches him because it must, because it has no choice. He feels a pang of jealousy for the water, an emotion so absurd he almost laughs at it. 

Will finishes dressing, hiding himself away, and then comes to sit beside Hannibal. His hair is still damp, curling slightly at the ends, and his blue eyes shine like glass in the sunlight. His shoulders are tense.

Hannibal thinks, why is he so ashamed? If he has stapled Hannibal’s poems and notes to the back of his tent, why does he look so guilty now? The poems hang there like Christ on the cross. 

What makes Will’s guilt so heavy it drags him to the earth? Hannibal wants to take it away, somehow, but he does not know how to do it without tearing it out of him. 

The thought horrifies him, but only because he knows it might work, that Will might allow it, that he might feel relief in the pain of being unburdened by it.

Will asks what Hannibal is reading, and Hannibal hands him the book without a word. He lets Will read aloud, his voice quiet at first, growing stronger as he falls into the rhythm of the text. Hannibal presses his hand to Will’s throat, not to stop him, but to feel the vibrations of his voice. Will does not pull away. He lets him.

Hannibal’s fingers rest lightly against his skin, and though the urge to squeeze rises, he resists. The restraint burns in him, a fire that consumes without ash, leaving only the endless ache of desire denied.

“‘If you tame me, it will be as if the sun came to shine on my life,’” Will reads. “‘I shall know the sound of a step that will be different from all the others. Other steps send me hurryin’ back underneath the ground. Yours will call me out, like music.’” He pauses, glancing at Hannibal with a raised brow. 

“‘You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed,’” Will reads, then lets the book drop slightly, looking at Hannibal directly. “That’s a hell of a thing to ask someone for, don’t you think? Responsibility forever? I mean, who the hell has the right to ask for that?”

Hannibal’s hand stills against Will’s throat, his fingers flexing just slightly before retreating. He reaches for his notebook, flipping to a clean page. 

He turns the notebook toward Will. Does the fox not ask the prince? Is the fox wrong to ask?

Will blinks at the notebook, his brows knitting together as he tries to find the words. “I don’t think it’s wrong, exactly,” he says after a long pause. “But it’s... risky, isn’t it? Askin’ for something like that. What if the person you ask... what if they can’t give it to you? Or worse, what if they say they will, but then they—then they don’t?”

Hannibal blinks. 

Will sighs, flipping to the next page. “‘To me, you are still nothin’ more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you, I am nothin’ more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other.’”

Will’s voice falters at the last line, and he swallows hard. “Do you think that’s true?” he asks softly, almost hesitantly. “That you can only really... understand someone if you’ve tamed them? If they’re... yours?”

Hannibal’s pen trembles in his hand, and he writes.  

I do not know.

Later, at night, Hannibal knows he will take Will’s bandana and press it to his nose, inhaling deeply despite the terror it brings him. The terror of his own thoughts, of how he imagines pressing his fingers harder against Will’s throat. Of how he imagines it would feel—the heat of his skin, the give of soft flesh beneath his hand. It horrifies him, but he does not feel shame like Will does. 

To be beautiful is not shameful, Hannibal thinks. But to be human is. And Hannibal will tell himself that he does not want Will. He does not want him to be beautiful. But he cannot stop the need for beauty to be something more than pain. Something gentle enough to hold. And he will imagine reaching for Will, not for his skin but for the depths of him. Not for an answer, but an entrance. The shape of an animal, like him. 

And it will not be real. But it will feel like it is.

In the evening, the sheep scatter like spilled pearls over the hill, their wool catching the light in odd ways. Hannibal watches them, his eyes tracing the uneven edges of their forms, smudges of white against the green and gold of the field. Will runs among them, calling Winston back with sharp whistles. Winston bounds, his tail wagging like it’s trying to chase the rhythm of Will’s laughter. That laughter, Hannibal thinks, could be the sound of the sky splitting open. He does not write it down, though. Not yet.

The revolver sits heavy in Hannibal’s palm. The chamber spins, a sound like a bird’s wing brushing a hollow bone. He lifts it to his temple, feels the press of metal, colder than the breeze. He knows it is empty, but Will does not, and Hannibal knows the way Will’s mind leaps—bright and strange and full of consequence. He waits, watches the laughter falter in Will’s throat and shift to something else, something sharper, something made of need.

Will grabs at him, his fingers rough against Hannibal’s wrist, and the gun is wrestled free. Will shouts something Hannibal doesn’t fully catch, something tangled in the timber of his frustration. Then Will is running, waving the revolver high, a crooked smile splitting his face. Hannibal gives chase, his body moving before he can think to stop it, before he can remember that silence anchors him to the earth in ways Will will never fully understand.

The grass folds beneath their feet as they run, as they weave around each other like ribbons on a maypole. Hannibal’s fingers catch Will’s sleeve, but Will twists away, always quick, always clever. When Hannibal catches him at last, they topple together, falling in a heap that smells of grass and sweat and sunlight. Will pins Hannibal, the gun held tight in his grip, and Hannibal reaches for it, wrestling it away. Will’s laughter rings out again, chaotic and beautiful. Hannibal flips the gun in his hand, presses the barrel gently to Will’s temple, and Will freezes.

Hannibal lets the gun fall open, empty chambers gleaming, and Will shakes his head, laughing so hard he gasps for breath. They scatter again, running like the sky is cracking open above them, like they could dissolve into stardust if only they move fast enough.

When their legs can carry them no further, they collapse together in the grass. The lambs bleat somewhere nearby, and Winston curls into a soft brown ball at their feet. Hannibal’s hand brushes the grass and Will’s hand is there too, fingertips so close they almost touch. Their pinkies meet and part, meet and part.

Will speaks, his voice low and soft, with that peculiar edge of wonder that Hannibal thinks only he can hear. The words blur in Hannibal’s ears, but the tone stays, hollow and blue and full of things Hannibal wants to name but won’t.

Hannibal looks at Will, at the way his mouth shapes the world, and he thinks of things too big for language. He imagines nostalgia clawing its way through their ribs, pulling free whatever fragile wings might still linger there. He wonders if their anatomies might spill together, form rivers that drown them both. He wonders if they’d want to be saved.

As they walk later, climbing the slope of the mountain, they find the bird. Its body is small, fragile, the feathers orange and black. Will’s face turns away, something breaking in his features that Hannibal doesn’t try to name. He kneels, writes.

It’s dead. You can touch it.

Will does. His fingers are hesitant at first, grazing the feathers as if afraid to break them. Hannibal watches, then joins him, their hands brushing over the intricate whorls, the geometry of the bird’s body. He thinks of butterflies, their wings too delicate to hold, and how this bird’s wings stay whole.

"We oughta bury it," Will says. He gestures toward the tiny, lifeless bird at their feet. "Ain't right leavin' it out here like this. Feels wrong. Like... like it deserved more than just bein’ left for scavengers. Don't you think?"

Hannibal nods. He writes again: You think death can be kind?

Will’s brow furrows as he considers, his fingers tracing lazy circles in the dirt beside the bird. “I don’t know if kind’s the right word. But maybe… maybe it can be fair? Like a balance. Somethin’ that makes sense of the mess we leave behind.” He pauses, his eyes fixed on the bird, and his voice grows quieter. “My mama used to say there’s no such thing as a bad death, just a bad way to live. I always wondered if she believed that, or if she just said it ‘cause she was scared.”

Was she scared?

Will lets out a low chuckle, though there’s no humor in it. “Hell yeah, she was scared. Lost more’n she kept. But she wouldn’t admit it. Not to me, anyway. She was the kind of woman who carried the world on her back like it was nothin’ and made you feel guilty for not doin’ the same.” He leans back on his heels, his arms draping over his knees. “She left when I was fifteen. Quiet-like. Maybe she found her balance. Or maybe she just ran out of things to carry.”

Do you think of her often?

Will hesitates, his mouth pulling into a soft grimace. “Not in the way you’d think. It’s not memories, not really. It’s more like… echoes. The sound of her voice in my head when I’m about to screw somethin’ up. The way she used to hum when she didn’t know I was listenin’. Little things that feel like they’re still hers, even after all this time.” His hand comes to rest on the bird again, fingers brushing the feathers. “You think people leave pieces of themselves behind, Hannibal? Even if they’re gone?”

Hannibal looks at him for a long moment, his gaze steady, unreadable. 

Only the pieces that mattered most.

Hannibal picks flowers, a scatter of small suns and violets. They find a hollow in a tree, set the body inside with the flowers, and Will looks satisfied, like something deep in him has settled. Hannibal knows an animal will find it, will mangle the bird and trample the flowers, but he doesn’t write this, doesn’t break whatever sacred thing Will has made. He understands, he thinks, even if he doesn’t know why.

When it’s done, Will steps back, hands resting on his hips, eyes lingering on their makeshift burial.

"That’s better," he says softly. "Looks peaceful now."

They sit by the river after, the sun slipping lower, the water cool against their feet. Will talks, his voice pulling the day to its end, and Hannibal thinks of his mother. He writes to Will about her. Will leans against him, his shoulder pressing into Hannibal’s chest, and Hannibal lets him.

She saw ghosts, my mother. She told me once they lived in the cracks of the walls, in the spaces where the light could not  reach. She used to sit in the dark and wait for them to speak.

Hannibal tears the page out and hands it to Will, his fingers brushing Will’s in the exchange. Will takes it without looking at Hannibal, his eyes scanning the words, his lips parting slightly as he reads.

When Will finishes, he shifts, angling his body toward Hannibal. “Ghosts? She really believed in them, or was it more of a thing she liked to say? Some folks like to think of their grief that way, like it’s not just theirs anymore, like it’s been given a face and some kinda shape. That sound like her?”

Hannibal writes again, his hand steady despite the quick rhythm of his heartbeat. She believed. She said they whispered to her when she couldn’t sleep. Sometimes they warned her about things—bad weather, bad men. She said they were kind. He pauses, taps the pen once against the paper, then adds, I used to wish I could see them too. But they never came to me.

Will reads this one slower, his brow furrowing, the river reflecting in his eyes. “You really wanted that? To see what she saw? I don’t know, Hannibal. Feels like a burden to me, hearing things you can’t prove are there. Having people think you’re crazy when you try to explain it.” He hesitates, then adds, “What do you think they really were? Those whispers?”

Hannibal is already writing. I think they were her fears. Her hopes. Things she could not say out loud, given voices by her mind so they wouldn’t feel so lonely. But I wanted to believe they were real. I wanted to believe she wasn’t as alone as she felt.

Will reads this and doesn’t answer right away. His face softens, his mouth pressing into a line that looks more thoughtful than sad. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I think everyone’s got their ghosts,” he says finally, his voice low. “Not the kind that rattle chains or hover at the end of the bed, but the kind that sit with you when it’s too quiet. They’re the things you couldn’t fix, couldn’t say, couldn’t let go of. But maybe…” He trails off, shakes his head. “I don’t know. Maybe they’re not all bad.”

Hannibal writes one more thing. She told me once that the ghosts stayed because they loved her. That they couldn’t leave her behind. He hands it over and watches Will’s expression shift again, something like understanding washing over his face.

“That’s… something,” Will says, his voice rougher now. He leans back against Hannibal, closer this time, and mutters, “I guess if they stick around out of love, that makes it easier to bear.”

He breathes in the scent of Will’s joy—hyssop and basil, something soft and green. He wants to press his lips to Will’s temple, to trail kisses down his neck, to lift his shirt and feel the warmth of his skin beneath his mouth. But Will would never allow it. So instead, Hannibal lets Will lean, lets his head rest there as Hannibal writes words. And Hannibal tells himself to remember how to breathe.

It is when Hannibal goes to get the food from the bridge that he is reminded of what he is. 

The path there is beautiful as anything, a winding trail scattered with wildflowers that grow in quiet rebellion against the earth. Hannibal reaches down as he guides his horse, plucking the blooms with careful fingers, weaving them into thin, uneven bracelets. The kind that Will will laugh at when he sees them, calling Hannibal crazy for making such things when there are chores to be done. But Will will still wear them, of course. He always does. Just like he lets Hannibal tuck flowers into his hair, their bright heads nestled against the dark waves as if they belong there, as if the earth itself had decided to crown him.

Hannibal remembers when he made a bracelet of dandelions once, sunny and simple. Will had frowned and called them a pest, an invasive species. “Not flowers at all,” he’d said. 

Hannibal had only smiled, writing on his small notepad that they were still beautiful, either way. There had been something almost triumphant in Will’s frown. Later, much later, Hannibal had seen that same dandelion bracelet in Will’s tent, tucked among his drawings and notes. It had withered, gone dry and brown, but it was still there. 

Hannibal wonders what Will will do with these things when the summer ends, when they part ways and the world returns to being its usual, separate self. The thought comes with a sudden ache, sharp and unfamiliar, so Hannibal pushes it away. 

He tells himself he will not think of it again. 

Their rations have been growing sparse. Hannibal has tried to stretch them, to save what he can, but it is never enough. Still, he is grateful for this, this guarantee of food, however small the portions may be. Something is always better than nothing. This he knows as a fact, in everything, even with Will’s attention. Even with his friendship. 

He sighs quietly as he approaches the bridge, the familiar structure looming ahead, its wooden beams weathered and creaking. Two men stand waiting, one of them the grocery man he recognizes, the other a stranger. The stranger’s presence makes Hannibal’s skin tighten slightly, the way it always does in the company of unfamiliar men. This would have been a better task for Will, but Hannibal had been assigned, and Hannibal will do it. 

Sliding off his horse, Hannibal nods at the men. The grocery man explains that the other is here to lead the mule down the path. “Last year, the other boys lost the mule,” he says with a shrug, as if that explains everything. Hannibal listens but does not respond, merely glancing at the mule, at the man who will lead it. He wonders about those boys from last year. Were they like Hannibal and Will? Or did they make it through the summer the way they were supposed to, without complication, without question? Hannibal suspects the latter. 

Nobody is like Will. Nobody is like him.

The exchange is quick, the groceries packed onto the mule with little ceremony. The bags are heavy, their weight pulling at the animal’s sides, and Hannibal briefly wonders if the mule minds the burden. They are on the path back to camp in minutes, Hannibal leading his horse, the man following with the mule. The man watches him as they go, dark eyes studying Hannibal with an expression he chooses to ignore. 

It is growing late, and Hannibal’s mind is already on dinner, on what he can make for Will tonight. There are new ingredients this time. He imagines Will’s smile, the teasing lilt of “Chef Lecter” as he bows his head over the meal to pray. Hannibal will watch, as always, without saying amen, though he will listen to every word Will whispers. Like it is meant for him alone.

The forest around them is quiet, save for the rustle of leaves and the steady clop of hooves. Hannibal’s mind drifts, caught in the rhythm of their movement, the soft crunch of dirt beneath his boots. The man finally speaks, breaking the peace with words that Hannibal doesn’t catch at first. It doesn’t matter. 

“Hey!” The man’s voice cuts again, harsher this time. “No tongue in that pretty little head of yours? Or did someone cut it out?

Hannibal closes his eyes briefly, bracing himself for what comes next. Another man, another conversation he cannot join. The grocery man should have warned him, but of course he did not. Hannibal’s hand tightens on the reins. He should pull out his notebook, write his explanation, but it is difficult to do one-handed, and the pace is too slow for him to mount the horse and free both hands.

“Fucking prick,” the man mutters under his breath, loud enough for Hannibal to hear, and he punctuates the words with a bitter laugh.

Hannibal lets him believe whatever he wishes. Men like this mean nothing to him. They never have. He despises them, these men who think their size gives them power, who walk the earth as if it belongs to them alone. He makes himself remember them, every one.

It is this, perhaps, that drives him now, when the hands shove him. When the blow lands, hard enough to make him stumble. Anger surges hot and immediate, but fear is right behind it, crawling up his spine like a cold hand. He had promised himself that he would never let a man make him feel fear again. 

Will had once told him that violence could be a good thing if you knew how to control it. 

Hannibal thinks about that often. He knows he should hold on to it, cling to it, but as his hand moves toward the knife tucked in his boot, he feels it unravel.

This thing, breathes softly all day, its feathery turnings like a whisper he cannot ignore. Hannibal feels its weight constantly, pressing, pushing, demanding to be let out. It frightens him, yes—but he does not think it is wrong. This is Godly, he thinks.

He has felt this before—fighting the boys at school, when knuckles met skin and bone cracked beneath the weight of his blows. Those moments reminded him he was alive, that life was not just suffering, but now, here, in this wilderness with no one to stop him, he feels the wildness more keenly. Wyoming is untamed, and Hannibal feels untamed with it.

The man barely has time to scream before Hannibal is upon him, the knife driving deep into his jugular. The sound is wet, visceral—a sharp, liquid gasp that fills the air and lingers like a shadow. They fall together, tangled. 

It isn’t the man beneath him—it has never been about him. The knife slides out, then plunges back in, again and again and again. It is Grutas he sees. It is Grutas he kills. And beneath that name, another—the one he cannot say without tasting the clink of baby teeth in the bowl, the hollow sound they made as they settled there, as if they knew they would be swallowed.

He knows he is losing himself, going further than he should, further than he needs to. But he cannot stop. He feels old and young, infinite and empty, everything and nothing at once. He doesn’t know what season it is—if it is winter, or summer, or Wyoming, or Lithuania.

The world is gone, and all that remains is the warmth of the blood. It seeps through his shirt, soaks his hands, paints his face.

He lets the knife fall from his hand, its clatter drowned in the stillness that follows. Slowly, he raises his blood-slick hands to his face. His fingers smear the red into his skin, spreading it. He closes his eyes and sighs, the sound more of a release than a breath.

This is not the first time he has killed. It will not be the last. But this—this is different. The man beneath him was bigger, stronger. Hannibal had felled him anyway. He feels like the barb of a fishhook.

He feels free.

But then Hannibal looks down at the man he has just killed. It is the face of an American. It is not him. Not the man who took something.

He does not know how long he stays there, frozen in the weight of his own stillness, until he hears it: the soft crunch of footsteps on the earth behind him. A quiet inhale, sharp and uncertain, like someone catching their breath.

Hannibal’s body jolts as though struck. His shoulders protest with soreness as he forces himself to move, his head snapping toward the sound. Will stands there, his silhouette framed against the dim sky, his eyes wide and startled. His lips part as if to speak, but no words come out.

And then the fear begins. Hannibal feels it spread through him. It isn’t fear for his own safety. It is the terror of being seen. Will is seeing him like this—covered in blood, surrounded by the ruins of his own violence.

He is going to run, Hannibal thinks, his mind spiraling. He is going to look at me and see something monstrous, something vile. He will recoil, and I will lose him.

Hannibal wants to speak, to reach out, to explain. He swallows hard, his mind a frantic blur. He wants to tell Will about the whales in the deep ocean, how they sing songs no one else can hear. He wants to say this could be beautiful, that he could be beautiful, if only Will would look closer.

Hannibal wonders if he must silence Will, if he must take those wide blue eyes and preserve them, keep them safe in a jar where they cannot speak of what they have witnessed. Where they cannot judge him. Where they cannot leave him.

The thought terrifies him more than the blood on his hands.

Their eyes meet, and for a long moment, neither of them moves.

Will’s voice is a fragile whisper. “He’s dead?” 

Hannibal meets his gaze, nodding slowly. He feels restless and harsh and despairing, and he thinks he has this care for Will inside him that he does not know how to use. It tears at his flesh like barbs. He thinks they may finally understand each other now. 

He wonders if Will can see the snow under his knees. But they both look down, and there is no snow. There is only grass, damp and stained red, clinging to the folds of their reality like an accusation. Just bloodstained grass.

What a terrifying thing, Hannibal thinks, to be seen. To be known like this, so fast, without ceremony. This is worse than anything. Worse than pain, worse than rejection, worse than death. 

And yet. And yet, he does not get up. He does not reach out to strangle Will, to silence this knowing before it can take root and bloom into something Hannibal cannot control.

Why?

Because Will is beautiful? Because they are friends? Because Will, in all his fragile, aching humanity, reminds Hannibal of things he once thought were lost to him? Because Will’s eyes are blue like the endless sky and his cheeks blush like wildflowers blooming in the harshest soil? Because they are friends?

Because once, in that low, wondrous voice of his, Will told Hannibal he was violent too. 

But why won’t Will run from him? 

Because he is beautiful. Because they are friends. And Hannibal is beginning to suspect that friendship might be real after all. in the way God is real: spoken of softly, draped in imagery of light and goodness, intangible yet omnipresent. And yet, friendship is also this: one friend seeing another, covered in the blood of a man, and not running away.

Hannibal looks down again and crawls off the man, settling to his knees in the grass. Will. 

He wants to say his name, though his mouth only shapes the word, and he can feel the dried blood cracking on his skin as he does.

Hannibal feels his lip rise in a snarl when he feels it threaten to wobble, and Will breaks at that, and suddenly he is real and not a memory. He comes—he does not run, he comes—and Hannibal wonders if what Will did in his tent felt as euphoric as this. 

He comes to Hannibal, to kneel in the grass and look at him with wide eyes. And Hannibal looks at him, at this strange boy, and wishes he knew what he was thinking. Now more than anything he wishes for it. 

He is wide-eyed and slack-jawed, and Hannibal swallows as he looks back and does not strangle him. And then Will looks at the mangled body, who is missing a throat, and back at Hannibal. 

Then, with a sound that is almost a gasp, Will presses his forehead to Hannibal’s shoulder.

And Will cries.

The sound is wretched, shuddering, heavy with grief that feels too large for his slight frame. His sobs shake against Hannibal, his chest heaving with the weight of it, and Hannibal can feel the tremors reverberating through him. It is not just crying—it is keening. Will clutches at his own heart, but his hands stray to Hannibal’s chest, gripping the fabric over his skin.

Hannibal hesitates, his hands hovering for a moment before they settle into Will’s hair. His fingers tangle there, sticky with blood that smears against the strands as though marking Will with what has been done. He wonders why Will cries, what grief drives him to such depths.

Will whispers then, soft and cracking, “I’m sorry.”

He frowns, uncomprehending for a moment, until he realizes—sees it with a terrible clarity. Will cries for him. Not for the body. Not for the blood or the violence or the horror. But for him.

The same way he cried for the lamb.

Hannibal’s chest constricts as though Will has reached inside him and grasped his ribs. The way Will’s hands cling to him now—desperate, trembling—is the way they once clung to wool. Here it is, Hannibal thinks. Here is his heart, laid bare anyway.

Hannibal wants to destroy him. Wants to hide him. Wants to love him, and kiss him, and make him into something new. 

Will only cries harder as if he knows, he knows. His knowing is a terrible thing, as raw and electric as an exposed nerve, and Hannibal’s grip tightens, blood smearing against the strands of Will’s hair.

Will helps Hannibal drag the body into the woods for the wolves to eat. 

Hannibal lingers, and he grabs Will’s hand and holds onto it. He is so beautiful and not afraid. He is not afraid. He wants to give Will what is needed to do to build the summoning circle, to bring Hannibal back from the depths where he retreated, let the warm glow beckon him home. 

Will dabbing at his eyes with a cloth damp with river water, wrapping his head in soft canopies of synthetic light, whispering Go back to your daydreams. Will taking his hand, pulling him forward, spinning stories from the broken mirrors of his gaze as though they were fairytales.

Hannibal wants to feel Will bundling him in the safety of his sheets, letting him see the sunset wash over his face, bathing him in something softer than Hannibal has ever known. He longs for Will to paint the world into a place his scared feet might dare step onto, to cushion the ache in his chest with hands steady enough to catch him if he stumbles. Will would beg him to forgive himself.

He imagines Will running cool water over his head, letting it spill through Hannibal’s hair, his fingers combing the knots with gentle care. Will brushing his teeth, rinsing his mouth, and then settling him down in the grass, sitting him quietly in the warmth of summer’s dying light. Will would walk with him, wouldn’t he? Mimic the rhythm of his steps, and watch him kneel to smell the grass, to remind himself of its sweetness.

Hannibal’s mind turns this longing into a fever dream. 

But he knows none of it is real. Instead, he sits beside Will, watching the tears that fall from his eyes. Hannibal holds him, his thoughts spinning somewhere far away. 

There are dreams that come to him sometimes, strange and fragmented. Dreams of orange peels and lemon rinds, open mouths wet with juice, sticky and glistening. Dreams of hands, calloused and strong, tearing into fruit, cracking the skins open to suckle on what spills out. In those dreams, there is a strange kind of ordinariness.

Hannibal remembers the citrus sting of those dreams, the sharp tang of longing they leave behind. He craves something in them—a wound, perhaps, or the way the citrus seeps into it, a rush of sensation that rises and swells. There are kinder friendships than this, he knows.

But those dreams are not his. In his, there are fed to a fire. Perhaps it is his fire. Or Will’s. Or something shared between them. He wonders if these dreams hold truth. If not, perhaps another will: a friendship that tastes sour and dark, sticky as tar, or sweet as molasses on the rare, lucky occasion.

He wonders, in his quieter moments, if it is meant to sting. If it should squeeze limes into eyes until they run red and tear-streaked. He does not have an answer, not yet.

He wonders, faintly, if he should name the lamb after himself.

──────────── 

Will’s never seen blood in the moonlight before. It looks black, like oil slicking over a puddle, and it was all over Hannibal’s face.

Will doesn’t know what to do. His heart feels like it’s caught between beating too fast and not beating at all. He’s still panting from the run, lungs burning, legs trembling, hands unsure where to go except on his knees to keep himself from collapsing. 

Will had been worried sick since Hannibal didn’t come back from the bridge, food forgotten, hours dragging by. He thought Hannibal might’ve hurt himself or run into something wild—a bear, maybe, or one of those cougars people keep spotting near the trails. His imagination had been doing flips since sunset, filling his chest with a kind of tightness he hasn’t felt in years. Hannibal not coming back wasn’t supposed to matter this much, but it does. It does. He couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t think of anything else.

It was dumb, he knows that, leaving camp like some scared kid with a flashlight too dim to see much of anything. But Hannibal’s different. He’s—hell, he’s Will’s favorite. And all Will could think about was that Hannibal hates the cold. It was stupid to worry so much, stupid to think he needed to find Hannibal like Hannibal couldn’t take care of himself. 

The man on the ground was dead. There was no mistaking that, not with his throat looking like someone had shredded it with a dozen knives, the red-soaked grass beneath his head. Hannibal was over him, still and quiet, blood smeared across his face.

The man’s throat was pulp, chewed-up and unrecognizable, like the insides of an orange. Blood clung to Hannibal’s shirt in dark patches, shining on his fingers. In the faint light, Hannibal looked wrong. 

The moonlight made him glow, wild and sharp, a far cry from the soft boy Will knew—the one who picked flowers, the one who sketched the world when he thought no one was watching. But Hannibal always had teeth, hadn’t he? Always has that edge to him. There’s a reason he doesn’t speak, a reason his uncle had sent him out here, to the middle of nowhere. Will had known that the moment they met.

Still, he didn’t run.

He could’ve. Maybe he should’ve. But he didn’t. Because when he looked at Hannibal, he felt it. It poured out of Hannibal in thick waves, anger and sadness so vast they seemed too much for any one body to hold. Will’s chest ached, felt like it might crack open and spill everything he was into the dirt. His vision blurred, and tears burned paths down his cheeks. He wanted to grab Hannibal, to hold him tight, maybe tighter than he ever had before. How could someone so small carry so much, and still be standing? Hannibal wasn’t crying, though. Will almost wanted him to. Maybe he’d feel better if Hannibal let some of it out.

But it was Hannibal who held him. He closed the space between them, arms wrapping around Will like he was the one who needed comforting. It was the most backwards thing, but Will didn’t pull away. How could he?

Hannibal’s nineteen but what was inside him felt older, bigger. Bigger than God, Will thought, because no man or boy could hold onto that much fury and sadness without breaking. It felt biblical, like the kind of story preachers don’t tell you about because it’s too messy.

Will didn’t ask. He didn’t ask who it was, or what they’d taken from Hannibal to make him do this. He wouldn’t. Hannibal is brave—braver than anyone Will has ever known—and nothing would make Will think otherwise. Killing is a sin, sure. But so were Will’s thoughts about Hannibal. If one was wrong, then the other might as well be, too. Hannibal’s sickness is wild, beastly, beautiful.

Will couldn’t stop looking at him, wouldn’t stop, not now. That image of him glowing under the moonlight— it’s his now, his to keep.

They’ve been back at camp for a little while, Will having walked the mule back and fed the boss some half-cocked story about a bear attack. Hannibal got growled at, sure, but the other guy didn’t make it. Wolves would take care of the rest—there’d be nothing left by morning. Simple. Complicated. Both at once.

Will’s hands are wrecked, knuckles split and bloody from punching a tree until the storm in his chest felt manageable again. He’s walking back now, flexing his fingers just to feel the sting, reminding himself he’s still here, still himself. Hannibal’s waiting for him by the fire, face scrubbed clean. Will wishes he hadn’t cleaned the blood off.

He stops. For a second, he just stares, chest heavy, throat tight, then goes to sit beside Hannibal.

Will sits on the log beside Hannibal. 

He doesn’t say anything for a while. Hannibal doesn’t either, but Will knows he can’t. He leaks sadness and fear like a cracked pipe, spilling into the air between them, and Will tries his best not to let it soak into him. He wants to, though. 

Wants to sit there and let it bleed until he’s full of it, full of whatever Hannibal is.

He doesn’t know what happened to Hannibal to make him this way, and he doubts he ever will. It doesn’t matter. They’re friends, or something like it, and things have happened to Will too. The world’s fucked up and so are they, and Will thinks that maybe nothing matters at all except Hannibal. He knows this thought won’t last. By morning, when his Bible’s beside him and the world has cooled, he’ll tuck it away with the rest of the things he won’t admit out loud. But right now, he thinks it. Right now, he knows it.

Will breathes in deeply, his chest rising and falling with a slow rhythm.

“Back in Louisiana... I saw one of the boys at school. He killed a little cat. Just... for fun, I guess. His brother's friends watched like it was some kind of damn sport." Will pauses. He exhales slowly, staring at the fire, letting the flames burn their way into his thoughts.

Hannibal doesn't speak, but Will feels the weight of his silence, the subtle shift of his presence, close enough that he could lean into it if he wanted to. Will resists the urge to stiffen, to pull away.

"They put him up on their shoulders," Will continues, his voice rough but steady. "Like he was some kinda hero. They cheered him on, like he'd done something great. Took him right back to his mama's house, paraded him there." Will's hand twitches. "I stayed back. I found the cat and buried it in the woods. Didn’t let anyone see me." His voice cracks slightly. "Guess I spent all my time trying to convince myself, and everyone else, that I didn't cry. Like it didn’t matter if it was real, as long as no one saw it happen."

He laughs, but it’s bitter—sharp and empty. Will clenches his fists, feeling the sting in his cracked knuckles. The firelight glints off the blood, dark and wet against his skin, like it’s trying to say something he doesn’t want to hear. 

"But I cried for that cat," Will murmurs. "I cried for it, Hannibal. And I cried for you."

His breath catches in his throat, words lodged in the pit of his chest, and for a moment he doesn't know if he can say anything more. His fists flex, the raw skin stretching tight over the broken edges, and he holds onto the pain like it's all he has left. "I was always told God works in mysterious ways," he says, his voice quiet now. "Some deserve to die, some... don't. That’s what I was told." He glances at the flames, the red and orange light dancing in his eyes, before looking back at Hannibal.

The question is fragile—too fragile—but he whispers it anyway. "Did he deserve it, Hannibal?" 

Hannibal’s lips are parted, the flickering flames caught in his eyes, and they glitter like broken glass. Hannibal doesn’t nod, doesn’t shake his head, just stares down at Will’s hands. Will tries to hide them, but it’s too late; Hannibal’s already seen.

Then Hannibal stands.

For a second, Will feels something drop inside him, cold and hard and heavy. He thinks Hannibal’s leaving him, thinks the boy is about to disappear into the tent and never come back. But Hannibal returns, holding his notebook and a piece of fabric Will can’t quite make out in the firelight. He settles back down beside him and starts writing, the scratch of pen on paper filling the silence. He tears the page out and hands it over.

God’s terrific. He dropped a church roof on 34 of His worshippers in Texas, while they sang a hymn.

Will reads it, the paper trembling in his hands. He breathes out, almost a laugh, and says, “And did God feel good about that?”

Hannibal writes again, quick and sharp, like he’s pressing too hard. He hands the notebook back. 

He felt powerful then.

“Do you think He actually cared? Or was it all just for show?”

Hannibal doesn’t answer right away. His pen hovers above the paper, his brow furrowing in thought, as if weighing the question for its worth. 

God cares only in the way an artist cares for his work. But destruction? That is part of creation, too.

Will reads it. He exhales through his nose, something between a scoff and a sigh. “That’s the part He enjoys most, you think? Watching it all crumble while everyone else calls it divine will?”

It is divine. Creation requires destruction. God knows this. So do you.

Will stares at the words, a muscle tightening in his jaw. His fingers grip the paper a little harder than they should, and for a moment, he doesn’t say anything. “You think that’s what killing is, then? Creation? You’re gonna tell me every time you’ve thought of—” He pauses, corrects himself. “Every life you’ve taken was some kind of divine act?”

Hannibal tilts his head slightly, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. He writes without hesitation this time, handing the notebook back to Will.

Is it not? To take a life is to shape the world in your image. To alter it forever. Isn’t that what you feel when you stand over a body and know you’ve brought them peace?

Will’s breath catches, a sharp intake of air, his heart thudding harder against his ribs. He doesn’t look up at Hannibal, not yet. 

“Peace,” he murmurs. “That’s a hell of a way to put it.”

Hannibal shifts. His hand brushes briefly against Will’s when he takes the notebook back, the touch lingering just a second longer than necessary. He writes again.

Even God kills, Will. Are His hands not still holy?

Will finally lifts his head, meeting Hannibal’s eyes. “So that’s what you think we are? Holy?”

Hannibal doesn’t write this time. He doesn’t need to. The way he looks at Will, the faint curve of his lips and the dark light in his eyes, says enough.

Will swallows hard and looks away. “If we are,” he says, barely above a whisper, “then we’re the kind of holy that makes people beg for mercy.”

Hannibal sets the notebook down, then picks up the fabric and dips it into the pot of freshly boiled water hanging over the fire. Will hadn’t even noticed it was there. Hannibal pulls the cloth out, squeezes the water from it, and looks at Will.

Then, without a word, Hannibal takes Will’s hands.

Will tries to pull away, but Hannibal tugs back, firm but not rough, and holds him still. The wet fabric presses against his knuckles, wiping away the blood in slow strokes. Hannibal’s hands are steady, careful. Will’s hands—hands that have sinned, hit, and clasped in prayer—are being cleaned by Hannibal, by hands that feel soft and sure. Hands that have taken a life. 

The silence between them feels loud, a hum that Will can’t ignore. And then, suddenly, he’s asking, “Did you try to kill me? That day at the creek?”

Hannibal pauses. His hands still on Will’s, and he looks up, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he doesn’t move. Then, slowly, he smiles.

It’s the kind of smile that makes Will’s breath catch, the kind of smile that feels like it doesn’t belong on this earth. Hannibal nods.

Will stares at him, his chest tightening, and he knows he should feel something—anger, fear, anything—but all he feels is this unbearable pull, this raw, aching need. He wants Hannibal’s teeth in him. He wants to feel the sharpness, wants to know that the armor he wears is only skin and bones, that he’s something soft underneath.

It’s terrifying, the way he feels this, the way he knows it’ll ruin him. And worse, the way he knows he’ll let it.

Hannibal tried to kill him once, and then he kissed him on the forehead after. It might be the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for him.

He doesn’t know what this is—understanding, acceptance, whatever the hell it is—but he wants to keep it. Wants it so bad it feels like it’ll tear him apart.

Wants Hannibal to try to kill him again. Wants to see him when he’s not a boy but a fox, something wild and sharp and burning.

And still, he thinks, he’d offer Hannibal his friendship then, too.

It’s stupid. Christ, it’s stupid to feel like this. Like he might die, right here, just from watching. Will feels his lungs tighten, a soft ache spreading out, and tries to explain it to himself. To pin it down. Who hasn’t been tempted by the bite of a knife?

Just an ordinary blade. The kind that sits dull in a drawer until the day you need it. The kind that cuts tomatoes on a Wednesday, ordinary as the weather. The knife slips, like they always do, and it bites back, just enough to draw blood. A clean slice. A red bloom.

Will knows that bite, knows it in his soul. He stares at the memory of it, vivid and sudden in his mind: blood welling up quick and bright, like the earth cracking open for spring rain. It’s not the cut itself that matters, but the reminder. A whisper against the bone, soft but insistent: This is real. This is blood. This is what it means to be made of flesh.

Even this is a prayer, he tells himself. Even this. He wants it to be true more than anything. Wants the the cutting and the blood on the blade to mean something.

Beside him, Hannibal is writing again, the pencil moving so fast it sounds like an itch being scratched. 

His eyes catch on the words scrawled across the page: When we found the dead bird, I thought of naming him after you. He was beautiful, still, and utterly without breath.

Beautiful. Breathless. The kind of words that don’t belong to him, but Hannibal’s put them there anyway, pinned them to him like a badge.

“I’m not beautiful,” Will says, the words slipping out too quick, too sharp. He regrets them immediately.

Hannibal doesn’t look up. His pencil keeps moving, the lead digging into the paper. You are. And he writes it down again, like it isn’t enough to say it once. Like he has to prove it.

Will thinks about God, about the stories his daddy used to tell him, about how He made lions out of dust and stars out of nothing. He imagines God burying lion’s teeth and lily seeds inside his chest, something wild and something soft, something holy.

He flexes his hands, the rough skin catching against his jeans, and pictures Joan of Arc gripping her sword, blood dripping from her palms. He sees Thecla climbing into the baptismal tank, her fingers brushing the lioness’s muzzle, whispering, I am saved. I am saved.

But Will doesn’t feel saved. He feels like he’s drowning, like there’s too much of everything—too many thoughts, too many wants, all of them tangled up in Hannibal. He wants to kiss him, wants to taste him, slow and deep and real, while the mayflies twist in their cocoons outside. He wonders if Hannibal thinks about it too. Wonders if Hannibal wonders what Will tastes like.

He probably tastes like Marlboros and his daddy’s favorite scotch. Bitter. Messy. Not good enough.

Will wants to be poison, wants to be a boy with a tongue like hemlock, sharp and deadly and unforgettable. But Hannibal’s hands are soft, soft like deer velvet, and it makes Will feel like he might break apart.

Hannibal’s a creature shaped by God’s own hands, but the way he carries so much—it’s so sad it makes Will want to give him a flower. Just to hold it out, fragile and beautiful, and say, This is yours.

It’s bad. Will knows it’s bad. But it feels like the only thing that’s right.

He leans in, just a little, heart pounding, and it would be so easy to close the space between them. So easy to take what he wants. But instead, he presses his face to Hannibal’s shoulder.

And that’s when he sees it. The bandana. He squeezes his eyes shut. 

Red, soaked through with water and blood. Hannibal holds it like it means something, and for a second, Will can’t breathe.

But it’s clean now. It’s clean.

Chapter Text

The sun is soft on his face, early, creeping through the edges of the world like it wants to take its time before it says hello. 

Hannibal sits still and he watches the fire. The smell reaches his nose again, sharp and bitter and strange, curling into the back of his throat where it lingers. Ash and meat and something bright. And fear. He can smell fear, even though he knows it’s foolish. 

He hasn’t slept. Youth, he thinks, is a wound that does not heal. It festers. It aches. The morning is too green, too soft, too full of things that feel like promises he cannot keep. Rosemary-green summer days have abandoned him to this, cut him loose from everything that was safe and small. 

His wildness has not gone away. It is still there, in his chest, under his skin. He feels it now, in the way his fingers twitch against his knees, in the way his heart won’t slow down. He remembers the wine his mother would give him when he was small and sleepless, a sip to quiet him, to make the night less big. He wonders if even that could quiet him now. He doubts it. He doubts anything could.

What is he supposed to do with all of this? 

He wants to run. He wants to grab Will by the shoulders, to press his mouth to Will’s and make him understand this feeling that burns. It is too big to hold, too much for words. There are things he can never say, things no one will ever know except him. And yet Will had bled into him, had shared something that felt intimate. Will has made him believe that words are nothing. That a voice is nothing. That what matters is the weight of what is felt.

Maybe he will never speak again. Maybe words are not enough, and they never were. He wants to hide from all of it, from the heat of Will’s eyes, from the weight of his own heart. He wants to crawl into a burrow, pull the earth over him, and stay there, safe and unseen. But he knows that is impossible. He knows he cannot turn away from the brightness of Will, no matter how much it scorches him. He needs it. 

The fire snaps, and Hannibal flinches. Will has planted something in him, something with petals and thorns that grow inside his throat. It hurts, but it is a good hurt, a hurt that he would not trade for anything. He feels it in his chest, in the fluttering of his heart, in the way his breath catches every time he thinks of Will. He wants to take himself apart, to lay his body open and see what this feeling has done to him. What has Will changed inside him? What has Will made new?

He has never felt so alive. Never so terrified. Never so at peace. He wants to tell Will, to show him, to say, Look. Look at what you have done. But Will is gone, and Hannibal is alone with the fire and his thoughts.

Hannibal had not asked about the state of Will’s hands, the torn skin on his knuckles. He had not asked, and he hopes Will does not ask about the meat.

Sleep had been impossible, so Hannibal had returned to the body. He had sat with it, quiet and still, staring at the way death had settled into its features. The corpse was fresh enough. He had taken his knife and cut from the leg.

They have been rationing food, eating just enough to keep moving but not enough to feel whole. Hannibal thinks of Will’s collarbones, sharp and pale in the sunlight, and it makes him ache. They need this. They need protein. Hannibal will tell him it was rabbit.

The meat hangs over the fire now, drying into strips on a rack of sticks Hannibal made with his hands. Hannibal watches it as if it might tell him what to do. It will nourish Will, fill the hollow places in his body, and that is enough. It has to be enough. Hannibal thinks of the way Will had cried, of the sound of it, and he holds it close. It is a secret, this meat, this understanding between them. He hopes Will does not ask. But if he does, Hannibal likes to think that maybe Will would understand.

Hannibal kneels by the stream now. The water gleams under the early light. He pauses, watching the way it moves, and thinks of the man he killed last night. There is a flash in his mind—the man’s face pale, the way his throat opened clean, spilling hot red over Hannibal’s hands. 

Hannibal wonders briefly if the man’s family will notice his absence, if they will miss him in the way people miss a toothache once it’s gone, less pain, more the ghost of it, lingering. Will someone cry over the body they will never find, curse the animals they will imagine dragged him away? But Will knows it was not an animal. It was just a boy.

He flexes his fingers, the faint trace of blood softening and washing away into the stream. The cold bites at his skin, but he welcomes it, lets it seep into him like a cleansing. He does not feel guilt. Why would he? The God that beautiful Will prays to is crueler than Hannibal could ever be. That God eats the faithful, chews them up, spits them out into the dirt. Hannibal has cursed him before—the way those grieving people will curse wolves or bears or coyotes. He thinks God feels no guilt for that. Why should Hannibal?

Hannibal lifts his head, and there is Will, emerging from the trees as if stepping out of a dream. His face is still soft with sleep, his hair a mess of shadows and curls.Will’s expression is strange, something imploring, almost pleading, and Hannibal looks away.

Will kneels beside him, and for a moment, Hannibal imagines himself as something already dead. He thinks of Will laying him down, pressing flowers to his chest, tucking him into the hollow of a tree where no one would ever find him. The thought warms him, though he knows he should curse it. He should curse himself for wanting such gentleness, for letting it bloom inside him like a sickness. But he does not. 

“Did you go huntin’?” 

Will’s voice is rough, worn from sleep and silence. Hannibal wishes he would always use it, wishes Will would speak more often, would say his name again and again until it is the only sound left in the world. Hannibal wants to tell him how, in the hours he was alone, he wanted to call for him. Three times, he counted. Like a child hoping for magic. He even wrote it down somewhere, as if the act of writing might summon Will out of the darkness, might pull him from wherever he hides when Hannibal cannot see him.

He nods at Will’s question, glancing up to catch the way Will’s lashes cast shadows over his cheeks. Will does not press him further. He does not ask what animal it was or how Hannibal killed it. His shoulders are tense, lined with their own burdens, but there is no fear in him, no apprehension. Hannibal notices this with a quiet thrill that feels almost shameful. Will is not afraid of him. Even after everything, he is not afraid.

“Nice to have something different,” Will murmurs. “I would’ve gone with you.” 

Hannibal pulls his hands from the water and settles back onto the grass, crossing his legs beneath him. He watches Will’s face, the curve of his jaw, the way his gaze lingers on the water as if it holds answers he hasn’t yet found. He thinks of how Jesus was once a boy shaking leaves out of his tangled curls like Will does. 

Hannibal thinks of the hidden world inside himself, the one Will has glimpsed—a world where the wind stills, where color fades, where death’s eyes have lingered. Will knows this place. He knows its silence, its weight, and yet he stays. Hannibal does not understand it, but he feels it all the same.

Hannibal watches as Will settles to the grass with his knees crossed too, the sound of the gentle stream the only noise between them. The air smells fresh, green, like the earth is breathing with them. Will’s hands brush the grass, slow and thoughtful, like he’s trying to read something hidden in the blades, and they come up with a ladybug that flutters her wings on Will’s finger. It’s so small, almost nothing at all, but Hannibal notices the way Will’s lips part slightly in wonder.

Hannibal hesitates before leaning closer, settling his temple on Will’s shoulder to look. The closeness feels fragile, and Will tenses under him, just a little, like he always does. Hannibal feels the slight shift in Will’s posture, the way his breath catches for a moment before it evens out again. The warmth of Will’s shoulder seeps through the fabric of his shirt, and Hannibal lets himself sink into it, though he does not press too much. 

Will brings the ladybug close to their faces, and Hannibal watches as it crawls over Will’s skin, curious and delicate, its tiny legs tracing invisible paths across his knuckles. Will’s knuckles are red and torn still, raw from something Hannibal wasn’t there to see, and the ladybug crawls over his scabs without hesitation, as though the damage means nothing. It is so small he is surprised Will noticed it at all. He studies Will’s face, the way his blue eyes narrow slightly in concentration. There’s a flush across his nose and cheeks, faint but warm, and Hannibal thinks about how easily the sun burns him. He thinks about the pale patches of skin that will peel later, the tenderness it will leave behind, and the way Will will ignore it, letting it heal on its own.

Hannibal looks watches Will’s curious blue eyes, his parted pink lips, and the stubble on his cheeks he refuses to shave. The stubble is uneven, sparse, but Hannibal thinks it will look nice on him when he is older, when it is thicker and manly in ways he is not right now. The thought makes Hannibal’s face warm, but he likes the way Will is now, the way he moves like he’s made of something rough. He’s awkward and boyish with fast limbs, strength like an unbroken colt. His curly hair glints in the sunlight. Hannibal is starving for him—for the way he exists so vividly.

“Give me your hand,” Will murmurs, almost shy, like he’s afraid Hannibal might refuse. 

Hannibal brings his hand up, slowly, and then Will touches their fingers together. It is electric and soft, and Hannibal wonders how many sensitive spots there are on the hands, how many he could brush against to make Will sigh. Will nudges their fingers together until they are pressed, palm to palm, and Hannibal’s breath catches as the ladybug walks from Will’s hand to his. It is so light he almost can’t feel it, but his skin tingles where it moves. Will laughs softly and Hannibal thinks of how, in the ladybug’s perception, they are one. The thought makes his heart beat faster, too loud and too fast, but he doesn't care if Will hears it.

“I remember, my pastor, he spoke about Judith once. Said she pushed aside the Assyrian’s tent flap with a sharpened knife in her belt and staggered home covered in blood and spinal fluid.” Will glances up at Hannibal’s face, his eyes flickering. Will’s lips curl into something like a smile, but it’s faint, almost sad. “I bet Judith didn’t sleep well after that,” Will whispers. “Bet she shook like I do every time I get yelled at about how I can’t wear jeans to church.”

Hannibal smiles a little, the curve of his lips soft and slow, and he feels Will shake under him like Judith. He wonders if it is so clear on his face that he has not slept at all. Wonders when he stopped masking his emotions and let Will feel what he felt, if he ever had a chance of fighting against it.

Hannibal lifts his head, keeps it close to Will’s as they both watch the creature with bated breath. The red thing crawls from finger to finger like a bridge as their hands brush together, fingers entwining and tangling together like vines. 

Hannibal imagines the ladybug crawling along his neck, its tiny legs brushing his skin, willing Will’s hand to follow—softly, curiously, to catch it there. He wants it to wander farther, across his shoulders, down his chest, over the unsteady rise and fall of his stomach, so Will’s touch might follow. The thought curls in Hannibal’s mind as Will sits beside him, oblivious. Perhaps Will wouldn’t touch him at all. Perhaps it would be Hannibal who reaches first, letting his fingers trail across Will’s pale, flushed skin, tracing the sharp angles of his shoulders, aching to press his lips there and murmur the devil’s most pretty malice. 

Hannibal longs to whisper to him, to unearth the ferocity Will hides beneath his tightly drawn facade, where an imperious tongue fights behind clenched teeth. He wants to say to Will: never lie to yourself about the ache. Never pretend raw wounds hurt less than the split skin of a clementine.

Will is gentle like a whisper, not like Hannibal is used to. He feels foolish. Hannibal feels his feeble bones of twigs no longer ground them the longer they touch each other like this, and he thinks Will has weakened him.

The ladybug finally flies away, its wings a red blur against the sunlight, and Hannibal watches it go. For a moment, he thinks he should have crushed it in the palm of his hand, trapped it in that fleeting moment, because as it flies away, Will’s hand leaves his, and the warmth is gone. They do not touch again, and the world feels colder without it.

Hannibal follows Will when he rises. They go to sit on the logs, side by side, where the bark is rough. Hannibal retrieves his notebook, the pencil snug behind his ear, but for now, it stays there. His hands fall to the task of making their breakfast. The meat he hung to dry has reached the peak of its transformation—tough, salted, and firm. He hands Will a piece and watches. Watches as Will tears it apart with messy fingers, as the meat vanishes into his mouth, as he chews with a hum that vibrates low in his throat.

Will swallows, then takes another small bite, his lips quirking into a half-smile. “I’ve never had jerky like this before,” he says. “It’s... not bad. Kind of earthy. Smokier than I expected.”

Hannibal’s eyes do not waver. He watches Will’s lips part, watches the way the meat shifts behind his teeth, and he feels a sharp pang—desire so strange and large it feels like someone has thrown a stone straight at his skull. He wants to taste it from Will’s mouth, like a baby bird. He wants Will to press it to his lips, to feed him, so Hannibal can know the taste of it secondhand, can know Will’s approval intimately. He wants Will to understand what it meant. Hannibal’s hands tighten for a moment on the fabric of his jeans.

Would Will care, if he knew? Would he look differently at the meat, if Hannibal told him how he had sliced it from a man’s leg with the very same dagger they use to gut fish? The question swirls in Hannibal’s mind like an eddy. But Will doesn’t ask. He doesn’t ask where the meat came from, what creature Hannibal had hunted for it. Perhaps Will doesn’t need to ask. Perhaps this is trust. Trust so simple, so immense, it feels larger than the sky stretched above their heads. Hannibal’s chest swells with something too big to call pride and too tender to call anything else.

When they finish eating, Hannibal picks up his notebook. 

Judith walked home with her head held high. Blood-streaked but unbroken, she bore the weight of her act with pride. Does the lion tremble after the kill? Or does it savor the hunt in its entirety?

Will’s brow furrows as he reads, his lips pressing into a thin line. He let the notebook rest between them, his fingers grazing the edge. “But she wasn’t a lion,” he says softly. “She was just a woman. Just a person who was probably terrified, even if she didn’t let it show.”

And does that make her any less a predator? She wielded the knife, she chose the moment, she struck. Morality bends to the sharpness of intent. The blade does not care who holds it.

Will exhales, shaking his head slightly. “Is that how it felt for you?” he asks, his voice edging toward something sharper, more pointed. “When—when you killed? Like you were holding the knife for something bigger than yourself?”

Judith struck because she believed she must. Does that unsettle you, Will? 

Will’s laugh is short, almost humorless. “I don’t know,” he admits, his voice cracking at the edges. “I think it’s easier to tell myself you’re a monster. Something other. But then you say things like that, and it feels like you’re pullin’ me under with you. Like you’re makin’ sense in a way I don’t want you to.”

Perhaps Judith thought the same of Holofernes before she struck. Did she pity him? Or was she simply waiting for the moment he would understand the blade was inevitable?

Will closes his eyes for a long moment, his breath hitching in his chest. “Maybe that’s why Judith shook afterward,” he murmurs. “Maybe it wasn’t pride she carried, but the kind of weight that presses down on you, that makes you wish someone else had done it. That’s the part that scares me. The part where it makes sense.”

The quiet between them feels alive, humming with tension. 

“You could at least try to explain it,” Will says, his voice brittle but not sharp. 

Hannibal’s gaze doesn’t waver. He reaches for the pencil again, his movements slow, almost reluctant. 

I have nothing to give that would match what you’ve given me.

Will reads it once, then again, his jaw tightening as he exhales sharply through his nose. “I didn’t give you anything. I just—” He stops, swallowing hard, his fingers curling. “I said what I said because it’s true. You can’t sit there and pretend you didn’t know what you looked like. You know. You always know.”

Hannibal tilts his head.

And you did not look away.

Will’s breath catches, his shoulders stiffening. His mouth opens like he’s about to argue, but the words die before they reach his lips. He pushes the notebook away, shaking his head. “You’re not going to twist this around on me,” he says, his voice quiet but insistent. “I didn’t look away because I couldn’t. Because it felt like if I did, I’d miss... something. Something I didn’t want to miss.”

Hannibal leans forward, his eyes never leaving Will’s. He doesn’t reach for the pencil this time, just watches.

Will huffs a bitter laugh, his hands dropping to his lap. “You think I don’t hate myself for that? For... For thinking that you were—” He stops himself, his teeth clenching. “You’re not supposed to be that, Hannibal. You’re not supposed to make it look like that.”

Is beauty forbidden where there is death? Judith’s hand was steady, her strike clean. She, too, was beautiful.

Will’s laugh is sharper this time, cutting through the air like glass. “Judith wasn’t you,” he snaps, but the heat in his voice falters. “She wasn’t—” He stops, running a hand through his hair, his fingers tangling in the curls. “I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.”

Hannibal sets the pencil down, his hands folding neatly in front of him. 

“You’re not her,” Will says again, softer this time, as if trying to convince himself. “But when I think about you... when I think about what you’ve done...” His voice breaks, and he shakes his head. 

Hannibal sits back, his silence stretching again, but this time, it feels different. Not withholding, not empty. Just... there. 

Will lets out a long, shaky breath. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this,” he mutters. “Maybe I just want you to admit it. Admit that you knew exactly what you were doing, and that you didn’t care who saw you, as long as they saw... that.”

I care that you saw.

Will freezes, his eyes scanning the words again and again, as if expecting them to change. His lips part, but no sound comes out, and for a moment, he just stares at Hannibal, his expression caught somewhere between anger and something else.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low and trembling. “Why?”

Hannibal doesn’t write.

Will looks away, his breath uneven.

After, they rise and make their way to the sheep, the taste of meat still lingering faintly on their tongues.

Hannibal moves among the flock. 

The sheep are docile this morning, their soft bleats mixing with the rustle of hay as he scatters it. He counts them as he works, his mind attuned to the rhythm of it. Their bodies press close, warm and solid, their hooves clicking as they mill around him. He pushes through them gently.

Will joins him after a time, a bundle of hay slung under one arm, his other hand resting lightly on Winston’s head. Together, they scatter the last of the feed, their movements synchronized without needing to speak. Hannibal watches the way Will’s hands move, how they dig into the hay and toss it with an easy strength, the sunlight catching the faint scabs across his knuckles. Hannibal counts the sheep again, making sure none have wandered off, his gaze flicking between their woolly bodies and Will’s form, framed by the golden light of morning.

Hannibal lingers at the bottom of the hill, feeding a lamb by hand while Will stays higher up, playing with Winston. The lamb is quiet, its little body pressing trustingly against Hannibal’s hand. He strokes through its wool, fingers gentle, and feels its breath, small and soft as a whisper. It calms him, or it would, if not for the weight of Will’s gaze.

Will is looking at him. Those blue eyes are wide, unblinking, fixed on Hannibal as though trying to read something written on his face. Hannibal’s skin prickles under the scrutiny, but he doesn’t move. He could. He knows how to slip away, to fold into the shadows where no one can find him. But he doesn’t. He stays. He looks back, studies the way Will’s face is caught in the sunlight, how the light brushes against the sadness etched into his features. It is that sadness that twists at Hannibal, that makes his fingers curl as though he could pull it free from Will, wrench it out by the root and leave him whole.

He picks flowers because he likes their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling, their eagerness to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are nothing, forever. His fingers brush against a cluster of flowers, their petals trembling with a sweetness that almost feels shy. They remind him of Will. They remind him of himself. 

When he glances up again, Will is still watching him. What does Will see, when he looks at him like that? Hannibal’s chest tightens, and for a moment, he wonders if he is as good at hiding as he believes. 

Hannibal thinks of it still even as they bathe Winston in the creek. The water is cool and shallow, moving slow as syrup over smooth stones, but it’s enough to rinse the blood from Winston’s fur. The dog splashes through the water like it’s a game, his tail wagging hard enough to spray droplets into the air. There’s a smear of red across his collar, and the spikes are darker at the tips—evidence of the fight he’s just won. A coyote, bigger than Winston but not braver, had gone after him. Winston had met the challenge head-on, teeth bared, and now here he is, alive and victorious, shaking water onto both Hannibal and Will like it is a celebration.

Will crouches at the edge of the creek, his hands rubbing quick and sure through Winston’s wet fur. His laughter breaks the quiet. He looks at Will, the way his mouth tilts with his smile, the way his eyes crease at the corners, and Hannibal wants to take this moment, fold it into something small and permanent, and press it into the sky alongside the stars. As if that would come close to capturing the way Will makes him feel—the burn of it, the ache, the impossible brightness of being near him and not touching him.

Winston shakes again, harder this time, and water splashes up onto Hannibal’s face. He brushes a hand down his cheek, watches as Will laughs harder, and thinks about bravery. He wonders if Winston had felt anything as he killed the coyote, or if he’d just done it because it needed doing. No hesitation, no regret, just instinct and action. Animals are gentle that way, even when their teeth are red and their fur is matted with someone else’s blood. There is no malice in it, no lingering guilt. Just survival. 

Hannibal rubs his hand down Winston’s back, slower now, softer, like he is rewarding him for his courage. Will watches him with something like awe, a quiet admiration that makes Hannibal feel as though he has done something monumental just by being kind to a dog. 

Will crouches, rubbing the dog behind the ears, his voice warm and low. "You got him good, didn’t you, boy? That’s a job well done, Winston.”

By the time they are finished, his palms are raw, the skin peeling like the rind of a rotten tangerine. The water is red where it pools around his knees, but it’s nothing compared to the blood Winston had come away with. Winston shakes himself off on the bank, his fur drying in the sun as if the creek has cleansed him completely, as if there’s nothing left to carry but the memory of it. 

Will stands beside him, his arms crossed over his chest as he watches Winston, too. There’s a longing in his expression. Hannibal wants to reach out, to wrap his fingers around Will’s wrist or twine them through his hand, but he doesn’t.

Will’s gaze shifts to him, and Hannibal feels it like a touch. It’s the same look Will gives Winston. It makes him want to destroy Will. Hannibal has no poetry these days. Language feels slack and useless, like a net with holes too wide to catch anything. He just stands there, letting Will’s eyes linger on him, wondering what he sees and whether he’ll ever be brave enough to ask. He thinks it might kill him if he doesn’t.

──────────── 

Will feels like his bones are shifting under his skin, grinding slow and heavy like tectonic plates, and every crack makes a new fault line somewhere deep inside him. 

The air’s colder than it ought to be this time of year, heavy with that thin, sharp bite that says snow’s not far off, and Will tilts his head back, staring up at the sky like it might give him answers. He knows it won’t, but it’s easier than looking at anything else. Easier than looking at him.

There’s a frantic sort of energy churning inside him, the kind that’s too big for his body, like he’s swallowed a storm whole and now it’s tearing itself apart trying to get out. He’d like to blame it on the way he barely sleeps anymore, on the ragged edges of his days bleeding into each other, but that’s not it. He knows that’s not it. Even Winston seems to feel it, nudging his head against Will’s knees, big eyes soft with concern like he’s saying, steady, boy. Hold on.

Will scratches behind Winston’s ears, but it doesn’t settle the thing inside him. Everything feels lighter and darker all at once today, like the world can’t decide what it wants to be, and Will’s got the sharp, desperate urge to cling to Hannibal so tightly it’d hurt. So tightly his bones might break under Will’s hands, and wouldn’t that be a sight? 

Sometimes Will doesn’t think Hannibal’s human at all. He looks at him and sees something too sharp, too beautiful, like he came from a place Will could never dream of, where the skies are bluer and the land is full of things too wonderful for him to understand. But then there are moments—like now, when Hannibal fusses with the fire, frowning just a little because the cold’s biting too hard and the food’s taking too long—when he’s reminded that Hannibal’s just as human as he is. 

He doesn’t need protecting, Will knows that. Hannibal’s more than capable of taking care of himself—he’s seen it, time and again. But even knowing that, Will can’t stop wanting to keep him in his line of sight, can’t stop hovering near him. Hannibal’s not fragile like Will is, like some old mug that’s been chipped at the edges and held together with glue that doesn’t quite stick. He’s fragile in the way beautiful things are. In the way that makes Will feel like his hands are too rough, too clumsy, too wrong to ever touch him.

Will knows that, but it doesn’t stop the thought from festering. Doesn’t stop the idea that nothing and no one should be allowed to touch Hannibal. Not the way Will wants to. Not the way he can’t bring himself to.

How can he protect something like that? How can he even think about it when he can’t protect himself?

He’s stupid. 

Hannibal’s been strange all day, softer than usual. It started this morning, when Will found him by the fire, smoking meat he must’ve caught while Will was still half-asleep. Will didn’t ask what it was—he figured it was better not to—but it didn’t taste like anything he’d ever eaten before. It didn’t matter. It was better than cans, and Hannibal’s always trying to take care of them, even if he doesn’t say it outright.

Hannibal’s like that. Quiet even when he kills. Will wouldn’t have found him if he hadn’t been following the trail. There’d been no sound, no sign of struggle. Just Hannibal over the body, covered in blood. Will couldn’t stop thinking about it all night, the way Hannibal doesn’t make a sound even when his hands are red. The way he’s mute, and how there must’ve been a time when he wasn’t, when someone took that voice from him.

That thought makes Will’s blood run hot, and it’s wrong, so wrong, but he can’t stop the image that comes with it: some faceless bastard holding Hannibal’s voice like a stolen jewel, and Will would tear it out of their hands if he could. He’d cover himself in their blood, smear it over his skin until there was nothing left, just to get it back for him. Just to give Hannibal something in return for all he’s given Will.

He finds himself wondering what it would sound like—Hannibal’s voice. He thinks it’d be soft, low, maybe a little accented. It’d suit him, just like the rest of him, all graceful and beautiful and out of place in a world so full of sharp edges. He’d probably sound like a prince, Will thinks, but his heart would be the same as it is now. Dark and quiet, but endlessly kind.

He’s seen it. Felt it. And God, he’d do anything to give Hannibal his voice back. Anything.

Will’s hands shake as he leans against the tree nearest to him. Winston huffs quietly, resting his head on Will’s boot, but it does nothing to settle the storm in his chest. Will wants to fix the world for him. Fix himself. Make it better, make it something Hannibal doesn’t have to hurt in. He wants to think they live in a world where Hannibal can pick flowers without flinching, where he doesn’t have to hide so much of himself. Will wants to be that for him, even if the world can’t. But he’s too full of his own shame, too tangled up in his own useless guilt. And that’s worse than anything.

Will’s mind goes places it shouldn’t then, to things that make his hands clench into fists and his stomach turn. He thinks about kissing him, about grabbing Hannibal’s face and pressing their mouths together like it might give him back the thing he’s lost. Like Hannibal could eat the words right out of him, steal Will’s voice in exchange for his own. That’d make it okay, wouldn’t it? That’d make it justifiable. Righteous, even.

But it’s not possible. It’s not righteous. Will knows that. God won’t grant him something like that. He won’t grant him anything at all.

Will’s back at the camp, hands working an old axe through firewood like it’s the only thing keeping his heart from rattling clean out of his chest. Each swing of the axe bites deep into the wood, sending splinters flying and jarring his arms, but it’s better than sitting still. Sitting still would mean thinking. The rhythm of the work, the crack of splitting logs, drowns out the noise in his head, the thoughts he’s been running from all damn day.

The sharp crunch of boots against dry earth. Hannibal’s boots. Will knows the sound of them by now. Will straightens up, chest heaving as he wipes the back of his wrist across his forehead, smearing sweat and dirt. He keeps the axe in his hand, though.

Hannibal comes into view, emerging from the shadows of his tent like he’s stepping out of another world. His face is set, his jaw tight, and there’s a glint in his eye that makes Will’s stomach twist. The boy looks like he’s carrying thunderclouds in his chest, ready to strike. Will’s pulse kicks up, his body tensing like an animal that knows it’s been cornered. He wonders, briefly, if this is it. If Hannibal’s finally come to kill him.

The thought doesn’t scare him the way it should. Will plants his feet in the dirt, the handle of the axe solid in his grip. He doesn’t move to run. Doesn’t even think of it. There’s a strange kind of calm in the way he stands there, bracing himself. He wonders, idly, why he isn’t afraid. Deep down, though, he already knows. If it’s Hannibal, he’ll let it happen. He’ll let him do whatever he wants.

Hannibal closes the distance between them. Will’s breath catches as Hannibal stops just a step too close, invading his space in that way he always does, like he’s testing how much Will can take before he breaks. But Hannibal doesn’t reach for a knife. Instead, he lifts his hand, and before Will can process what’s happening, something hard and heavy slams into his chest. It’s Hannibal’s notebook, the leather cover cool against Will’s sweat-damp shirt.

Will blinks, stunned. Hannibal’s face is stormy, his brow furrowed, his eyes dark and searching. He knows that look. He’s felt it himself, a thousand times over. 

The notebook presses harder against Will’s chest, and he realizes Hannibal’s pushing it into him, urging him to take it. But Will’s hands stay at his sides, frozen. He can’t seem to make them move. He swallows hard, his throat dry. “What…” he starts, but the word dies in his mouth.

Hannibal pushes again, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Alright, alright,” Will mutters, finally lifting his hands. But before he can take the notebook, something shifts in Hannibal’s face, and suddenly the pressure increases. Will stumbles back a step, his grip on the axe faltering. “What the hell—”

Hannibal’s hands are on him, shoving him back, and the notebook falls to the ground, forgotten. Will’s instincts kick in, and he pushes back, his hands finding purchase on Hannibal’s shoulders. The two of them grapple. Hannibal’s stronger, though, and Will feels himself losing ground. His back hits the dirt with a dull thud, the breath knocked out of him, and he barely has time to register the crack of a branch beneath him before Hannibal’s hands are at his throat.

But they don’t squeeze. They just… hold. Hannibal’s fingers curl around the column of Will’s neck and Will feels his pulse pounding against them. He’s breathing hard, his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps, but he doesn’t struggle. He doesn’t fight. Instead, he stares up at Hannibal, wide-eyed and unblinking.

Hannibal’s face is so close Will can see every line, every shadow. His expression is frantic, his eyes wild and searching as they roam over Will’s face. He looks like he’s trying to find something there, some answer he’s been chasing for too long. Will swallows, the motion pressing his throat against Hannibal’s hands, and before he can think better of it, he raises a trembling hand and presses it against one of Hannibal’s.

Hannibal could snap his neck right here, right now, and Will thinks he’d let him. He’d let Hannibal do anything. The thought sends a shiver down his spine, and he presses his hand a little harder, his fingers curling slightly around Hannibal’s.

Hannibal’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and then something in him softens. He shakes his head, his expression shifting to something almost regretful, and he lets go of Will’s throat, sitting back on his heels. Will coughs, pushing himself up on his elbows, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath.

Hannibal doesn’t look at him. His focus is on the notebook now, which he’s picked up from the ground. Will watches him, his curiosity overtaking his confusion, and after a moment, he crawls closer, peering over Hannibal’s shoulder.

The words on the page make his breath catch. Tell me what I looked like.

Will blinks, his brow furrowing. “What?” he asks, his voice rough and uncertain. Hannibal doesn’t answer. He just writes again, his movements sharp and urgent. 

When you saw me. What did I look like?

Will looks at Hannibal, at the tension in his shoulders, at the way his chest rises and falls like he’s just run a marathon. Will swallows hard, his mind racing. He closes his eyes, trying to pull the memory to the surface. 

His voice shakes when he speaks. ““You…” He stops, breath hitching, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. His lips press into a thin line before he tries again. “You looked like light.”

Will hears Hannibal inhale sharply, and then there’s a hand brushing against his face, the touch so soft it makes his heart ache. Hannibal’s fingers ghost over his closed eyelids, and Will’s breath catches.

“There was… there was blood,” Will whispers. “Because you bleed and bleed and never stop. Blood because you feel it pouring out of you, and it’s… it’s too much. Blood because that’s where you keep all your anger.”

He glances up at Hannibal, his voice softening. “You looked scared. It was…” He trails off, frowning like he’s trying to find the right word. “It was hurt. You were bleeding all over the damn place, and I don’t mean just the blood. You were letting something out, something you’ve been holding onto so tight it couldn’t do nothin’ but break you when it got loose.”

Hannibal writes again, then turns the notebook toward him.

What do you think I am?

Will stares at the words for a long moment, his jaw tightening before he speaks. “I don’t know,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve been trying to figure that out for as long as I’ve known you. But I’ll tell you what I saw that night.” He looks up, his gaze meeting Hannibal’s. “I saw someone who doesn’t want to feel the things he feels. Someone who’s afraid of it.”

It sounds all too familiar as it leaves his mouth. 

Will leans forward, his hands dangling between his knees. “I don’t know what happened to you to make you like that.”

Nothing happened to me. I happened.

Will stares at the notebook. 

“You happened,” Will repeats, his voice a whisper, not sure if he’s asking or affirming. He looks up, his eyes catching Hannibal’s, and there’s something raw in his gaze, something that sees more than he wants to. “You’re telling me you just… came into this world like this? No one made you this way? No one ever hurt you?” His voice softens, almost pleading. “Hannibal, nobody’s born wanting to hurt like you do. Nobody’s born carrying all that darkness without something putting it there first.”

Hannibal lifts the notebook and writes a single line, then slides it across the space between them.

I am what I’ve chosen to be.

Will feels his stomach churn, a deep ache rising in his chest. He picks up the notebook, his thumb brushing over the edge of the page like the answer might change if he just waits long enough. “You’re telling me this is all choice? That you… wanted to become this?” His voice cracks, his drawl softening the edges of his disbelief. “That you chose to be someone who carries all that blood and pain like it’s a second skin?”

Hannibal tilts his head, his expression unreadable, but there’s a faint flicker of something in his eyes—something that looks almost like sadness. 

We all choose. You did too.

Will shakes his head, his voice breaking as he whispers, “I didn’t choose this. I didn’t choose to see people like they’re laid open, every ugly thought, every dark corner right there in front of me. I didn’t choose to… to care about someone like you.” Will exhales, his chest tight, his voice breaking as he whispers, “I don’t think you even know what you are.”

Will’s voice breaks, and he shuts his mouth, the words dying on his tongue. Hannibal’s hands are on his face now, cradling him gently, and Will doesn’t open his eyes. “You happened,” he murmurs again, his voice barely audible. “And now you’re happenin’ to me.”

When he finally opens his eyes, Hannibal’s face is so close their noses almost touch. There’s fear in his eyes now, a flicker of something vulnerable and raw. 

“I won’t tell anyone,” Will murmurs, his voice barely audible. “Never.”

Hannibal writes a single word, then turns the page toward Will.

Why?

Will’s breath catches in his throat. His heart pounds, his pulse a drumbeat in his ears, and for a moment, he doesn’t know what to say. 

“Because you’re my friend,” he says. 

Will wants Hannibal so badly it hurts, and he’s so close, too close. If anyone ever found out, they’d drag him through the dirt, the creek, the trees, until there was nothing left. Maybe then he’d finally feel like himself. But part of him thinks Hannibal wouldn’t let them do that.

Hannibal doesn’t react at first. He just stares at Will, his expression inscrutable, his lips pressing into a thin line. Then his eyes soften, just barely, and for a moment, Will thinks he sees something break in him.

Hannibal lifts the notebook again, his pencil moving slower this time, almost hesitant. 

I don’t know how to be that.

Will runs a hand through his hair, his fingers tangling in the curls. “You don’t have to know how,” he says. “You just are. You already are.”

Will and Hannibal make their way through the forest when they have a break, and there’s nothing better to do than be with each other. Will thinks there’s never anything better than that. 

He keeps glancing at Hannibal as they walk, the boy draped in the mantle of summer sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead. Hannibal moves like he’s a part of the forest itself, like the trees bow to him and the sunlight only bothers to shine because he’s there to catch it. Will swears God might’ve filled his mouth with anise oil, sweet and sharp all at once. He can almost taste it when Hannibal looks his way.

Hannibal’s a shadow in the grass, flickering between sunlight and shade like he’s some kind of fable in motion, and Will doesn’t want to admit he’s just like those girls back home—the ones who sigh and simper, who fall to pieces over boys who look dangerous. 

They’re walking side by side, their hands brushing against the rough bark of trees, leaving streaks of sap and dirt on their fingers. Sometimes the trees are a barrier between them, and sometimes their hands meet, sticky and fleeting. Will laughs in the sunlight, the sound spilling out of him before he can catch it. It’s almost enough to make him forget himself, to forget the way the world works and what it would do to him if it knew the things he’s been thinking. Almost.

They stop after a while, searching for stray feathers and bones that Will can use for his lures. Hannibal crouches in the grass, his fingers sifting through the underbrush. 

Will’s hands dig through the grass too, his fingers curling around fragments of things that used to be alive. Feathers, bones, little pieces of a world that used to run and breathe and feel. He’s bent over, a handful of delicate remnants cradled in his palm, when Hannibal comes to him, tugging at his sleeve.

He presses a finger to his lips. Will frowns, glancing up just as Hannibal pulls him behind a tree. Hannibal ducks to the ground, and Will follows, knees hitting the dirt with a quiet thud. The earth is cool under his palms, the scent of moss and decay filling his nose. He doesn’t see anything at first, just the shifting shadows of trees and the way sunlight dapples the ground in golden patches. His eyes drift to Hannibal instead, and there’s a leaf stuck in his hair. It makes him smile despite himself, a small, fleeting thing that he doesn’t even try to hide. Hannibal’s starting to look more and more like Will every day, less of the polished boy he once was and more like the fox they read about together. Wild and sharp and impossible to catch.

Will freezes, his hand falling back to his side as his breath catches in his throat. His eyes snap to Hannibal, who’s already turning his head, his gaze sharp and alert. Will swallows hard, following Hannibal’s line of sight until he sees it: a moose. Its antlers splay out like a crown, brushing against the branches as it walks.

“Shit,” Will whispers, barely more than a breath, as he grabs Hannibal’s arm and tugs him further behind the tree. Hannibal grins at him, not at the moose but at Will, and it’s enough to make his pulse stumble. They stay like that, pressed close together, watching the moose as it moves through the forest. It doesn’t notice them, too big and magnificent to care about two boys.

He wishes that moose would turn and gore him, just for a moment—just long enough to make this unbearable wanting go away. Hannibal’s so close he can feel the heat of him, can smell the faint, earthy scent of sweat and pine on his skin. Will unfurls under his gaze, his edges softening in a way that makes him feel weak. He thinks there are rivers that glean better than he does, rivers that could take the word fag and wash it away faster than he can choke out Hannibal’s name. Hannibal’s hands are steady and sure, ripe with something Will doesn’t dare name, and when they cup his face it feels like water.

Will wants him to bite, to grab his throat and leave marks that linger. He wants to hold him, just for a second, just long enough to know what it feels like to have something so beautiful be his. He wants it so badly it makes the back of his eyelids sting, makes his chest ache with the weight of it. 

When they get back from the forest and Will comes back from checking on the sheep again, he thinks he needs a drink so badly it’ll kill him, and that thought makes him feel like his father. The notion bites at him, shameful and sharp, but he can’t bring himself to care over all the want and guilt swirling in his chest. 

Will doesn’t grace as they eat again. The absence of it makes guilt spark in his mind like flint against stone, brief and hot, but he can’t bring himself to thank God for something Hannibal got for them. Something Hannibal hunted while Will was asleep. Will’s daddy used to take him hunting, but that had been about something different entirely—about sport and showing Will what it meant to be a man.

 Will had never been good at it, never could stomach the blood and the slow, desperate way the animals breathed when they didn’t die right away. Labored breaths and panting whines and pain—that was all it was. His daddy had always left it there, too, not bothering to waste effort on what couldn’t be turned into a trophy. Will remembers the sting of his daddy’s slap more than the hunts themselves, how the sharp smack across his cheek burned hotter than the winter wind.

Hannibal isn’t like that. He doesn’t waste a thing. Will knows the meal they’re eating now has been made good, every part of it cared for and considered. He knows it’s given them strength they might not have had otherwise. He knows it isn’t God who’s done this for them. 

When Hannibal leaves to get the dishes washed, the crackle of the fire seems louder in his absence. Will picks at the seam of his jeans, his nerves pulling taut like fishing lines, until Hannibal returns and sits down beside him on the log. It’s then that Will grabs the bottle of whiskey, his fingers curling tight around the neck of it as he sloshes it in his hand. 

“Drink with me,” Will says. His voice comes out rough, barely above a whisper. He swallows, his throat dry, silently praying Hannibal will say yes. Will thinks he might need this. He can’t handle Hannibal being so in control while he’s a drunk mess.

“Please,” Will whispers, his gaze dropping to the dirt. He hears Hannibal rise, the sound of his boots on the ground, and then Hannibal is standing over him, reaching out to take the bottle from Will’s hand. Will looks up at him, wide-eyed, as Hannibal uncaps the bottle and tips it up to his lips. Will watches the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows, the way the whiskey makes his lips shine. 

Hannibal lowers the bottle and extends it to Will. Will takes it with trembling fingers, tipping it back and letting the liquid burn its way down his throat. It tastes like spice and smoke, and somehow, it tastes like the way Hannibal smells. 

They end up lying on the grass together, the whiskey bottle lying between them. The air is getting colder, but the fire Hannibal set crackles steadily, its warmth cutting through the chill. Will worries for a moment about Hannibal shivering through the night, the thought clawing at him even as the whiskey dulls his edges. He should stay close. That’s the whiskey talking. But he should.

Will bites his tongue every time he almost calls Hannibal baby, the metallic taste of blood pooling on his tongue as he swallows the words down. They talk—well, Will talks, and Hannibal listens. Sometimes, Hannibal’s expressions say more than words ever could. Will makes a joke at one point, and when Hannibal laughs, soft and quiet, it makes Will feel like he could stay here forever. Like this moment is the only thing he’s ever been made for.

“You ever know one of those men,” Will starts, his voice low, “who looked like he carried God in his pocket, but when you got too close, you realized it was just a fist waitin’ for the right moment?”

Hannibal doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. His silence feels like permission to keep going.

Will’s eyes drop to the whiskey bottle, his thumb running absently over the label. “My pastor. He’d preach about love and salvation and all that while his wife sat in the front row, noddin’ along like she didn’t have bruises he put there. One time, when I was a kid, I misquoted a verse—Psalm 23, of all things—and he made me hold out my hand. Took his ring, big ol’ thing with a cross etched into it, and slammed it right into my palm.”

He holds up his hand now, flexing his fingers. “Left a welt. Said it was supposed to remind me what happens when you disrespect the word of God. That’s when I started thinkin’ maybe the whole thing was bullshit.”

Hannibal moves then, reaching for the notebook. The pen scratches against the paper for a moment before he turns it toward Will.

What did you do after that?

Will huffs a laugh, short and bitter. “What could I do? I was just a kid. I cried, mostly. Went home and tried not to let my mama see the mark. She’d have made a fuss, and that’d only make things worse. But I started watching him closer after that, not just listening to what he said but paying attention to what he did. And what he did didn’t match up. Not one bit.”

Hannibal writes something else, and Will watches him this time, the way his hand moves, precise and steady. Hannibal lifts the notebook, and Will squints to read:

I stabbed a priest once.

Will blinks. “You stabbed a priest? With what?”

Hannibal’s mouth curves faintly, almost a smile, as he writes.

A fork. Boarding school. He tried to hit me.

Will lets out a bark of laughter, tipping his head back. “Jesus Christ, Hannibal. You really went for it, huh? What’d he do to deserve that?”

Hannibal’s pen moves again.

He was cruel.

Will quiets at that, his laughter fading into something softer, more thoughtful. He watches Hannibal’s face, the firelight dancing across his features. “I guess that’s one way to deal with cruelty,” he says finally. “Wish I’d been brave enough to do somethin’ like that when I was a kid.”

Hannibal tilts his head slightly, his expression curious. He writes.

What do you mean by brave?

Will takes another swig of whiskey, rolling the word around in his head like a marble. “I mean... not being afraid to stand up to someone bigger than you. Not lettin’ ’em push you around. Feels like I’ve spent my whole life trying to figure out how to do that, how to stop letting people get the better of me.”

You already are brave. You speak when others would stay silent.

Will snorts, shaking his head. “That ain’t bravery. That’s just stubbornness. And maybe a little stupidity, too.”

Bravery and stubbornness are often the same thing.

Will reads the words, turning them over in his mind. He sets the whiskey bottle down between them, his fingers brushing against Hannibal’s notebook. “You make it sound so simple,” he says, his voice quieter now. “But it isn’t. Not for me.”

Hannibal watches him, his expression softening in a way that makes Will’s chest feel too tight. He writes one last thing before setting the notebook down.

It is for me.

Will doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he lies back in the grass.  He stares at Hannibal, at the way his golden brown hair settles into the grass, at the sharp angle of his jaw and the soft curve of his mouth. For a moment, Will lets himself imagine they’re both angels, visiting a newborn Earth. He imagines Hannibal picking debris from his wings, remnants of a too-fast dive into the atmosphere. He thinks Hannibal must be the most beautiful thing he’s ever known.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

Will’s breath catches, and Hannibal turns to him, catching him staring. Will swallows hard, his throat tight. Hannibal blinks, his face unreadable for a moment, and then Will notices the faint flush on his cheeks. It makes him look young, unburdened, like he isn’t carrying the weight of the world. Like neither of them are.

It could be easy. It could be so easy. Will tries not to think about the taste of Hannibal’s spit on the rim of the bottle.

“I don’t feel brave,” Will murmurs eventually, breaking the stillness. “Never have. Not really.”

Bravery is not a feeling. It is an action.

Will snorts, rolling onto his side to prop his head on his hand. “That sounds like somethin’ you’d find stitched on a pillow or carved into a piece of driftwood at some tourist shop.” He picks up the whiskey bottle and takes another swig, grimacing at the burn. “But maybe you’re right. Still doesn’t mean I’ve ever done it.”

You are brave every time you face something you fear. You do it constantly. The work you do with the sheep, the things you know about people—the things you know about yourself—and yet you continue. That is bravery.

Will stares at the words, his mouth twitching into a faint, humorless smile. “You make me sound like some kind of saint. I’m not that, Hannibal. Not even close. Half the time, I’m just... survivin’. That ain’t brave. That’s just being too stubborn to give up.”

Stubbornness is bravery in its rawest form. It is the refusal to yield to what frightens you. You mistake persistence for cowardice, but they are one and the same.

Will sets the bottle down, his hand lingering near the notebook. “You ever think about what it’d feel like to be actually brave? Not just... doin’ what you have to do, but choosing somethin’ harder, somethin’ riskier, just ‘cause it’s right?”

Hannibal sits up more fully, his face illuminated by the firelight. His pencil moves with purpose now.

That is the very essence of bravery. It is why you are braver than most. You have chosen hardship when it would be easier to turn away. You chose Winston when it would have been easier to shoot your gun. You chose to protect him, to trust him, even knowing he could fail you.

Will laughs softly, shaking his head. “That’s just… just love. And love makes you stupid sometimes.”

Then perhaps love and bravery are the same thing. I would argue they require each other. To love is to risk, and to risk is to be brave.

Will looks at Hannibal, who’s watching him like he’s waiting for some kind of verdict “You ever stop and think about how much damn sense you make sometimes? ‘Cause it’s annoyin’.”

Hannibal’s lips twitch into something like a smile as he writes.

No. But I take it as a compliment.

Will leans back again, staring at the sky. “I still think you’re braver than me,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “I mean, hell, you stabbed a priest. That takes guts.”

It was not bravery. It was anger. Hatred. I did it because I felt I had to. Because he was a cruel man, and I could not let him touch me.

Will turns his head to look at Hannibal, something softening in his expression. “That’s still brave, Hannibal. Standing up for yourself, fightin’ back when someone tries to make you feel small—that’s brave.”

And yet you do not see the same bravery in yourself.

Will shrugs, looking away. “Maybe I don’t want to.”

Hannibal reaches for the whiskey bottle and tips it toward Will in a silent toast. Will chuckles, taking it from him and drinking deeply. 

“You’re not as bad as you think you are, Hannibal,” Will says softly, his voice almost lost in the wind.

Hannibal doesn’t write anything in response.

The fire’s embers glow softer now, a warm halo of light around them as the night deepens. The sky above them stretches endlessly, and for the first time in what feels like years, he’s not trying to escape his thoughts. He lets them tumble out instead.

“I never had a friend at school,” Will says suddenly, his voice low, almost like he’s embarrassed by the confession. “Not a real one, anyway. Always just felt... separate, you know? Like somethin’ about me didn’t quite fit with the rest of ‘em.”

Hannibal watches him carefully, his expression thoughtful. 

“They thought I was weird. Always looking at things too long, knowin’ stuff about them I probably shouldn’t. And I—I couldn’t help it. I’d get into fights. I wasn’t pickin’ ‘em or nothin’, but I sure as hell didn’t back down when someone started one. They didn’t like me for that, either.” Will huffs a bitter laugh, his hand absently grazing the whiskey bottle. “I didn’t make it easy to like me.”

Hannibal finally picks up his pencil.

I understand. It was the same for me. Boarding school was cruel in its own way. Children sense difference—they react to it. Sometimes violently.

Will turns his head to look at him, frowning a little. “Yeah? What’d they pick on you for?”

For being too quiet. For knowing too much. For refusing to bend to their rules. Children resent what they do not understand.

Will lets that sit for a moment, nodding slowly. “Sounds about right. Guess we’re more alike than I figured, huh?” He tilts his head, a half-smile creeping onto his face. “You think we would of been friends, if we’d met back then?”

I believe we would have been best friends.

The words make Will laugh, a genuine, startled sound that shakes loose something warm in his chest. “Best friends, huh? You really think so?”

Hannibal nods, his expression solemn but his eyes glinting with something lighter.

Will leans back again, staring up at the stars. “Well, hell. Guess we are now. Best friends.” 

Hannibal picks up the notebook again, writing something slowly before sliding it toward Will.

That is good.

Will grins, taking the notebook and setting it aside. He holds out his hand, pinkie extended toward Hannibal. “C’mon. If we’re best friends, we gotta make it official. Pinkie swear.”

Hannibal blinks at the offered hand, his expression flickering with something like confusion. Tentatively, he curls his pinkie around Will’s, the motion delicate.

Will squeezes lightly, his grin widening. “There. Now it’s done. That means I gotta keep all your secrets. Every single one.”

Hannibal raises an eyebrow, his lips curving into a faint smile as he writes.

You are promising a great deal.

“Yeah, well,” Will says, leaning back on one elbow and giving Hannibal a crooked smile. “I figure I can handle it. You’re worth it.”

Hannibal swallows. Their eyes stay locked, the firelight flickering between them. Hannibal’s hand finds the whiskey bottle, his long fingers curling around the glass like it’s something alive. Will watches the motion, the lift of the bottle, the way Hannibal tips it to his lips, his mouth soft against the rim. 

Then he sets it down slow, like he’s laying down a burden, and it feels like something inside Will’s chest breaks wide open. There’s nothing left between them now. No more excuses. No more barriers. Just this weighty, silent space filled with all the things Will can’t bring himself to say.

Will’s heart is hammering so hard he wonders if Hannibal can hear it. He stares, his throat dry, and it hits him all over again—Hannibal is beautiful. Not just good-looking in the way some men are. No, he’s something else entirely. The kind of beauty that takes up all the air in the room, that makes you feel like you’re drowning just being near it. It’s too much and not enough all at once. And it’s wrong. It has to be wrong.

If God made the stars and the trees and every beast that roams the earth, He made Hannibal too. Will knows this in his bones, knows it the way he knows the sky will always be there when he looks up. And if that’s true, if Hannibal is one of God’s creatures, isn’t he supposed to be beautiful? Isn’t he supposed to be admired? But the way Will feels when he looks at him… it’s not admiration. It’s something desperate and hungry that makes him feel like he’s got fire in his veins and ash in his mouth.

He clenches his fists, his nails biting into his palms, and the sting feels like penance. Like maybe if he hurts himself enough, he can burn this out of him. But it doesn’t work. It never works. The want doesn’t go away. It just burrows deeper, digging itself into his chest like a splinter he’ll never be able to pull free. Pleas rest heavy on his tongue, dark and sticky like tar, clinging to his teeth. 

And now, Hannibal shifts, leaning closer, like he’s giving Will all the time in the world to pull away. But Will doesn’t. He can’t. Hannibal’s hand moves, reaching out, and Will feels the heat of it before it even touches him.

When Hannibal’s palm settles against his chest, right over his heart, Will’s breath hitches. His pulse is a frantic, fluttering thing beneath Hannibal’s touch, like it’s trying to escape. Hannibal’s hand moves, his fingers trailing up, soft and careful, like he’s afraid Will might shatter. The touch is so gentle it makes Will’s throat tighten, makes him feel like he’s coming apart at the seams. Hannibal’s fingers brush over his neck, and Will swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the touch.

Then Hannibal’s hand finds his face, and Will’s breath catches in his throat. His fingers trace the line of Will’s nose, the curve of his cheekbone, and then his lashes, dark and fluttering like they’re caught in some silent struggle to stay open. Hannibal’s thumb brushes over his lips, soft and lingering, and Will flinches. Not because it hurts, but because it doesn’t. 

Hannibal touches him like he’s one of those statues he’s always talking about, the ones from Paris that Will’s only seen in books. Marble angels frozen in time, perfect and untouchable. But Hannibal’s eyes… they glitter like he’s looking at something more. Will feels like he’s crumbling under the weight of it. He’s not marble. He’s not perfect. He’s just a boy—a broken, filthy boy who can’t stop hating himself for wanting this. 

Hannibal leans in closer, his breath warm against Will’s lips, and Will feels like he’s drowning. It’s too much. It’s everything. He jerks back suddenly, scrambling to his feet, his chest heaving like he’s been running for miles. The look on Hannibal’s face nearly destroys him. There’s a flicker of hurt there, quick and fleeting, but it’s enough to make Will’s stomach twist. He wants to say something, anything to fix this, to make Hannibal understand that it’s not his fault. That it’s Will who’s broken. That Hannibal’s perfect. That Will’s only a coward like his daddy. But the words won’t come.

“I better go check on the sheep,” he says, the words rough and hollow, like they’ve been scraped out of his throat. Then he turns and walks away, each step heavier than the last. He doesn’t dare look back. 

By the time he reaches his tent, the cold has seeped through his shirt, and his hands are trembling. He grabs fistfuls of his hair and pulls until it hurts, until the pain drowns out the ache in his chest. It’s so cold up here, the kind of cold that settles in your bones and makes you feel like you’ll never be warm again. He should go back. He should apologize. He should kiss Hannibal the way he’s been dreaming of and make everything right again.

The night presses in around him, heavy and suffocating, and Will feels like he’s drowning all over again. The silence is deafening, broken only by the sound of his own ragged breathing. This is when he thinks of Hannibal the most, when the stars feel too far away and the weight of his guilt feels like it might crush him. He whispers desperate prayers to any divinity that might still be listening, but he knows better. Even the moon, so constant and watchful, might turn away from the things he says. Too raw. Too ugly. Too full of want and shame.

If Hannibal touches him again, Will thinks he might bleed. Old wounds, old sins, spilling out until there’s nothing left. 

──────────── 

Hannibal thinks of cursing the fire too, now. 

It is a strange thing to curse, he knows, because the fire does not understand words. Still, he curses it in his mind, the way he curses the cold for coming, for slipping into his tent and sliding along his skin like a cruel hand. The cold feels alive to him, like it knows him, like it seeks him out deliberately. 

He imagines crawling to Will's tent, his pride wrestling with his need. He imagines what it might be like to beg for warmth, for companionship, to press himself against another body and feel alive again. But he knows that Will does not want him, and Hannibal does not beg. He couldn’t. He thinks he would kill Will if Will sent him away.

Warmth can only last a little while, he knows, but it still makes him feel small to wake up shivering in the middle of the night, the fire gone and the chill of the air hunting him down. He had put lots of wood, but wood is a fickle thing too. It lies, promising strength but breaking into ash. 

He feels like Icarus. His homage in exchange for eternity alongside the sun is almost instinctual to him, no hesitations refuted. To reign a merciless fire in his veins, to hurl an exhalation of residual wrath inside, to have imperial light meet every fold of the earth never for the cold to touch it again—this is what he wishes for. To foster a swelling warmth in everyone’s chest like the one he gets when Will touches his hand, to emit it, to be the one with it, to banish the cold forever.

He holds Will’s bandana in his hands like it may warm him just from the thought of Will alone. He wishes it did, but the last thing he sees is Will’s fear when Hannibal had tried to kiss him. How he had left tense and wide-eyed, like Hannibal was not his best friend but something dangerous.

Hannibal wants to cut Will’s tongue out. He wants to hold it in his own mouth and feel it wriggle, to take back what Will’s fear had stolen from him. He wants him back here. He thinks his eyelashes may be frosted. He shuts his eyes tightly and tries to dream of the earlier day when it was hot and sticky, how the oak trees whispered stories of their old years and hugged him as they whistled in the wind. 

Hannibal bites his lip because he is scared to be loud, because someone may be listening, since his voice will ripple across the ponds and disturb the split of the lilies or the silent clicks of frogs, olive green and yellow. He wants to forever exist within the heaviness of earth and wet dew, the floor of he and Will’s Eden.

The stars taunt him as he shakes with it, with their hymns of revered inflection and their mockery of fleeting dawn. More than anything, he hopes Will is not cold.

Hannibal shakes and pulls his blanket over his head as though he is hiding from monsters. The coarse fabric brushes against his skin, trapping the faint heat of his breath but doing nothing to shield him from the cold that claws its way through the seams of the tent. He is cold, and all he can think of is Will’s fearful face. 

Will has never looked that afraid of him before, and it settles inside Hannibal’s chest like rotted fruit, heavy and souring. The cold feels like mockery and he does not want this to be a lesson. He does not want to learn that to have a friend means to get hurt. Hannibal does not want to be pulped up in the metal teeth of his dumb machine heart, hacksawed and hatcheted, left worsened by his wanting. 

He shivers again, the cold seeping into his tent, the wind shaking its canvas walls. The air is sharp, the frost cutting through his resolve like glass, and he hates Will Graham, and he hates everything but him.

The moon is abrasive, vexed silver stinging his skin and highlighting everything he doesn’t want to see in himself. His desperation, his aching, his longing and yearning and every other word to name what he feels during these lonely nights when all he thinks of is Will. It is horrible and awful and the most glorious thing he has ever felt, his heart bleeding like this. Even that does not warm him.

He worries for the lambs, wondering if their little bones chill like his do, their fragile frames huddled together against the frost. He worries for Will and his little bones, which he insists are strong, but Hannibal has seen, has felt, how brittle they are. So fragile, like a dove’s, but so full of anger he could be a lion. 

It is this thought that finally drives him out of his hiding spot. The thought of the brittle bones of a brittle, beautiful boy who cries and sees too much. He imagines him shivering, and it is far too much to handle. Hannibal thinks his heart may be as brittle as Will’s bones.

Hannibal clutches his blanket around his shoulders as he rises and steps outside of the tent, stumbling into the freezing air. A layer of frost coats everything, glittering like broken glass beneath the moonlight, and the air bites at him, gnawing at his exposed skin. The moon is bright, glaring down like an unrelenting eye, and Hannibal looks up at it, his breath fogging the air in ghostly wisps, before turning and making his way up the path to Will’s tent. 

He tells himself he will not beg. He does not care if Will refuses to let him in; he will go inside anyway. He tells himself he is just going to check on him, to see Will’s sleeping form and know the cold has not gotten to him. Will has no fire up here, and the mountains are colder the higher you go.

Hannibal sniffles against the snot running through his nose as he walks, curling his blanket tighter around himself. His breath clouds white in the air, and his footsteps crunch loudly on the frost, so loud he almost does not notice the other pair of footsteps until he hears his name whispered.

Hannibal looks up, his steps freezing as he sees Will on the trail. Will stands near him, arms crossed, shivering. His shirt is too thin for the cold, his shoulders hunched against the biting wind. He glows in the moonlight, pale and luminous like a ghost. Hannibal’s lips part to say his name, but nothing comes out. 

Will watches him, and Hannibal thinks there are tears in his eyes. They are bright and blue, reflecting the cold light like shards of ice. Will still looks afraid, but he also looks like he could sink to his knees and crumble in a moment. He always looks so small at night. Hannibal wonders if he looks the same.

Will sniffles, his face screwing up for a moment as he looks down and brushes his feet against the white grass. "I just—," he says, his voice thin and shaking. He takes a breath, the sound hitching in his throat. "I wanted to come check on you. I know—I know you hate the cold, and I just—I don’t know."

Hannibal’s lips part again, and he wonders when he had become so translucent. Like moonlight itself. If the moon burns like a saint, then bodies are only wild clouds condensed enough to appear like blood. Will’s name is tucked under his tongue like a gold coin saved to buy candies. 

Will swallows hard, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. “I was stupid, wasn’t I? I shouldn’t have come out here. I know I shouldn’t have. It’s not like you need me, you know? I just—I was worried about you. I don’t want to make things worse. I never meant to.” He exhales sharply, the words coming faster, all tangled in each other. “I just didn’t want you to be cold. I didn’t want you to be cold, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

He trails off, his voice breaking, and he looks away, like he is hoping the earth will swallow him up whole. He can’t even look at Hannibal.

"I just... didn’t want you to be cold," he repeats softly, his voice barely a whisper now.

They stand there for a moment, frozen in the brittle air, and Will’s wide eyes are all Hannibal can see. Hannibal stares back, helpless, unsure what is allowed anymore. The lines between them are invisible, shifting, and he does not know which he has crossed, which he must not. The shiver that takes him feels sharp, cutting through the cold air and the silence, and Will’s face twists. He takes a breath, a soft sound that feels like a crack in the night, and then he is moving.

Will steps closer, so close that Hannibal forgets how to breathe, and his hand, trembling, pries Hannibal’s fingers from the blanket. That touch is warm, astonishingly warm, even as they both shiver, their bodies wrecked by the cold. Will’s grip is steady, though, and he does not let go as he pulls Hannibal with him, back down the trail Hannibal came from. 

The tent is small and cramped, but Will does not hesitate, guiding them both inside. Hannibal crawls in, the fabric pressing around him, and reclines as Will gestures for him to rest.

Will’s eyes flicker toward the box Hannibal keeps close, the one filled with books and small objects that carry the weight of meaning and Will himself. Will doesn’t touch it. Instead, he takes the blanket Hannibal had wrapped around himself and spreads it over him, careful and tender, but it does little to stop Hannibal’s shivering.

“I’m an idiot,” Will mutters, his voice harsh in his own ears. He grabs Hannibal’s hands again, pulling them between his own, rubbing them as though friction alone can warm him. Hannibal’s teeth chatter, and Will curses, low and soft, his breath hitching. “I should’ve never left you alone. I’m—I’m sorry.”

Hannibal exhales shakily, the sound more relief than words. He watches Will, trembling like a deer startled into stillness, and all the ferocity Hannibal knows in him is gone. There is no anger here, no sharp edges, only a kind of raw softness that Hannibal cannot look away from. Will’s brows draw tight, and he bites at his lower lip, worrying it red. 

“I’m not... I’m not good at this,” Will says, his voice rough. “I don’t know how to—how to be what you need. Hell, I don’t even know if I can be.” He laughs softly, bitterly, almost to himself.

The hatred on Will’s face is not directed outward; it is turned inward, and Hannibal wishes, fervently, that he could erase it, scoop it from Will’s chest and bury it somewhere deep where it would never touch him again. But even now, with his unkempt hair and bruised hands, Will is beautiful. Beautiful in his brokenness.

Hannibal sits up, leaning on his elbows, but the movement startles Will, who begins to rise. “I should—” he starts to say, but Hannibal reaches for him. His hands clutch at Will’s jacket, pulling him back, and the words die on Will’s lips. Hannibal’s grip is desperate, his fingers curling tight, and his breath stumbles over itself as he shivers again. Hannibal shakes his head at Will, pleading without words. 

Will freezes, his eyes wide and glassy, and for a moment, he does not move. Then he swallows hard, nodding tightly. “Alright,” he says, his voice low, almost breaking. “I’m sorry.”

Hannibal wonders what he is apologizing for. For this moment? For all of it? Hannibal thinks it does not matter. There is nothing Will could do that Hannibal would not forgive. He tugs at Will’s jacket again, pulling him down, and Will follows, lowering himself until they are lying side by side. The cold hangs around them still, and their breaths meet in small puffs of frost that brush their noses. Hannibal is still shivering, trembling so hard he thinks the cold will never leave him, but Will is here.

Hannibal’s hands twitch, wanting to speak but unable. They cannot write; they can only touch. And so he lets them rest, his fingers barely grazing Will’s sleeve, as though to say: stay.

He watches the way Will’s chest rises and falls, the faint quiver in his breath. Will’s hair is damp at the edges, clinging to his forehead, and Hannibal resists the urge to brush it back, to let his fingers linger where they should not. Instead, he stays still. 

Will shifts slightly, his shoulder pressing against Hannibal’s. He closes his eyes for a moment, letting himself sink into the warmth that Will offers, fragile as it is. 

“You’re still cold,” Will says quietly, his voice rough but gentle. “We’ll get warm. Just… just stay close, alright?”

Hannibal nods. He thinks of a thousand things he could say, but none of them feel right. Words are fragile things, too easily broken, and he does not want to risk shattering whatever this is.

Will sighs, looking at Hannibal with eyes that are guilty and wanting. Hannibal’s heart beats inside of him like it wants to bash itself against the cages of his ribs and die. Will’s expression shifts, a storm of conflict clouding his face, and still, Hannibal holds on. Will tries to push him away again, a half-hearted motion, but Hannibal's grip is ironclad. He feels the fight leave Will like a tide retreating, and for a moment, Hannibal wonders if it is permission.

Tears well up in his eyes, and now he can feel them because Will’s hands have melted them from their once frozen state. The tears slide down his face, carving warm paths through his cold skin. Hannibal hates them. He hates being like this. The salt of his tears catches in the corner of his mouth, and he detests the taste.

Will curses, the word a fractured sigh that seems to crack the air between them. "Hey, hey," he says, his tone soft and soothing, though Hannibal can hear the tremor of uncertainty beneath it. "Tell me what you need. I'm sorry. Tell me what you want. Please don’t cry. I can’t— I can’t take it." His thumbs brush the tears away from Hannibal’s cheekbones. Hannibal shudders at the contact.

He hates this. Hates that he can cry at all after years of promising himself he would not. This is childish. This is frightening. 

He shoots forward, burying himself in Will’s neck, his breath hitching as he seeks the heat that radiates from Will’s skin. He presses closer, his movements desperate, almost frantic, ignoring the flinch Will gives at first contact. He shifts until he is fully against Will, their chests touching, his lips brushing the pulse that beats at Will’s throat.

Will trembles beneath him and asks, “What–what are you doin’?” His voice is barely above a whisper, cracking with confusion. Hannibal just shivers, curling closer into him, wordless. Hannibal closes his eyes, willing himself to drown in the steady rhythm of Will’s breathing, in the rise and fall of his chest against his own. He feels Will’s hand on his back, hesitant at first, before the fingers trace gentle patterns. 

Will’s hands travel lower, pausing briefly, as though asking permission from the silence between them, before tugging on the fabric of Hannibal’s jacket. The hesitant hands move beneath it, skimming over bare, chilled skin, and Hannibal cannot help the sigh that escapes him at the touch.

Will’s hands move to the front of Hannibal’s jacket, trembling slightly as they fumble with the fabric. Hannibal listens, attuned to every nuance of the moment, every sound of their shared breathing. Will’s breath is erratic, each exhale a gust of hot air that mingles with Hannibal’s own in the narrow space between them. Hannibal trembles as Will’s hand slides upward, fingers grazing the column of his throat with a touch so light it feels like a whisper. 

Hannibal’s never allowed anyone to touch him like this. Anyone. He wonders if Will knows. If he knows how much Hannibal would give for him. Be for him. A nectarine, an echo that never belongs to the mountain cliffs, only to the dewy salvia flowers below, to the hummingbirds that alight on them with throats already scarlet.

Will’s voice pulls him back to the present, a soft murmur. His words are laced with an accent that is as warm as his touch. “I’m just warmin’ you up, alright? It’s—it’s not wrong. I’m just making sure you’re warm.” 

Hannibal knows those words are as much for Will as they are for him. Jesus loved his friends. Hannibal could love this beautiful shepherd boy. He nods. It isn’t wrong. 

Hannibal’s hands uncurl from where they are, reaching upward to cup Will’s face, cradling. He brings Will’s eyes to meet his own. The pupils are wide, blown with emotion, and his face is flushed, a delicate pink. Will’s lips part slightly, and he chews on the lower one, a nervous gesture that makes Hannibal’s heart ache. In Will’s eyes, he sees a million things: fear, longing, uncertainty, and something that looks achingly close to hope.

"I mean, I know it isn’t wrong. Not like I’m doing it to hurt you, y’know?" Will mutters to himself, eyes darting down to his hands for a moment. "It’s just… It’s just natural. It’s natural to want to make sure you’re alright. You’ve been working all day, getting cold and tired. You need—you need to stay warm."

He bites down on his bottom lip again, the words coming faster now, like he’s racing against something he can’t quite place. “I’m just looking out for you, Hannibal. That’s all. It’s just—” His voice falters. "It’s just… You deserve it, you know? You deserve to be warm, to be—"

Hannibal shifts upward, closing the distance between them until their noses brush. It is a tentative motion, a question posed without words. He wants to kiss him more than anything. To ask him anything and everything. Do you see how when we touch heaven blooms with color? 

But as Hannibal leans in, his lips hovering over Will’s, he is met with resistance. Will turns his face away.

“Don’t,” he whispers, the sound barely audible, almost lost to the night. “Please, I can’t do that.”

Hannibal freezes, his heart giving a sharp jolt that reverberates through him. He swallows hard, his throat dry and tight. He wants to say so many things—a flood of words that crowd his mind and beg to be spoken. But he thinks nothing he says would matter in this moment anyway. Words are nothing when you have touch. He wants to kiss Will and tell him with that kiss what he cannot articulate: that Hannibal wants to love him. Love him fiercely.

That he wants to name this feeling love, even though he knows naming things runs the risk of losing them. But he thinks that is what Will may be afraid of. Will looks so desperate, so raw with pain and confusion, that Hannibal finds himself nodding.

Will guides Hannibal's head back to his neck. "Stay here," he murmurs. "Just let me keep you warm." Hannibal acquiesces, his silence a heavy burden as he nestles closer to Will. Will’s hands tremble as they touch him, fingers grazing his hair. Hannibal curls around him and tries to mold himself to Will, to give him anything and everything he needs, though he isn’t sure what that is. Only that it must be given.

“I don’t want you to think I’m... I don’t know. Messing things up. I’m just trying to be here. For you. I don’t want to make you cold, that’s all.”

Hannibal doesn’t know what this is, other than how he wants it. What he feels now has always been spoken of in laughter and whispers, described in ugly ways that reek of shame. But this—this feels like something dreamlike. Hannibal shivers with the knowledge that he is not prepared. He does not know what to do with the skin of a beautiful boy, with tumbling curls and lips he cannot kiss. He knows nothing except that he wants him.

A hand comes to twine itself in Hannibal’s hair, gentle but unsteady, while another touches the trembling skin of Hannibal’s stomach. Will is lifting his shirt then, his fingers brushing his waist, and Hannibal wraps his arms around Will’s shoulders, pressing his face against his neck tightly. His hands, tentative and unsure, slide under Will’s shirt, touching the freckled expanse of his back, the patches of peeled skin from sunburns that paint him in swathes of rawness and imperfection. Will’s shoulders are boyish but manly and strong, bones peeking through skin.

Will’s fingers move to Hannibal’s jeans, fumbling with the buckle, shaking so much it feels frantic, like he’s afraid the moment might slip away if he doesn’t seize it now. Hannibal wants to ask if this is what Will dreamed of when he pleasured himself in his tent, if he imagined this, but he cannot. He thinks he already knows the answer. The thought curls inside him like spring.

Hannibal cannot help the jolt of his hip nor the whine he makes as Will’s hand wraps around his hard cock. It’s such an intimate place, one he has rarely ever touched with his own hands, and yet here he is, letting Will, wanting him to. Will is breathless like a dead bird, and Hannibal is quiet and needy like a lamb. His skin feels alive.

Perhaps it is bad for him to feel—a bulbous heart too big for his body. He feels with the unyielding intensity of his mother—all of him alight and silently screaming, blood pooling beneath the surface, unseen but heavy.

Will’s hand is warm and dry, almost too much, almost painful, but it’s so warm it seems to melt Hannibal into water. 

He wants Will to draw constellations on his ribs with his fingertips. He imagines the paint of Will’s imagination running down his body, pooling into starry puddles at his feet, dripping like rain from the edges of his frame. Hannibal wants to drown in poetry, to feel it choke him. He wants to give himself over to that hunger, a thousand moths fighting for the light of Will’s gaze. He dreams of leaving behind the towering ivory walls of fear he has built.

Hannibal pants against Will’s neck, curling against him until he can slip his leg over Will’s and cling to him, bring himself as close as he’s always wanted to be. He can hear the sound of Will’s panted breaths, the roughness of it catching in his throat, how his hand tightens against Hannibal and how he curses when Hannibal trembles as his thumb slides over his slit. Everything is slick now, unbearably slick, and Hannibal’s body betrays him, leaks with want that he could never hide, not well enough, not truly.

His hands, trembling, fumbling, find their way to Will, seeking, yearning. His fingers struggle against the rough fabric of Will’s jeans, clumsy with desperation. It is an act of surrender, of hope. He wonders, wishes, if Will has never been touched like this either. He hopes they are new together, untouched, unmarked, unspoiled by anyone else’s hands. 

Will’s cock is a twitching, warm thing in his hand, heavy and alive. His fingers brush the thick curls there, tangling briefly, and the noise Will makes is unlike anything Hannibal has ever heard before. Will’s voice, always so strong, so commanding, now rises in sweet, broken sounds that Hannibal feels he has control over. Those powerful vocal cords that curse and laugh and speak now bending to Hannibal’s will. He controls them, shapes them, and for a moment, he imagines they are his own.

Their hips move together, an unsteady rhythm that builds and breaks, their hands stroking frantically, almost clumsily. He wants to kiss Will, to feel their mouths meet and mingle like their bodies are now, but it is too cold, and Will’s warmth is all he can focus on. They are both too desperate to stop. 

He shifts closer still, until their hands meet where they stroke each other, until Will’s hand overtakes his own, wrapping around him, them. Hannibal’s hand tangles in Will’s hair, tugging, pulling. Will’s wild eyes meet his own. Their noses brush together, breaths mingling, hot and frantic. Will is flushed, his cheeks stained red, his pupils blown wide with desire.

“Are you close?” Will mutters, his voice cracking. Hannibal nods. “Let me—let me see.” 

Hannibal thinks of apples, of peeling back their skin to reveal the tender flesh beneath, of offering himself to Will in the same way. Strip me bare, he thinks, dice me, make me bittersweet, kindle me alight.

Will must taste like nirvana, like incense and salt and something uniquely his own. And shame—God, the shame Hannibal feels is nothing compared to how much he wants to taste Will’s shame. To devour it, to make it his own.

“Hannibal,” Will whispers. It is so sweetly said Hannibal cannot help the twitch of his hips. 

Hannibal has always loved the sound of his voice, but when Will says his name, it is like the earth shifting beneath him. He melts in that mouth, even without a kiss.

Sometimes Hannibal feels jealous of Will’s hair, of the way it falls across his forehead so tenderly, of the way the air seems to cradle him, to wrap itself around him so gently. If Hannibal is made of water, he wishes to turn to mist, to linger on Will’s skin, to be breathed in and drunk up and swallowed whole. If he could lay his body over Will’s, like a sheet upon a mattress, he would yearn no longer. 

Sweat beads on both their brows now, their breaths coming faster, heavier. Will seems to break first, leaning forward to press his lips to Hannibal’s cheekbone, the gesture both tender and desperate. His hand comes up to Hannibal’s face, the touch rough but careful, his fingers brushing against Hannibal’s skin as though afraid it might burn him.

Will’s hand stroking them together tightens, and Hannibal presses his cheek against Will’s, his breath hot against the other boy’s neck. 

Hannibal tenses, his body arching into Will’s touch, his movements desperate and uncoordinated. He makes no noise; he cannot. Violence may have robbed him of his voice in the past, but now it is pleasure that renders him silent. His body responds eagerly, betraying him with its honesty. Warm liquid bursts between them, over Will’s hand, and Hannibal feels the tremors in Will’s body, hears the gasps and curses that spill from his lips. He watches hazily as Will comes undone, his face slack and peaceful, as though his mind is finally quiet. It is beautiful.

There are only panted breaths between them now, clinging to each other as the last of their desperation melts into the air, becoming part of the tent, the night, the universe around them. The air is thick with it, heavy like a summer storm that refuses to break, and Will’s chest rises and falls too fast, like he has run every path in the world, his lungs pulling for something more than just air. 

Hannibal watches him, unable to look away, unable to stop the slow unraveling in his own chest as he lets his gaze fall to Will’s face. 

He swallows hard, trying to steady himself, but the feeling rises anyway, frantic and too big to hold. It fills him, threatening to spill out in ways he cannot control, and so he reaches. His hand finds Will’s where it still circles their soft cocks, their fingers sticky. Hannibal lifts Will’s hand slowly, carefully, and brings it to his mouth. 

Will’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t pull away. He watches, unblinking, as Hannibal’s lips part, soft and slow, to the press of Will’s fingertips. Hannibal tastes them together—their mingled come, bitter and salty, alive and real. He swallows, his tongue pressing briefly to Will’s skin, as though he could take this moment and make it a part of himself, as though to taste it would make it more real. It must mean something. It has to mean something. He cannot bear for it to be meaningless.

Will shudders, a full-body tremor that starts in his chest and ripples outward. His hand trembles in Hannibal’s grasp, and his fingers brush against the sharp edges of Hannibal’s teeth. The sensation seems to make Will’s breath catch, a small, hitched sound that Hannibal feels more than hears. Will’s breathing is shallow now, uneven and unsteady, but when he pulls his hand away. His thumb drags over the curve of Hannibal’s cheekbone, a soft motion that feels like a question, or perhaps an answer.

Hannibal’s breath catches too, and for a moment, he cannot move. He leans forward, slowly, and presses his lips against Will’s forehead in a kiss so soft it barely exists. Will shivers beneath him, his hands tightening where they grip Hannibal, pulling him closer, as though proximity could erase the space between them, as though it could make their hearts beat in unison.

“You’ll kill me one day,” Will whispers. 

Hannibal hears the truth in it. He could—he knows he could. But as he looks at Will now, trembling and so achingly human, Hannibal thinks that perhaps, for the first time, it is not true at all. 

Outside, the world goes on. Sweet lily blooms open themselves under the constellations, their petals unfurling in quiet surrender to the night. Hannibal’s skin is as cool as a river, and Will burns against him, his warmth sinking into Hannibal like the heat of the sun on water.

A boy, who could have been like countless others, someone Hannibal once believed he would never need, just as he thought Will would never need him.

Yet, they do. They need each other.

Chapter Text

Will wakes to the sound of birds. 

The dawn light filters in through the canvas of the tent, soft and golden. The air’s still now, not a trace of the bitter cold that had crept in last night.

His eyes peel open with a kind of reluctant slowness, the way you’d pull back the covers from something you don’t want to see but can’t bear to look away from either. He knows what’ll meet him when his eyes open, and that’s also why he can’t stop them. Because the sight that meets him is beautiful, and it’s cruel. 

Hannibal’s lying next to him, one arm outstretched, the edge of his hand resting just over Will’s stomach. It’s almost casual, but it isn’t. Nothing about it is. Even in his sleep, Hannibal’s holding on to him, like he knew Will tried to run and stopped him without even waking up.

Will takes a breath, shallow and careful. His heart’s hurting so bad it feels like he’s been shot, but if he looks down, there’s no blood. Hannibal’s face is soft in the morning light, relaxed in a way Will’s never seen before. Pale lashes resting against his pink cheeks, his lips parted just slightly as he breathes. He’s alive and peaceful and dreaming of things Will can’t touch.

Will swallows hard, trying to keep still, freezing his body like maybe if he doesn’t move, he won’t wake Hannibal up. And maybe he won’t see the look on Will’s face, the one that says everything Will’s too much a coward to say out loud.

Hannibal’s so soft. It makes him want to throw up. Makes him want to curl in on himself and disappear. Because he remembers last night, what he did, what they did. The way his hands had shaken when they touched Hannibal, the way he’d felt like he was about to break apart into a million pieces and didn’t care as long as Hannibal kept looking at him like that.

He wants to tell himself it’s okay. That it was nothing. That Hannibal wanted it just as much as he did. But the shame’s already curled itself up inside him, gnawing at his insides like a hungry dog, and it’s telling him things he can’t ignore. He feels sick with himself. Feels wrong. Like he’s ruined Hannibal in ways that can’t ever be taken back.

God, he can still feel the way Hannibal had shivered in his arms, the tears that had slipped down his cheeks. Seeing Hannibal cry had felt like something biblical, like watching the sea part or the sky open up. Will never thought he’d see it. The way his breath hitched, the soft, broken noises he’d made. Hannibal, who could kill a man without blinking, shaking in Will’s arms like a babe.

It had been too much. Will had wanted to help him, to make it better, to be useful in some way. And somehow, it turned into something he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t control. And now, the memory of it is a fire in his chest, burning too bright, too hot, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. The spark of desire he feels even now makes him want to crawl out of his own skin. He’s wicked, he knows that. He’s always known that. But Hannibal’s beautiful. 

 His hand moves. His fingers find Hannibal’s forehead, brushing aside a soft lock of golden-brown hair. He doesn’t know why he does it, but he can’t stop himself. It’s ridiculous, the way he’s acting. The way he’s feeling. He can’t believe he touched him like that last night. Touched him the way he’s been dreaming of for so long, the way he’s hated himself for even thinking about.

Nothing feels certain anymore. Everything’s sharp edges and blurred lines, and Will’s caught somewhere in the middle, feeling sick with himself and elated all at once. His throat catches at the phantom memory of Hannibal pulsing in his hand, and it makes him feel dizzy. Wicked. Beautiful. He’d have killed to be the cold tracing Hannibal’s body last night, just to touch him without guilt. But instead, he’d warmed him. And Hannibal had let him.

That’s what he’s holding on to now. Hannibal had let him.

But he doesn’t know what to do now. 

Hannibal stirs beside him, making a soft, sleepy noise, and Will pulls his hand back like he’s been burned. He curls it against his chest, holding it there like it might keep him from reaching out again. 

The boy smells like sleep and warmth and softness. 

Will might cry.

None of this had made him feel better. Maybe it would have helped him get it out of his system, one time enough and they never have to speak about it again. But Will’s want feels like it’s growing like mold, creeping and taking over, until even the way the sun glows on Hannibal’s sleeping form makes him mad. 

He wants to touch him again so badly. To press his lips against the sparse hair on his chest, rub his face into it like it’ll erase the shame stuck to his own skin. He likes that it’s flat and skinny, likes how it’s nothing like a girl’s. The thought makes him twitch. 

Hannibal’s not cold anymore. This isn’t what friends do, and yet they did it. So what does that make them? What does it make him? 

Will’s mind circles the question like a vulture, pecking at what’s left of his dignity. He wonders what’ll happen when Hannibal wakes up and remembers, clear as daylight, what they did in the dark hours of the night when neither of them was thinking straight. Will’s stomach knots up tight at the thought of all the things he might see in Hannibal’s eyes. Anger, hate, regret, disappointment. Maybe worse—affection, kindness, longing. Or nothing at all. Nothing at all. He doesn’t know which one scares him the most. Maybe nothing will change, maybe it’ll all be the same. Will doesn’t know.

Outside, the trees make a little noise in the breeze. It’s light, just enough to remind him the world’s still turning. The sheep need tending and counting, and Will hopes to hell there weren’t any hungry coyotes while he was gone. He needs to get up, needs to pull on his boots, but his legs feel heavy as lead. He wants to tell himself this won’t happen again, that it was a one-time thing, but he knows better. 

If Hannibal came to him shivering again, a blanket draped over his skinny shoulders, Will knows he’d sink to his knees right then and there. 

Will’s eyes drift back to Hannibal, watching as he shifts in his sleep. He rolls onto his back, his hand sliding across Will’s stomach before falling away, sprawling out loose and easy. His collarbones catch the light, sharp under his skin, and his jeans are still unzipped from where Will’s hands had been hours ago. The sight of it makes Will’s throat tighten. His eyes follow the trail of hair that leads down, down to the place he’s trying so hard not to think about. He has to look away, his cheeks and chest blazing hot like a fever’s taken hold of him.

He don’t know what anything means anymore, but he knows this feeling isn’t going away. It’s stuck to him now, like a burr he can’t shake loose. It can’t be fixed, can’t be helped. He wants to kiss him, still. Hates that he didn’t. Hates that he wants to. It can’t be helped. 

He thinks if Hannibal woke up right now, he’d tell him everything. How he feels, how he’s sorry, how he hopes he didn’t ruin anything between them but he’s just so stupid. He’d tell Hannibal he shouldn’t even talk to him anymore, that he should leave, never look back. Maybe he’d even tell him to kill him, like he did that man in the woods, quick and over with. 

But deep down, Will knows what Hannibal would say. He’d tell him to go wash his hands in the creek, to scrub the cowardice out from under his nails. He’d tell him to go tend the lambs and shoot the coyotes and stop worrying about things that can’t be helped. 

Will takes one last look at Hannibal’s sleeping form, the soft rise and fall of his chest. He looks golden, like some kind of saint, but Will knows better. Knows how the smooth plane of Hannibal’s chest feels under his fingers, how it moves when he breathes. He looks at him like it’ll be the last time—might as well be. Lord knows it should be. 

He swallows down the lump in his throat, breath shaky as he adjusts his zipper, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt where it’s come undone. His fingers are clumsy, trembling like they’re working against him. It feels wrong—all of it. The morning, the quiet, the way Hannibal’s notebook lies abandoned beside him.

He stares at that notebook, and for a split second, he wonders if he ought to leave a note. Something simple. Something kind. But what could he even say? What words could he string together to make sense of what they’ve done? 

It’s real now. Tangible. A thing he’s touched with his own hands—hands that know the feel of another boy’s skin in a way that ain’t all bloodied knuckles and rage. Both are sins. Both can’t be helped.

Will crawls out of the tent, careful not to make a sound. The world outside is soft and golden, the kind of morning that feels like it’s holding its breath. The earth under his knees is damp with dew, grass glistening like it’s been painted fresh overnight. 

A rope hangs where he left it, coiled neatly on a wooden peg near the horses. He moves toward it, trying to focus on the task at hand, on anything but the boy sleeping just a few feet away. The rope feels rough and familiar in his hands, a thing he knows how to handle. He starts looping it, wrapping it around his arm in tight, practiced coils.

He looks up, and there’s Hannibal, walking toward him with a look on his face that’s too gentle, too understanding. There’s a faint smile on his lips, just the barest hint of it, and it makes Will’s stomach twist. He can’t stand it. 

Will looks away, his gaze dropping to the rope in his hands. His fingers work faster, fumbling as he tries to finish the loop. His breath feels shallow, his chest tight like he’s being smothered. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to act. 

Then there’s a hand, soft against his wrist, and Will jerks away. His heart is pounding so loud he’s sure Hannibal can hear it, thundering in the quiet morning. He knows he’s being cruel, knows the flinch in Hannibal’s eyes is his fault. But he doesn’t know how to be anything else when he’s scared.

“Don’t worry about breakfast,” Will says, the words coming out harsher than he means them to. His voice cracks on the last syllable, betraying him. He swings the rope over his shoulder, his eyes fixed on Hannibal’s boots. They’re scuffed now, worn and dirty in a way they weren’t when they first met. Will remembers how polished they used to be, how they caught the light like they were made for it. Now they’re just like his.

“Stayed too long last night. The sheep need tending. They get restless if I’m not there early enough to keep ‘em steady.” The words feel hollow, like they’re floating in the space between them, meaningless and small. Will bites the inside of his cheek, hard enough to taste blood, to keep from saying anything more. 

There’s a slowness in the way Hannibal pulls his notebook from his pocket. His fingers are steady as they glide across the page, the sound of the pen scratching against paper. When he finishes, he holds the notebook out.

You speak as though I am not meant to care about you.

Will doesn’t look at Hannibal, not directly. His eyes flicker to the page, then back to the rope in his hands, the fibers digging into his skin. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters, the words clumsy, falling out of him in pieces. “I just… I’ve got things to do. That’s all. It’s not about you.”

But it is, and they both know it.

Hannibal doesn’t flinch. He writes again. 

I know you are afraid, but fear is not an excuse for cruelty.

Will lets out a sharp breath, his grip tightening on the rope until his knuckles ache. “I’m not—” He cuts himself off, the denial dying on his lips. He knows it’s not true. He knows Hannibal can see through him as easily as if he were made of glass.

He’s walking before Hannibal can say anything. The sun feels like it dims behind him, slipping behind a cloud the moment he leaves. He knows it’s just his imagination.

His skin feels wrong, too tight and too raw, like it’s peeling away with every step. He carries the weight of what they did like a second skin, something he can’t shed no matter how far he walks. It sticks to him, clings to him, fills his lungs until he can’t breathe. He thought sins would be ugly things, but they’re not. 

Anger burns like fire, and greed wraps itself around him. Gluttony wears a crown, heavy and regal, and envy shines like the forest in the early morning. Pride is familiar, something he’s carried for as long as he can remember. And then there’s lust, quiet and devastating, wearing Hannibal’s face. It’s not fair.

He doesn’t even come down for dinner. He doesn’t think he could stomach it. Hannibal doesn’t come to find him, and Will tells himself that’s for the best. It has to be. 

It makes him feel like some sort of traitor, drawing lines between them again like this. It’s not that he wants to be cruel—God, no, he’s spent most of his life trying not to be—but some part of him believes he’s doomed to it anyway. 

It should be casual. It shouldn’t mean a thing, what he did. He was just trying to help, and Hannibal had looked so small then, curled around his blanket, his eyes full of tears that seemed too heavy for him to carry. What was the other option? Leaving him there? Will doesn’t think he could’ve left. Hannibal had needed him. He’d asked him to stay, and Will had stayed. He’d let Will warm him up, and that was all there was to it. Just a practical kindness, nothing more. It doesn’t need to mean something or be something bigger than it is.

But it is big. 

They don’t speak or run with each other as they take care of the sheep and count them. The number’s the same as it always is, and Will figures something should be different. The mountains should’ve shifted, gravity should’ve gone haywire—hell, the whole world should’ve turned itself upside down. Something should’ve changed. But it’s all the same, and none of it’s fair. Will figures he’s starting to sound like a child in that sense, always whining to himself about how nothing’s fair. It’s a lesson he learned at a young age, and yet it still sets fire in his chest when he thinks about it anyway. It’s just not fair.

He shuts himself away in his tent instead of spending time with Hannibal once they’re done their jobs, and he wonders how long he can keep this up before it drives him to the brink of death. Being away from Hannibal after what they did feels as wrong as anything, and he figures it’s a punishment for himself. He’s going cold turkey, trying to tear himself away from something that feels more like a need than a want. But it’s not just the ache of it that gets to him. It’s the flash of hurt in Hannibal’s eyes. He’s never been good at handling other people’s pain, not when he’s the one who caused it.

He wonders if Hannibal even understands—if he knows now how badly Will wants him. How he thinks about him, how he’s been thinking of touching him and how he can barely think of anything else and how much it hurts. How Will could never not want him. 

Summer’s almost over. Will knows he should find some nice girl to marry, someone like Molly back in town like his daddy said. She’s a nice girl with bright blonde hair and apple-like cheeks. But that’s all she is. A nice girl. She’s not cunning or clever or dangerous and full of emotion. She’s not wild. 

He falls asleep under the glow of the sun when the tent becomes too stuffy, his body heavy with exhaustion and his mind too full to stay awake. He tries to dream of Paris and what it might look like, all glittering lights and soft shadows. 

When a presence comes to sit beside him, he buries his face in the grass instead and doesn’t look up. He silently prays that Hannibal will touch him and force him to look at him, press his mouth to Will’s and tell him to stop being so fucking stupid and take all his guilt away and make it beautiful. But he doesn’t. When a flower comes into his vision, Will doesn’t take it. He shuts his eyes tight enough that it hurts.

He doesn’t open his eyes until the smell of fire reaches his nose and the air turns colder, and then Winston’s there, nosing at a crushed flower, its petals squeezed and bruised. 

He feels evil. He digs his nails so hard into his palms they bleed. He feels lonely. He remembers one summer how a praying mantis landed on the grill as he watched his daddy cook. It was bright and beautiful even as it fizzled, its body curling in on itself as the heat took it. Will burned his fingertips trying to save it, his hands clumsy but desperate. He’d put it in the grass, and his daddy had stomped it without a second thought. Called it mercy. God’s mercy.

Will’s sizzling on the grass now, his thoughts crackling and sharp, and he wonders if anyone will come stomp him. He wanted to keep the squashed little body but he didn’t. Will knew there were things he should never find beautiful. 

Like death. And boys. 

One of the sheep gives birth. 

Will stands back, leaning against a tree, his shadow spilling long and jagged over the pasture. The rough bark digs into his shoulder blades, but he doesn’t move. From where he’s standing, the whole scene is bathed in the golden haze of late afternoon, the light catching on the soft wisps of the ewe’s wool and the dark sheen of Hannibal’s hair.

Hannibal is kneeling in the grass. The ewe lets out a low, strained cry, and Will flinches, the sound tearing through him like barbed wire. Hannibal’s hands move like they know what they’re doing, like they’ve been doing this forever, even though Will knows he’s only done it a handful of times. But that’s Hannibal for you. He’s the kind of boy who’ll pick up a book about lambing one day and know everything there is to know by the next. 

The kind of boy who’ll grow up and leave this place behind, go off to some fancy school and become someone important. Will can see it clear as day.

The lamb slips free after what feels like hours, landing in a wet, glistening heap on the grass. For a second, nothing happens. The lamb just lies there, motionless, and the world goes quiet. Even the birds stop singing. Will’s breath catches in his throat, his heart pounding so loud he’s sure Hannibal can hear it from where he’s kneeling. The sunlight glints off the slick mess of the lamb’s coat, painting it in shades of gold and pink, and it looks so fragile, so breakable, that Will has to curl his hands into fists.

Hannibal’s hands move with that same steady rhythm, wrapping the lamb in a blanket and rubbing at it like he’s coaxing a fire to life. Hannibal leans over the lamb, his face so close that Will can see the furrow of his brow, the set of his jaw. Wearing his heart right there on his face for anyone to see, and Will hates it. Loves it. Hates how much he loves it.

The lamb sputters, its tiny chest jerking as it coughs up fluid, and Will’s knees go weak with relief. The lamb takes another breath, then another, its cries rising high and thin into the air, and Hannibal sits back on his heels, a small smile tugging at his mouth. 

Hannibal looks up then, his eyes catching on Will’s, and the smile lingers. He lifts a hand, beckoning Will closer, and Will’s legs move before his brain can catch up. The grass is cool and damp beneath his knees as he drops down beside Hannibal, and he keeps his eyes on the lamb, refusing to meet Hannibal’s gaze. The lamb is trembling, its legs wobbly as it tries to stand, and Will swallows hard, his throat tight.

 “It’s strange, isn’t it? How humans are born needin’ so much… everything. You take your eyes off a baby for a second, and it’ll find a way to get into trouble or worse. But animals—they’re just ready. They come into the world knowing what to do.”

Hannibal watches him, his silence not empty but purposeful. He pulls his small notebook from his coat pocket with bloodied hands and flips it open, the smooth rhythm of pen on paper filling the space between them. 

Humans are born helpless because they are weak, because they are meant to be cared for. It is both their nature and their design.

Will’s lips press into a thin line as he hands the page back. “That sounds real poetic, but it doesn’t make needing someone any easier.” His gaze flicks briefly to Hannibal before darting back to the lamb. “It’s messy, depending on someone. It’s... vulnerable. Nobody likes feeling like they can’t do it alone.”

Do you despise the lamb for needing you now? For being small and fragile?

“That’s different,” Will mutters, though his voice lacks conviction. “The lamb didn’t ask for this.”

Hannibal’s hand lingers, his pen poised above the notebook, but he doesn’t write immediately. 

And if the lamb had refused your help, if it had rejected your care, would you have walked away? Left it to die for its pride?

Will flinches as if the words sting. “No,” he admits quietly. “I wouldn’t. But that’s not the same thing as asking for help. It’s not the same as needin’ someone and having to live with that.”

The silence stretches, and when Hannibal finally writes again, his strokes are slower, almost hesitant.

Perhaps not. But the lamb survives because it let me save it. You survive because you allow yourself to need.

“You wouldn’t let anyone do for you what you just did for that lamb.”

Hannibal’s gaze softens, and for a moment, Will thinks he might finally be wrong about him. But Hannibal just smiles again—that quiet, inward smile—and writes one last thing.

No. But I understand the cost.

Will doesn’t know if that’s a comfort or a condemnation.

The lamb teeters, testing its legs with clumsy resolve, and Will lets out a quiet breath. It’s easier to focus on the lamb than on Hannibal, who hasn’t moved from his spot in the grass. 

Will straightens, brushing his hands on his jeans. 

“It’ll live,” he says flatly, his voice clipped. “That’s what matters.”

Hannibal doesn’t move, but his silence feels pointed, like a question Will refuses to answer. The notebook appears again, the soft scratch of pen on paper a whisper that makes Will’s teeth clench. 

You say that as if life is enough. Is it, Will?

Will stares at the words, his jaw tightening. “Doesn’t matter what I think,” he mutters. “It’s not about me.”

The lamb bleats softly, and Will glances at it, then away, his voice quieter now. “I don’t need someone standing over my shoulder, waiting to catch me when I fall. I can manage on my own.”

Hannibal shifts then.

If you truly believed that, you wouldn’t need to say it aloud.

Will picks up the lamb, its small body trembling against his hands. “Think what you want,” he says, his voice sharp. “But I’ve been gettin’ by just fine without you. Without anyone.”

Hannibal stands slowly, his notebook still in hand. He doesn’t hand Will the next note immediately; instead, he watches him with a quiet intensity that feels like it could peel back layers if Will let it. Finally, he writes again.

Surviving is not the same as living.

Will huffs a laugh that’s anything but amused, his grip tightening on the lamb as if it’s a shield. “And I suppose you think you’re the expert on living? You, of all people?”

Hannibal’s gaze softens. He doesn’t reach for Will, doesn’t step closer. 

No. But I am learning.

Will’s shoulders stiffen, and for a moment, he looks like he might say something, his mouth opening just enough for the air to catch. But he clamps it shut, turning his face away. “Don’t try to make this somethin’ it's not,” he says, his voice hard despite the tremor at the edges. “I don’t need you, Hannibal. And you sure as hell don’t need me.”

The lamb bleats again, a frail sound that echoes between them. 

When Hannibal’s next note comes, it is softer, quieter. 

You may not need me, Will. But I think you want to be needed.

Will holds the lamb closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “You should go home, Hannibal. You don’t belong here.”

He focuses on the lamb, watches it finally squirms out of his grip and finds its footing and take its first trembling steps.

Hannibal’s hands are resting in the grass, his fingers still stained with blood and fluid, and Will can’t help but think about what it would feel like to have those hands on him again. 

Again. 

The fear sits heavy in his chest, thick and choking, and he doesn’t know if it’s his or Hannibal’s or the lamb’s. He promises himself, right then and there, that he’ll stop. He won’t look Hannibal in the eye anymore. Won’t race him through the grass. Won’t weave flowers into each other’s hair or let their knees touch. Won’t breathe the same air or catch the same stares. Won’t be two boys together, clinging.

Never again. Never to dare.

But his hand moves anyway, reaching out before he can stop it, and when his fingers brush against Hannibal’s, they stay. And he clings.

Hannibal shifts closer. Will’s breath catches, a hitch in his throat that he can’t quite suppress. He feels it before he sees it, the way Hannibal’s presence grows heavier, denser. A hand, cool and steady, slides into his hair, and Will feels like his body might betray him. The touch is gentle, almost tender, and a nose brushes against his temple. Will’s eyes flutter shut for a moment, and he hates himself for it.

It’s too much. It’s all too much. His hands tremble. He thinks about pulling away, about standing up and walking back to camp, but he can’t. Hannibal’s hand stays in his hair, fingers threading through the curls like they belong there, and Will thinks he might shatter under the touch.

And it can’t be helped. God help him, it can’t be helped. Hannibal is beautiful, and he smells like pine and milk thistle, sharp and clean and wild. Will’s chest tightens as the scent washes over him, as the reality of Hannibal’s closeness sinks in. 

He thinks about the way Hannibal once told him about Michelangelo. He’d told Will about five o’clock, about the way the sun burns yellow then, how carved marble looks like pearls underwater in that light . Hannibal had told him about David, how Michelangelo had chiseled him from perfect stone, smoothed every surface with such care that it must have driven him mad.

Will doesn’t think Michelangelo was ever sick of it. He doesn’t think he could ever tire of Hannibal’s eyes, but Hannibal is already carved, already chiseled into something too perfect, too beautiful for Will to touch. He feels like a child next to him, clumsy and unworthy, his hands too rough. It might be five o’clock now, Will thinks, and Hannibal shines like the sun, golden. 

A blush spreads across Will’s skin, creeping up his neck and staining his cheeks. It’s a palette of colors he’s only ever seen in Hannibal’s drawings, in the way Hannibal looks at him during moments like this. Will’s breath comes faster, shallow and uneven, as Hannibal noses into his curls, the touch unbearably gentle. And before he can stop himself, Will turns his head, their noses brushing together in a touch so light it’s almost not there.

How many times have they been this close? Will can count it on one hand.

It’s five o’clock, and Hannibal looks like Hercules, his mouth soft and slightly open, the column of his throat trembling with every breath. Hannibal had told him about golden hour, about how everything looks glittering and beautiful in that fleeting time, and God, Hannibal does.

Will feels like nothing. Less than nothing. A thumb brushes against the soft parting of Will’s lips, and he freezes, his breath catching in his throat. He watches, transfixed, as Hannibal presses a kiss to his own thumb over Will’s mouth, his lashes fluttering softly. Will’s chest tightens, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He can almost feel those lashes against his cheek, and he wishes he could, wishes he could give in just this once.

But he doesn’t. He grits his teeth and turns away sharply. “I’m—I’m not how you think I am, Hannibal. I’m not like you,” he says, the words rough and uneven. 

Hannibal’s hand falls away. The warmth of him disappears, leaving Will cold and hollow. There’s a moment of silence, heavy and unbearable, and then Hannibal rises to his feet. Will doesn’t look at him. He can’t. Frantic, desperate, Will’s hand shoots out, grabbing at Hannibal’s sleeve. “Hannibal.” His tone is both a plea and a demand. “Don’t just…leave like that.”

There’s a silence, thick and charged, and Will can feel Hannibal’s hesitation, though he doesn’t turn around. The scratch of ink on paper. 

You say you are not like me. Tell me, then: what am I to you? What name do you give me that you refuse for yourself? Is it deviant? Perverse? Something worse? I wonder if you even know. If you have looked at me and thought of the words they would use to define us and decided you are better. Safer. More whole than I could ever be.

The words strike Will like a blow, and he recoils as though they’ve drawn blood. His throat works, his voice hoarse when he finally speaks. “You know what I mean,” he says, but the words sound weak.

Hannibal’s brow furrows, his lips pressing into a thin line, but he doesn’t look away. 

You claim not to feel, yet you cannot stop looking at me. You cannot stop pulling me toward you and then shoving me away. You think this makes you strong? That denying yourself makes you better? It only makes you cruel, Will. It makes you a coward.

“I’m not a coward,” Will snaps, but the words come too fast, too defensive. He’s lying, and they both know it. “You don’t get it, Hannibal. You never get it. People like you—people like this—you can live with it. You don’t care what the world thinks. But me? I can’t. I won’t.” His voice cracks, but he pushes through. “I’m not one of your…your kind. I’m not.”

Hannibal’s expression tightens. His hand moves fluidly, words spilling out faster than he seems able to control. 

You speak of “kind” as though it is a sickness, something contagious you fear catching if you stand too close. But I see the way you look at me, Will. You think it is shame that holds you back, but it is not. It is fear. You are afraid because you know I see you. I know what you are, no matter how much you lie to yourself. And you know it too. That is why you hate me for it.

Will’s breath catches, his fists trembling at his sides. “You’re wrong,” he says, but the words crumble as soon as they leave his mouth. “I don’t hate you. I couldn’t.”

Hannibal doesn’t respond immediately. Then he picks up the notebook again.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love. If you want me again, look for me under your boot-soles.

They don’t see each other after that. 

Will dreams of fire when he sleeps, and those are the good nights—the ones where he’s soft burning, peppered with sun kisses, his lungs filled with ash while everything else blazes around him. The kind of dream where everything feels sharp and bright, like it’s been sanded down to its bare truth. When he wakes, all he remembers is the way his heart stuttered in the dream’s light, beating so hard it felt like it might break loose from his chest. That rhythm doesn’t belong to waking life. It stays with him, though. He ignores the rot in his own marrow and fights not to see Hannibal’s humanity, the way he’s all boyish sadness.

Will tells himself he doesn’t want Hannibal. He’s all gunmetal skin and red-crusted wounds, and he feels it, feels how soft he is at the edges. Like the changing of a season, something inevitable but so slow you don’t notice until it’s too late.

He tries not to think about how his hands burned when they touched Hannibal, how the heat of it left marks he couldn’t wash away. Or how his mouth sighed out Hannibal’s name. Will wonders how many times you can repeat a name before it becomes a prayer. He’s at 2,354 times and counting. It’s pathetic, he knows, and it’s useless. This whole thing is useless. He’s thrashing himself to death.

In the morning, he wakes to find a pile of bones outside his tent. They’re tiny, fragile things, bleached dry by the sun, and he knows without touching them that they’re bird bones. It’s a knowing that sits low in his gut, as sure as the sky is blue and his hands shake when he’s alone. They belonged to something once, something that was all colorful feathers and life, frozen in death and eaten clean by maggots, stripped bare until only this was left. 

The skeleton is whole, laid out with a kind of care that makes his throat tighten. Boys with raw hearts had found it and hidden it in the hollow of a tree. Will doesn’t touch it. He doesn’t think he could.

Adam and Eve, Judas and Jesus, love written as a burning warning sign in red—Are you saved? The kind of signs that line the highways of the South. His stomach churns like he’s on the edge of throwing up, but he doesn’t. 

Instead, he heads down to camp, though there’s no sign of Hannibal there. Still, there’s food waiting for him because that’s just like Hannibal—always worrying about Will, whether he’s hungry, cold, starving, or hurt.

Will’s horrible. He thinks he’s made of bird bones himself, cracking against the grain of migration, scattered by some unknown wind. He feels smaller now than he ever did sitting in the backseat of his daddy’s truck, with gaps in his teeth and bandaids up his arms. Back then, he wished his parents were the kind who saved newspaper clippings and sent Christmas cards. Now, he wishes he could blame this—this ache, this want—on anything else. On his daddy, or blood under his nails, or the guilt. But he can’t. It’s just him.

He wants to go back. Back to that tree where they sat with Hannibal’s harmonica spilling out broken tunes like secrets. Back to Hannibal’s laughter in the creek, bright as sunlight on water, a sound that made Will want to throttle him and hold him all at once. 

Will hadn’t meant to say God’s name so many times that night, hadn’t meant to forget Hannibal’s name underneath it, hadn’t meant for it to stay lodged in him like this. He wonders if it all means anything anymore. His pastor once said it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission. Maybe that means something. Maybe it doesn’t. All Will knows is he’s tired. Tired of being a man and a boy and Will Graham. He wants to be warmth again, to feel that fleeting moment of peace he found when Hannibal clung to him.

He’s sick, he knows that. But so is Hannibal. Killing is a sin, and so is finding Hannibal pretty. 

Will’s tired of it all.

That night, a storm hits the mountain, thunder shaking his tent and lightning so bright it’s like midday. The wind howls through the trees, and Will can’t stand the sound of it. He lets Winston sleep there instead. He slips down to Hannibal’s tent and crawls inside. Hannibal doesn’t stir, or maybe he’s pretending not to. Will doesn’t know. They lie there, fingers laced beneath the covers, pressed together tight. Will’s breath catches, and he asks himself how tightly they have to hold each other before he admits this isn’t about warmth.

When dawn creeps over the horizon, Will leaves before Hannibal wakes.

Will finds two of the sheep struck by lightning. They’re fried, the smell of burned wool and flesh heavy in the air, clinging to the back of his throat until it’s all he can taste. He just stands there, staring at their crumpled, blackened bodies. For a moment, he thinks he might’ve given up—like maybe something inside him’s snapped, broken in a way he doesn’t even have the energy to fix. He thinks about what Hannibal told him once. God’s terrific. 

Terrific like this, Will supposes. Like lightning frying two sheep just because it can, just because they happened to be standing there when it struck. He feels like it’ll tear him up into little pieces if he keeps it up. And he’s so tired. Wrung out and hollowed like an old shirt on the line, so much so that he can’t even muster the tears he knows are somewhere in him.

Hannibal takes care of the bodies for him. Doesn’t ask, just shows up and does it. Will doesn’t ask where he puts them afterward. Doesn’t want to know. It’s easier that way. But later that day, the weight of it all catches up to him, gnawing at his insides until it’s all he can feel. It’s like something’s eating him alive. The kind of frantic that makes your hands shake and your thoughts spin faster than you can keep up. And all of a sudden, he needs to see Hannibal. Needs to prove to himself that Hannibal’s his friend, that he’s real and solid and here. Needs to lay his head on Hannibal’s shoulder and just sleep.

But when Will gets to the camp, Hannibal isn’t there again. There’s only his notebook, sitting on the log where he’d been the night before. Will picks it up. The sight of it just makes him feel more frantic, like he’s slipping further out of his own skin. It takes a bit of panicked searching before he finds the trail—bootprints pressed deep into the dirt, leading him to Hannibal.

He follows them to the cliff above the creek, where Hannibal’s sitting with his arms wrapped around his knees, staring out at the water below. And there’s this quiet hurt radiating off him, bleeding out into the air between them like a flood Will can’t stop. It catches in his chest, tight and painful, and he thinks, for a wild moment, that he’d give anything to fix it. Anything Hannibal asked for. His arm, his leg, his heart. Whatever Hannibal needed.

Looking at Hannibal now, all Will feels is a half-written confession. A long, messy list of reasons he shouldn’t want him like this, not like this, but still he goes to him anyway. He settles beside him on the edge of the cliff, feet dangling over the side. Thinks he wouldn’t even mind if Hannibal pushed him. It’d be easier than this.

Will sits wit him and passes Hannibal his notebook. Hannibal shifts beside him, writing. 

It is strange how quiet the world feels when there is something you want to say but don’t know if you are allowed to.

Will reads it twice, his stomach twisting. “Some things are better left unsaid.”

Is that what you tell yourself? That silence is safer? Do you not want to say it because you think it’ll hurt me, or because it’ll hurt you?

Will’s jaw tightens. “Maybe both,” he mutters, but the words feel hollow. He rubs his hands over his jeans, restless. “I don’t—I don’t even know what this is, Hannibal. I don’t know what the hell you want from me.”

Hannibal writes quickly, almost urgently.

I want honesty, Will. I want the truth, no matter how messy or ugly it feels. I want to understand you, not the version of you that you think you’re supposed to be, but the version of you that exists when no one else is watching.

“You don’t want that. Trust me, you don’t. That version of me? He’s a mess. He doesn’t know what he’s doing half the time. He says things he doesn’t mean, or maybe he means them too much. He doesn’t know how to handle…this.” He gestures vaguely between them, the motion wild and uncoordinated.

It is no one’s business but ours. What we are, what we feel—it belongs to us and no one else.

Will stares at the words, his chest tightening. “And what business is that?”

Hannibal hesitates, his pen pausing mid-stroke. Then, he writes. 

Perhaps you stared into a creek and there was someone near you who wanted you. Someone who felt as if they had been waiting their whole life to see you, to know you. Perhaps that is the business we are talking about.

“Someone who wanted me,” Will repeats, his voice hoarse. 

Hannibal watches him. 

When Hannibal turns the notebook toward him, the words strike.

I want to kill you, Will.

Will’s breath catches. His eyes dart to Hannibal’s face, searching for malice, for cruelty, for anything that makes sense of what he’s just read. But Hannibal’s expression is calm, his gaze tender.

Before Will can speak, Hannibal continues to write, his hand moving with a strange kind of urgency now, as if the words can’t stay inside him any longer.

I want to kill you because I do not know how else to have you. Because I could open you up and find all the things you refuse to say, all the truths you hide. I could see every part of you, every thought, every fear. And you would not be able to stop me. You would be mine in a way that no one else could ever claim.

Will stares at the notebook, his chest heaving. “God, Hannibal.” 

And you cannot kiss me, can you? You cannot even look at me without thinking about what it would mean, what it would cost you. You cannot kiss me because you would feel like you were losing yourself, like you’d be giving me too much. But Will, you already have.

Will remembers wanting him to spit in his mouth, half blood and half sweet. Remembers hiding a body together, the bright beauty of the blood, the way it had shimmered in the moonlight. Death and boys, Will thinks, are beautiful things.

Before he can think better of it, he grabs the notebook and throws it over the cliff. Watches it tumble down, pages fluttering like wings, until it disappears into the water below. He knows Hannibal has other ones, knows this isn’t some grand gesture that’ll mean anything in the long run, but still it might be the most horrible thing he’s ever done.

Hannibal’s eyes flash, and then he’s pushing at Will’s shoulders. They grapple for a moment, hands grasping at each other, and Will doesn’t know if he’s clinging or pushing, but they’re touching and it’s too much and not enough all at once. And then they’re falling, the ground slipping out from under them, air rushing past them in a dizzying woosh before they hit the water.

It’s cold, shockingly so, and it steals the breath from Will’s lungs. It feels like baptism. He reaches for Hannibal even under the water, hands clutching at wet fabric, and when they break the surface, gasping and shivering, he can’t help but laugh. It’s a wild, breathless sound, and Hannibal looks at him like he’s lost his mind. But then he’s smiling too, small and sharp, and it feels like he’s the only thing holding Will’s bones together. 

He’s shivering. Hannibal’s shivering. 

Hannibal’s notebook is gone, lost to the creek, and Will finds himself wanting him to write it all down again. To write, There was someone near you who wanted you, over and over, until the words sink into his skin and stay there forever.

By the time they reach camp again, both of them are damp with creek water and shivering, shaking like two kids caught in a summer rain. The night has swallowed the land whole, and frost creeps slow across the grass. He crouches by the fire pit, his fingers fumbling with the flint, the scrape of stone on steel loud in the stillness. Behind him, Hannibal’s teeth chatter, and Will’s hands falter for a moment.

IThe scrape of the flint catches again, this time throwing a spark into the dry kindling, and Will leans in close, cupping his hands around the tiny flame. The fire grows, licking at the wood, and Will feeds it slow, careful not to smother it with too much too fast. When he looks up, Hannibal’s already sitting on one of the logs, his long fingers outstretched toward the growing heat. The firelight catches on his face, painting his sharp features in shades of gold and red.

Will ducks into the tent, the cold air rushing in behind him, and grabs one of his notebooks from the pile beside his bedroll. His hands linger on the worn leather cover, tracing the edges, his fingers hesitating at the corners like they’re waiting for permission to move. He steps back out into the night, the frost crunching under his boots, and the fire pulls him close again.

Hannibal’s shivering still. He sits down beside him, the space between them small enough that their knees almost touch, and holds out the notebook.

He can’t say he’s sorry. He doesn’t know how to. But he hopes Hannibal knows anyway, hopes he can see it in the way Will’s hands shake when he passes the book over, in the way his eyes won’t meet his. Will knows he’s been a horrible friend. He knows he’ll keep being one, too, that he’s too twisted up inside to ever be anything else. There’s something rotten in him, something that’s been there for as long as he can remember, and no amount of kindness or forgiveness will ever root it out. But Hannibal’s shivering beside him, and that means something. Means everything. And all Will wants is to mean something back.

He would die for Hannibal without a second thought. Kill for him, too. Bury the body and never speak of it again. Dream about it later, about the way Hannibal would look with blood on his hands, about how it would feel to know he’d done something that mattered, even if it was ugly. 

The fire cracks and pops, little embers jumping into the air, and the sound pulls him back. They sit in silence, staring into the flames, the heat painting their faces in shifting light and shadow. Will’s curls cling to his forehead, damp from the creek, and the cold wind turns them into icy little tendrils that make him shiver all over again. He rubs his hands together, the friction doing little to warm him, but he doesn’t move away from Hannibal. Can’t. Won’t.

“I dream about you all the time,” he says, the words slipping out before he can stop them. “I’m so constantly hungry, sometimes I feel like I’m nothin’ but ache.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and raw, and Will wonders if they’ll burn up in the fire before they reach Hannibal’s ears. Will’s heart stumbles in his chest. He leans over, his shoulder brushing against Hannibal’s, and lets his head rest there. The sigh that slips out of him feels like it’s been trapped for years, heavy and tired and so sweet it almost hurts.

There’s a rustle of paper, and Hannibal shifts beside him. Will dares a glance. 

You are not the only one who dreams. I wake up aching, too.

Hannibal’s hand moves to rest over Will’s. Will doesn’t pull away.

The fight in him’s gone, drained out like water from a cracked jar, and he doesn’t have the strength to care about what comes next. The pastor’s not here to remind him what he’s supposed to be, and God’s answers feel like riddles he’ll never solve. A lamb born and two struck down.

Hannibal shifts beside him, and Will turns his head just enough to catch the light in his eyes. it all too much to bear. He’s soft and pretty and so far out of reach it makes Will feel like he’s drowning, and there’s no possibility of keeping his distance anymore. There never was. He doesn’t know why he thought he could.

Because he’s a coward. Because he’s stupid. Because he’s tired. Tired of crawling out of his skin every night, tired of inspecting every uneven tooth and crooked crease and finding nothing but failure. Tired of the way his own breath tightens in his chest when he’s alone, of the way his thoughts spiral into places he doesn’t want to go. He’s tired of all of it. He wants to look at Hannibal instead.

Maybe he’s a sick part of a sick thing. Maybe something’s caught up with him and there’s mist between them like stars. But Hannibal’s hands are like two animals, wild and sure, pushing the mist aside. When Hannibal stands, his hand holding Will’s, Will doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t think. Just follows.

The tent looms dark against the frost-covered ground, a small shadow against the vastness of the night, and when they crawl inside, the world narrows down to just the two of them.

It’s just like he dreamt a thousand times. Dreamt of lying in Hannibal’s arms until the big freeze or however the universe decides to end. Dreamt of stroking Hannibal’s cheeks until his stubble blooms.

He’s here now, and for once, the dream doesn’t feel so far away.

There’s an intake of breath as they stare at each others, frozen in the amber glow of the firelight flickering against the canvas of the tent.  Will’s heart pounds in his chest, loud and hard, like it’s trying to leap right out of him.

He’s carried this want with him like a secret wound, one that aches every time he sees Hannibal’s face. 

Hannibal already knows. Hell, Will thinks he does, the way Hannibal’s eyes shine, dark and warm all at once. It’s the clearest thing Will’s ever known—like a mirror, or the shadowed corners of his mama’s house where sunlight only touched if you caught it just right.

The firelight paints the tent in gold, but it isn’t the kind of gold that’s bright and brassy. No, it’s the kind that’s soft, like molasses spilling slow from a jar. It makes Hannibal look like something out of a myth, but Will shakes that thought loose. He can’t think like that now. 

Now it’s just the two of them, scared in their own ways, tangled up in a friendship so tight it’s hard to tell where it ends and something else begins. 

Hannibal’s ruthless and sharp and pretty in a way that don’t make sense. He’s everything Will’s ever wanted.  Will could reach for it. Could hold it, if only for a moment. If only for tonight. No excuses, no pretending. Just this.

His mouth ruins things more often than not, so he keeps it shut and lets himself lean into the silence. He doesn’t know what Hannibal sees when he looks at him—doesn’t think he’ll ever know. Will only sees the mess of himself, all gangly limbs and shame wrapped up tight like barbed wire. But Hannibal’s looking at him like he’s something beautiful, and damn it if Will won’t let him. As long as Hannibal’s looking, Will will take it. He’ll take it and hold it close.

The tips of his fingers brush against the denim covering Hannibal’s knees. Both their breaths hitch, and the sound fills the small space, louder than it has any right to be. 

Hannibal’s hand moves, like he’s afraid Will might pull away. His fingers tremble just the faintest bit as they rise, and then they’re on Will’s cheek, warm and soft in a way that don’t feel real. Will freezes, every muscle tight, but he doesn’t pull away. Hannibal’s thumb brushes over his cheekbone, light as a whisper. He swears he can feel his heartbeat in his ears, loud and fast, but everything else is quiet. 

Will swallows, his throat tight, and raises a hand almost without thinking, pressing it against Hannibal’s where it lies on his cheek. It’s warm. Gentle, soft, but burning like the kind of fire that leaves scars.

Hannibal's eyes are wide, and for a second Will thinks he sees the same fear there, the same uncertainty that’s buzzing through his own veins like static. And what a sight that is. To see Hannibal scared of something. 

He’s struck, suddenly, by how young Hannibal looks. How young they both are. It’s easy to forget, caught up in the way they carry themselves like they’ve seen more of the world than they really have. But they’re just boys. Nineteen and reckless and too big for their own skins. They’re not wise, not seasoned. They’re fumbling, trying to make sense of things that’ll take a lifetime to understand.

And yet, despite it all, there’s this hunger in Will. Lord, he’s hungry for him. Stubborn as a summer weed. If this is about warmth, then that’s what it is. If it’s about friendship, then that’s what it is. If it’s about love… Will swallows hard, the thought catching in his throat. Then that’s what it is. It’s something. It’s big, and it’s terrifying. 

His hand falls away, trembling, and he’s left staring up at Hannibal with wide, unsteady eyes. He watches, barely breathing, as Hannibal’s elegant fingers move to the buttons of his own shirt. The first one comes undone, revealing the sharp jut of his collarbones.

Hannibal’s shirt and jacket slide off his shoulders, pooling around his elbows for a moment before it falls away completely. His shoulders are broad but still boyish, his chest dusted with hair that spirals across his skin.

Hannibal hesitates, his hands stilling for a moment before he shifts closer. He’s sitting up straighter now, his knees brushing against Will’s, and the touch sends a jolt through Will’s whole body. Hannibal’s hands move to Will’s collar, and Will sucks in a sharp breath, his own hands flying up to still Hannibal’s. It’s reflexive, a defense mechanism he doesn’t understand, and for a moment they’re frozen like that, staring at each other.

Will’s heart is pounding so loud he’s sure Hannibal can hear it. He swallows hard, his throat dry, and nods. He can’t help it. He wouldn’t ever tell Hannibal to stop, thinks he’d die if he did. Hannibal’s eyes are gentle, almost pleading.

Will closes his eyes as Hannibal’s hands start to unbutton his shirt. The air touches Will’s skin like a whisper, cool and unfamiliar, and he shivers under the sensation. He’s trembling, shaking in a way that’s impossible to hide, but Hannibal’s hands are steady. They don’t touch his skin, though Will wishes they would. 

The shirt slides off his shoulders, baring him to the firelight and the open air, and Will feels the weight of his own awkwardness pressing down on him. He’s all sharp angles and uneven lines, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths that he can’t quite control. He opens his eyes, he has to, and finds Hannibal looking at him. Not just looking—seeing. Taking him in with heavy-lidded eyes that make Will’s pulse race.

He and Hannibal’s noses brush, and it’s like a lightning strike straight through Will’s chest. Hannibal’s hands come up, palms warm and steady, pressing against his cheeks. Hannibal’s breath brushes against his lips, faint but unmistakable, and Will wonders how he ever thought he could live without this. Without him.

It’s not rational—hell, it’s not even sane—but it’s the truth that settles like stone in his gut, unyielding and immovable. His breath hitches, catches on the edges of his panic, and he makes a soft, involuntary noise that’s somewhere between a gasp and a plea. Hannibal inches closer, slow as molasses on a cold morning, his eyes so steady and dark they feel like a weight on Will’s soul. And Will knows, knows deep in his bones what’s coming, knows what Hannibal wants and knows he’s going to give it to him this time. No running, no pushing away. Just this.

Hannibal’s lips part, and he makes a quiet shushing noise, soft as a lullaby, as if he can soothe the storm in Will’s chest. For one panicked moment, his hands twitch, half-thinking about shoving Hannibal away, half-thinking about grabbing hold and never letting go. But then Hannibal’s lips touch his, feather-light and soft as petals, and everything in Will stills.

They’re softer than he imagined—and Lord knows he’s imagined this. It’s a soft slide of lips, gentle and tentative, and Will realizes with a jolt of embarrassment that he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s never done this before, not like this. But it doesn’t matter, because Hannibal’s there, and Will presses back, fumbling and awkward and desperate. His lips find the top of Hannibal’s, and his heart beats like a wild thing.

He can’t help the way he shudders, every nerve in his body alive and electric. His hands, uncertain but yearning, hover before they land lightly on Hannibal’s shoulders. And then Hannibal’s pulling back, just an inch, and Will’s stomach twists. He leans forward, chasing that touch, but Hannibal’s there again with those soft, shushing noises, coaxing him, calming him.

Will lets himself be led, his legs giving out beneath him until he’s on the floor, cradled against Hannibal’s chest. He’s pressed so close he can feel every breath Hannibal takes. Hannibal’s skin is warm, softer than Will expected, and Will can’t stop himself from touching. His hands roam, sliding over Hannibal’s chest, feeling the coarse hair there, the dip and rise of his ribs, the place where he imagines the light must bleed through. 

Lips press against his temple, and Will’s hand slides to the curve of Hannibal’s neck. Hannibal makes a sound, low and soft, and it’s the kind of sound that Will knows he’d burn for just to hear again. What a thought that is.

His breath comes fast, uneven, and he presses his lips to Hannibal’s chest, just over his heart. He once thought Hannibal was untouchable, something otherworldly, too steady and strong to flinch or falter. But here he is, trembling under Will’s hands.

They’re safe here, in the warm, dark stillness. Outside is too loud, too alive, and Will doesn’t want the world intruding. He doesn’t even want the bugs to see this. His jaw rests on Hannibal’s collarbone, and Hannibal’s arms wrap around him.

It’s worth it for the way Hannibal shivers beneath him. 

He thinks, absurdly, that if he could just push a little harder, he might fold himself into Hannibal entirely. Not out of hunger or desperation, but to be cradled there, inside Hannibal’s cage of bone, their hearts beating as one. It would make everything easier, simpler.

Will pulls back a fraction. His breath comes fast and shallow, and his voice trembles when he speaks, barely more than a whisper. “You’re so... you’re so soft, Hannibal. All of you—your skin, your hands, even your eyes. I don’t—I don’t know how to hold you.” 

Will shifts against him, his hands restless, touching wherever he can reach. Hannibal’s so beautiful it hurts, and Will thinks he might come apart just from looking at him. Then Hannibal moves, rolling them until he’s above Will, his weight pressing Will into the floor. One knee slides between Will’s legs. Hannibal is lithe and sure above him, and Will’s hands find their way into his hair, pulling him down into another kiss.

It’s frantic and messy and perfect, and Will can’t bring himself to care about anything but the boy above him, his favorite boy, his best friend. He can’t think about what it means, can’t let himself think it’s wrong. 

Hannibal’s heavy on top of him, with his flexing forearms and his biceps built from cutting wood to keep them warm. You’d never guess how strong he is just by looking at him. He’s lean, wiry almost, but, he is strong. Will’s seen it, seen the way those hands split logs like it’s nothing, the way his shoulders bunch and shift with the effort. He’s felt it too, felt that strength in the way Hannibal pins him now.

But it’s not like when they’re fighting. Not like those times when Hannibal’s hands wrap around his throat, or when he holds Will down like he’s trying to tame some wild thing that’s never known a bridle. 

No, this is different. Their bodies press close, and Will feels the heat of him through every inch of contact. Hannibal’s mouth finds his, their tongues twining like the way moss winds itself around old river rocks.

His thumb brushes against Hannibal’s jaw. “I’ve thought about this,” he says, his words spilling out, unsteady and raw. “More than I should’ve. More than I care to admit. I’ve thought about your skin, how soft it must be. I’ve thought about your mouth—how it’d feel, how it’d taste.” 

It makes Will release this soft noise, something that surprises him because he didn’t mean to make it, didn’t even know he could. It’s a sound that’s half gasp, half moan. Because Hannibal tastes sweet, sweeter than anything Will’s ever known, and it’s almost too much. He can’t believe he’s tasting him at all. How many times has he begged forgiveness for even thinking about this? How many nights has he knelt beside his bed, clasped his hands tight? He won’t ask for forgiveness now. Not when Hannibal’s mouth moves against his like this.

Will runs the tip of his tongue against the sharp edge of one of Hannibal’s teeth, and it sends a shiver down his spine. He thinks about that, about how Eve’s punishment was to know good and evil, to know the weight of her choices, and wonders if that’s what this is. 

The weight of knowing.

Will’s breath catches, and he smiles faintly, shakily. “You—you’ve thought about it too, haven’t you?” he asks, his voice breaking on the question. “Tell me you have. Just nod. Please.”

Hannibal nods, firm and certain, his hands steady on Will’s face.

The confirmation makes something crack wide open in Will, a soft, shaky laugh escaping him as he presses his forehead to Hannibal’s. “God. God, Hannibal, you... you don’t know what that does to me. Knowing you want this too. Knowin’ I’m not alone in this.”

Hannibal shakes his head gently. Will knows what he means. 

Will lets out a shuddering breath, his fingers curling lightly around Hannibal’s wrist. “I’m scared,” he whispers. “Scared out of my damn mind. But I can’t—I can’t let this go. I can’t let you go.” His voice drops lower, softer. “Do you—do you want this? Want me?”

Hannibal nods again.

Will exhales, his voice trembling. “Alright,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Alright. It’s okay. It’s—it’s good. It’s more than good, it’s...” He trails off, his words faltering, and he looks up at Hannibal. “I don’t have the words for it, Hannibal. I don’t think I ever will.”

Hannibal raises one hand, pressing his thumb and forefinger together in a small circle—Perfect.

Will has to kiss him again. He’d get a tire iron to the face if anyone back home saw this. He knows that. It’s not like he’s stupid. But he’s not home, and he hasn’t been for a long time. He’s miles away, on a mountain, and there’s no one here but them. No one to see, no one to judge, no one to tell him he’s going straight to hell. 

But still, the way Hannibal’s touching him makes him squirm. Not because he doesn’t want but because it feels too good, too soft, too much like something he doesn’t deserve. Feels like Will should be the one touching him like that, not the other way around.

So Will breaks the kiss, turns his head away, and tries to catch his breath. Hannibal’s lips are pink and parted, his breaths coming quick and shallow, and he looks at Will like he’s just stolen the air from his lungs and he doesn’t know how to get it back. Will reaches up, his hand shaking just a little, and runs his fingers through Hannibal’s hair. It’s soft, softer than it looks, and Will brushes it away from where it spills into his eyes.

. The proof of Hannibal’s want presses against Will’s thigh, a heat that makes his own chest blush pink and his head spin. His chest feels full of light, like the way dust motes dance in a sunbeam, like the glint of water on a bright summer day, like all the soft, glittering things he’s never been able to put into words.

Will runs his thumb over Hannibal’s lip. He looks at him. The way his mouth is swollen from kissing, the way his breath catches. He smears the wetness across Hannibal’s lip, lifts his thumb to see his teeth, sharp. 

Without a word, Hannibal shifts. He lies back until Will’s the one propped over him. This is new, unfamiliar, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. All he knows is that he wants to touch Hannibal. He’s wanted to touch him for so long, and now that he’s here, now that he can, he doesn’t know where to start.

His hand trails down Hannibal’s stomach, his fingers brushing over skin. He can feel Hannibal shiver beneath him, sees the way his hands hover at Will’s shoulders like they’re not sure where to go. His fingers find that faint trail of hair on Hannibal’s stomach, the one he’s thought about more times than he can count. He bends down and presses his lips there, a soft kiss placed in apology to a beautiful place he’s cursed himself for finding pretty at all. Hannibal gasps, and his hand clasps Will’s shoulder, tugging gently. Will lets him pull him up, lets him drag his nose up the soft, golden skin of his belly.

Hannibal’s waist is narrow, his belly flat, his hips sharp curves. Hannibal kisses him again, soft and sweet and slow, and Will’s chest aches with it. Hannibal touches him with hands that have killed, hands that paint daffodils and starry nights, hands that pick flowers and birth lambs. And Will touches him with hands that have gutted fish and split flesh, hands that have only ever known how to take but now, somehow, they’re giving.

There’s nowhere to go, no work waiting to be done. The air feels electric in the scant spaces that still exist between their bodies. Will feels the heat of it pressing down on him, not just from the fire but from the weight of what they’re doing, what they’re about to do, what he’s already let happen.

He’s brazen in the way that only someone terrified out of their mind can be. Hannibal’s chest hair brushes against Will’s nipples, a sensation so startlingly intimate that it punches the breath right out of him. It’s a quiet sound he makes, soft and stifled.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, not really, but Hannibal looks at him like it doesn’t matter. Like there’s no wrong way to be here, to touch and be touched. Will settles himself between Hannibal’s legs in a way he thinks he’s supposed to, unsure and clumsy, and Hannibal spreads for him without hesitation. The openness of it is overwhelming, and Will has to close his eyes for a moment, has to focus on breathing because it’s all too much.

It’s nothing like what he’s seen, nothing like what he’s imagined in the quiet, shameful corners of his mind. 

He can’t help the way his body reacts, the way his cock stiffens with every drawn-out sigh that spills from Hannibal’s lips. He slips a hand down to squeeze himself, the movement almost furtive, loosening the fastenings of his pants. Every inch of him is hyperaware, his skin prickling with the weight of Hannibal’s attention, but he can’t stop himself. Inch by inch, he thumbs his waistband lower, baring himself in the dim light, wanting to feel Hannibal against him with nothing in between.

“I want you,” Will breathes out, the words coming out broken, ragged, and raw. “I want you so badly, I can’t— I can’t help it.”

When Hannibal slips his hand down to cover Will’s, Will makes a noise he can’t quite stifle. It’s a high, breathy sound, more exhale than voice, and it embarrasses him in a way that makes his face burn. But Hannibal doesn’t laugh, doesn’t mock him or make him feel small. He just waits, patient and steady, until Will nods, until the words tumble out of him unbidden: “Yes.” 

Hannibal’s hand moves against him, and Will can’t stop himself from trembling. His breath stutters and catches, his chest heaving with the effort of trying to hold it all in, but he can’t. Not when Hannibal’s touch feels like this.

Head against Will’s shoulder, Hannibal ducks his head. The pale flashes of Will’s bare bottom against Hannibal’s thighs are almost too much to bear. The tent in his pants presses forward steadily, insistently, grinding against Will’s skin with a rhythm that feels like it could shake him apart.

Will shakes his head, his throat tight as he forces himself to meet Hannibal’s gaze. “I can’t—I can’t stop thinkin’ about you.” His voice is rough, thick with emotion. "You—it's like you're all I can think of." He can’t hide the rawness in his voice. "Everything I do, I’m just thinking about you. Wanting you. You feel that?" He presses his hand against Hannibal’s, harder now, showing him what’s been happening inside him all this time.

Hannibal’s cock catches on the worn fabric of his own jeans. It’s like trying to find his way in the dark, fumbling, desperate. Will shifts against him, his body responding in ways that neither of them fully understands, and the tilt of his spine. 

“Do I do that to you?” Will’s voice is soft, hesitant. The blush spreading across his cheeks is warm and earnest.

Hannibal nods. He lets go of Will for just a moment, his hands trembling as they fumble with the button of his jeans. The sound of the zipper is deafening in the stillness, and he pushes the fabric down his thighs with a shyness that looks foreign to him. 

Will’s eyes roam over him, taking in the golden dusting of hair on his legs, the bruises that bloom purple and green along his knees and calves.

Their mouths move together. Hannibal’s hands find Will’s waist, holding him steady. Their lips grow numb, tingling with the constant press and slide, but neither of them pulls away. It’s too good, too necessary.

When Hannibal rocks against Will this time, the fabric is gone, and the silken heat of their skin meeting is almost overwhelming. The slide of their cocks together is electric, sending shocks of pleasure through both boys that make their breaths hitch and their bodies shudder. They’re making noises they’ve never made before, soft and surprised.

Blushing a deep, torrid red, Will shifts, sliding his body down to straddle Hannibal’s thighs. His fingers tremble as they trace over Hannibal’s cock, the skin soft and warm under his touch. 

When Hannibal takes Will’s hand and guides it to his mouth, Will’s breath catches.  “What… what are you doing that for?” he asks, his voice shaking even as he tries to sound steady. 

Hannibal doesn’t answer with words. He doesn’t need to. The way he looks at Will, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, says everything. He nips at Will’s fingers once, lightly, before letting them slip from his mouth. Will’s hand lingers near Hannibal’s lips for a moment, his fingers brushing against the soft, wet skin.

Then Hannibal takes his hand again, guiding it lower, smearing the spit-slick trail down his stomach and past his cock. When Will’s fingers brush against Hannibal’s hole, he freezes, his breath hitching audibly. His cheeks burn hotter than ever, and he bites down on the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. It’s too much.

Will hovers over Hannibal, his fingers shaking as they ghost around the edges of something he’s only dared to think about in the privacy of his mind. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, not really, but he figures it can’t be that hard—can’t be harder than everything else he’s ever done for the first time. He leans in close, his nose brushing against the curve of Hannibal’s jaw, catching the faintest trace of something sweet and musky on his skin, something that makes Will want to bury himself there and never leave.

Hannibal’s legs are wrapped around him. His hands are clumsy, unsure, hovering as though afraid to land. If Hannibal wants it, he’ll give it to him. He’d give him anything—all of it, whatever he asks. 

His heart thuds heavy in his chest, and for a moment, he thinks about asking Hannibal if he’s done this before, if he’s ever let someone touch him like this. But the thought sticks in his throat like a bone, too jagged to swallow and too dangerous to spit out. He keeps his mouth shut and focuses on the task in front of him, on the way Hannibal’s body feels beneath his hands.

Will’s never done anything like this. Not even with girls. Hell, he’s barely even kissed anyone. This is his first. His first kiss. His first everything. The first time someone has touched him like this, and it’s Hannibal, his first friend. 

Will doesn’t want to ruin him. He doesn’t want to ruin this. But he also doesn’t want to stop. Not now, not ever. He wants to hold Hannibal in his arms until every piece of him is whole, until the cracks are smoothed over and the shadows can’t find him anymore. 

It takes time. Will’s clumsy about it, his touch too unsure, but he figures it out. He gets his finger in, just the tip at first, and Hannibal’s body is so hot it’s like touching fire. Will thinks he should pull back, should stop, but he can’t.

 “Does it hurt?” Will asks, voice raw and wary.

Hannibal shakes his head, his palms pressing to his face. Will thinks he could die from it, from the way Hannibal’s body feels, from the way he looks with his head tipped back and his face half-hidden. He presses in deeper, moving his fingers until Hannibal makes a sound that’s all sweetness. 

He loses himself in the sight of it, his fingers moving in and out of Hannibal, watching the way his body opens up for him, the way it gives. Hannibal grows impatient, tugging at Will until he leans down, their mouths meeting in a kiss so hard it feels like Hannibal is trying to devour him. Will doesn’t need words to understand what he wants—what they both want.

When he finally slips inside, inch by inch, it’s so slow it feels like tearing apart and putting back together all at once. It hurts, but it’s a good kind of hurt.

It feels like coming home. Like Louisiana when the honeysuckle is blooming, when the air smells sweet, and the sky turns every shade of pink. Will holds them together, grips them tight like he’s afraid they’ll drift apart if he doesn’t. Hannibal is heat and softness and everything good Will has ever dreamed of, and it’s more than he ever thought he’d have.

Will thrusts, once, and the pleasure of it nearly breaks him, makes him gasp and falter and clutch at Hannibal. He thrusts again, and Hannibal arches, his body bending and bowing.

They move together, breathless and broken and beautiful. Will feels like he’s on fire. He bites back the sounds that threaten to spill from his lips, trying to hold onto some shred of control, but it’s no use. Hannibal’s hands are on him. 

“Hannibal,” Will breathes. It feels holy in a way nothing else ever has. God never gave him this. God never gave him comfort or love or anything close to paradise. But Hannibal did. Hannibal does.

Will sprawls across him, their bodies pressed so close there’s no space left between them. He thrusts ceaselessly, his belly brushing against Hannibal’s cock with every movement, drawing out little gasps and moans that Will would do anything to hear forever. Their kisses are desperate, messy, their breaths too ragged to keep their mouths together for long. But they keep trying, keep finding their way back to each other.

 His eyes are closed so tight it’s almost painful, lashes damp against his cheeks because if he opens them, if he looks, maybe this all disappears. Maybe the warmth in his hands, the steady pulse beneath his fingers, the soft, solid weight of Hannibal beneath him—maybe it all turns to smoke and leaves him choking on the emptiness.

But it doesn’t. Hannibal is here, and Will loses himself entirely to that simple, impossible fact. He lets himself drown in the heat of him, in the steady, unbroken rhythm of his heartbeat like it’s the only sound in the world. He doesn’t need anything else. Not the world, not the sky, not the God his mama used to pray to with her head bowed low and her hands clasped tight. He doesn’t need salvation, doesn’t need forgiveness or redemption or anything else the preacher promised if he’d just kneel down and say the words. He doesn’t need anyone else.

If until their dying day they live out here, in the woods where the trees grow wild and the world forgets to look, Will thinks that might just be enough. More than enough. He could keep the sheep alive, even if he’s not much of a shepherd. He could learn how to make a garden grow, even if his thumbs aren’t green. He could figure out how to live off the land with Hannibal beside him, the two of them finding things no one else ever thought to look for, like they’re the last boys on earth. And maybe they are. Maybe this is all there is—just them and the trees and the dirt beneath their feet. If that’s the case, Will thinks he could count himself the luckiest man alive, and it wouldn’t even be a lie.

Because Will has no one else now. So long as he’s got Hannibal, so long as Hannibal stays right here, solid and warm and alive, Will thinks he might just survive this world. 

They’re both young. They’re both strong. They’ve got the kind of cleverness that’ll probably get them in trouble someday, but for now, it’s what keeps them going. Ferocious, that’s what they are. A kind of wildness that doesn’t have edges, that spills out of them in ways neither of them knows how to control. And they make each other laugh, even when they shouldn’t, even when things are hard. That’s enough, isn’t it? 

A boy. A dream. That’s what Hannibal is, isn’t he? 

A boy with hands that are softer than they should be. A boy who’s made of atoms and blood cells and nerves, just like him, but also of things that feel impossible. Milk teeth and lilacs, maybe. The way the stars turn red at night. 

Hannibal is all of that, and more. A boy, a boy, a boy. He revels in Hannibal’s strength, the kind of strength that feels like it could move mountains, and admires it the way a man admires a sunrise—awed and a little afraid. But just as sincerely, Will wants to protect him. 

Will wonders if he’s ever known happiness before this. If he’s known true shame and guilt and fear Before this. Before Hannibal. He hasn’t. Not really. Not like this.

Will’s hands clutch at Hannibal’s back. It’s a gentle war of dominance, the kind neither of them really wants to win. They shove and pull, their bodies pressing together with a kind of desperation that feels like it might tear them apart, but instead, it just pulls them closer. They kiss hard, their mouths crashing together. They’re clumsy in their need, their hands grasping and pulling and sliding, trying to fit together in a way that feels whole. Like if they just try hard enough, they might find a way to make one out of two.

Will presses his forehead against Hannibal’s, their brows touching. Their skin is damp, slick with sweat, and the heat between them feels like it could burn the whole world down. 

What more could a boy ask for? He could lose God’s name in his prayers and replace it with Hannibal’s. He could let the river fill with blood. Let the famine and plague come.

Chapter Text

The world breathes, alive around him. The grass leans greener, its edges brighter where sunlight grazes.

There was a time, he remembers, when he would have fought this, clawed against it, gone to war with himself. He would have ripped his skin from his body if it meant obliterating this hope. And in those maddening days, when the cold silence stretched between him and Will, he had nearly done so. He had wanted to destroy himself, to prove—to Will, to God, to the emptiness—that there was nothing more fiendish than him. He would have broken every branch for the sweetness of its fruit, ruptured his own flesh just to uncover its softness.

His longing had been a corrosive thing, eating through him as rust devours iron. It was not gentle. It was never gentle. In his desperation, he had even prayed—to Will’s God, so easy for Will to trust—begging for some divine intervention, a boy with hands that might soothe instead of burn, a touch that might match Will’s. But God, as always, had remained silent. There was no answer, no mercy. It was all futile. Nothing but the bones. 

Yet here he lays now, and all those jagged edges have dulled, swept aside by Will’s smile, by the weight of Will’s lips against his. It is ridiculous, he thinks, absurd and childish to forget so quickly, to surrender so completely, but he cannot care. Not when Will’s lips are sweet, sweeter than any fruit he had dreamed of crushing beneath his fingers. He had thought himself bigger than such sweetness, thought he would never hold it, taste it, and yet here it is. 

Will’s fear, his stubbornness, his trembling hands against Hannibal’s skin—it undoes him. 

Will could burn every one of his notebooks and still Hannibal would wish to kiss his cheeks, even scorched and peeling. Just to have him. 

Just to feel Will’s breath against his, to feel him inside—inside the deepest, most secret parts of him, the parts Hannibal would kill to protect. Will had been beautiful in his fear that night, in his want, and Hannibal had been desperate in his own. He still is. Desperate.

The sun has returned, bright and golden, and the frost of their silence clings no longer. To hold Will’s friendship, his affection, in his lungs feels like planting roots there. Hannibal imagines spores taking hold, flowering into blooms at the mere thought of him. Him. 

He wonders if nature, in its infinite cycles, learns anew how to fall in love with the sun each spring. Do the leaves, with each regrowth, find a different kind of joy in the light? To hold love in one’s hands—to cradle it like a breathless bird—is to feel it seep into every crevice of life. Hannibal feels it now. It is violent and yet tender.

That night in the tent, when Will had touched him and spoken of his dreams, of his aching—Hannibal had felt something unfamiliar and raw inside himself. Young and fragile. It should have frightened him. It should have sent him running. But instead, it sends him into Will’s arms, into the warmth of his touch and the safety of his gaze. Will, his friend, the boy with messy curls and guilt etched into his every movement. Will, with his lithe limbs and freckled shoulders, who drives Hannibal to both hatred and shame, to a lightness.

Will whispers to him of fireflies in Louisiana, of how they glow like tiny lanterns in the dark. Hannibal does not tell him that he, too, has seen fireflies in Lithuania, that their glow reminds him of Will’s eyes. He could, though. He could. 

Hannibal lies against the grass now, his head cushioned by the softness of it as he breathes in the crisp mountain air. The sky above him is a sharp, endless blue, so vivid it almost hurts to look at, but Hannibal doesn’t open his eyes. Summer is so beautiful he could die with it.

His fingers are busy, twisting a flower stem between his pointer and thumb. The shirt he wears is soft but it shields his back from the itch of the ground. 

Will has left him, though not truly. He is gone to fetch their food from the bridge, his steps purposeful and steady as he told Hannibal to stay, to rest, to wait. “The lambs and the sheep need you,” Will had said, his voice firm but not unkind, the way it often is when he is trying to protect Hannibal from something. “I can take care of it.” 

And Hannibal, despite the constant ache in his chest to be the one who takes care, the one who holds everything together, had let him go. Now he waits, stretched out on the grass with nothing to do but feel the sun and the earth and the strange, unsettling calm that comes from surrendering.

They had touched each other that morning, woken together in the quiet gray light that smeared itself across the tent. The air was still soft with sleep, heavy and slow, and yet they had moved through it like they were trying to outrun something. Not each other—never that—but the pull of the world outside the tent, the hundred small demands that would steal them.

It had started with their foreheads pressed together, the warmth of their breaths mingling like the first hint of sunrise. The sheets clung to their bodies, tangled and half-forgotten, but neither of them cared. He could feel the press of skin. 

They rushed through it, not because they wanted it to be over, but because they could not wait. Could never wait. The urgency between them wasn’t something they could set aside. It burned too brightly. They were clumsy in their haste, but there was nothing crude in it. No roughness. Just need.

Their hands had not roamed, had not taken, because there was no space for them, no distance between their bodies where hands could fit. Instead, they kissed, mouths finding each other over and over again. His lips had been soft, trembling, and it had felt like everything good in the world was happening.

They had rubbed against each other, their bodies sliding together. Each movement sent little sparks coursing through him, tiny flashes of light that seemed to scatter under his skin, leaving him shivering, gasping, pressing closer. He thought of stars, of how they burned and flickered and consumed themselves just to shine. That was how it felt.

And when it ended, there had been no sadness. No emptiness. Only the lingering warmth of their closeness. 

The day had waited for them, as it always did, full of its noise and demands. But for that moment, in the quiet, they had been everything. 

Hannibal shifted, reaching to smooth a wrinkle in the sheet, and Will’s gaze lingered on him. 

“You’re pretty,” Will said suddenly, the words tumbling out like they had slipped free without his permission.

It feels strange, this waiting, this stillness. Hannibal is not used to it. The lambs bleat in the distance. The newborn lamb is healthy, its tiny body strong and quick to move, drinking milk from its mother with a kind of desperate hunger that Hannibal finds both endearing and unsettling. It drinks as though it wishes to swallow the entire world, as though it cannot bear to leave anything behind. They have not lost another sheep since the lightning storm.

They are alive and whole, and it is good. Hannibal’s belly is not aching. Will’s belly is not aching. It is all good, and yet Hannibal finds the goodness foreign.

His notebook lies beside him, its leather cover warm from the sun. He has not written in it today. 

He has tried to write about the mountains, the trees but his words always twist themselves into something else. It always feels as though he is writing about Will. Will’s fingers pushing through his own. 

He has tried to write about the American gas stations he has passed, collapsing church roofs and the way time seems to hold its breath in places like that, but his words betray him. They become odes to the temple of Will’s solar plexus, to the curve of his spine when he leans over the edge of the cliff to look at the water below.

He cannot remember the last time he sketched the mountains without Will’s figure finding its way into the lines. It is futile to try and capture the world without him, and so Hannibal does not try. He lets the notebook lie untouched, waiting for Will as much as Hannibal is.

He has promised himself so many things—to hate the boy, to hurt him, to keep him at a distance—but none of it matters now. Lying here in the grass, the sun on his face and the smell of wildflowers in the air, Hannibal feels as though he is naked. Everything in him is bare, exposed, vulnerable. He feels only the strange, aching anticipation of knowing that Will will find him, that Will will always find him, no matter where he tries to hide.

The thought of him makes Hannibal’s stomach tighten, his breath catch.

Hannibal remembers the way his father used to speak of his mother. As a boy, he had asked them once, curious and naive, how they met, what they were like before him. His father’s eyes had taken on a look Hannibal had never seen before, something soft and distant, like ice melting into stars. He had thought it strange. Yet now, when he looks at Will, when they stand together and their reflections shimmer in the water, Hannibal sees that same look in his own eyes.

Most of the time, though, he does not even notice it, because he is looking at Will. Always looking at Will. Pathetic. Embarrassing. Humiliating. And entirely, entirely blissful.

Hannibal does not realize he has fallen asleep, because so much of the waking day feels like a dream lately, a haze of moments too soft at the edges to hold. He only knows he’s woken when he feels a soft touch on his nose.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even breathe too deeply, though his chest aches with the effort to keep still. He tries his hardest not to smile, not to twitch or reach for the hand that he knows is there. He wants to, he wants to so badly, but he holds back. He is curious, yes, but also so happy he feels as if his heart might leap from his chest and scatter itself across the earth like dandelion seeds. He knows it is him. He knows without opening his eyes, because the air around him has changed. He can smell the faint hominy sweetness of Will’s joy, mingled with the sharper scent of his shyness, his carefulness.

He wonders what Will is doing, what expression he wears now, in this moment when he believes Hannibal to be asleep. Will is still so shy, his Will. Shy and stubborn, and yet—yet he touches. That is new. That is precious. He touches now, with trembling hands and a heart that beats so loudly Hannibal feels it through his skin. 

A soft finger trails down the bridge of his nose. It sparks heat on Hannibal’s cheekbones, a warmth that spreads down his neck and into his chest. He half hopes Will cannot see the blush creeping across his skin, and half hopes he can, because is that not a part of the magic too? To be seen, to be known?

The finger traces his cupid’s bow, lingering there for a heartbeat that feels like an eternity. Hannibal’s lips part just slightly, involuntarily, as if to catch the touch before it can vanish. He hopes this small gesture strikes Will as deeply as it strikes him, hopes it says all the things his voice cannot. Then the finger moves again, over his bottom lip, his chin, as though sculpting him anew. Hannibal’s mind flickers to the statue of David, to the way he once spoke of it to Will. He wonders if Will remembers. 

Will’s fingers move to his hair, combing gently through it, pushing it away from his forehead. Then a hand slides down to his neck, the thumb brushing over his Adam’s apple. The fingers spread wide, splaying over his collarbone, and the warmth of them feels like July itself.

Then there is a new sensation: soft lips brushing against his cheek, a whisper of a kiss. And then—his name.

“Hannibal,” Will says, and the sound of it is music. The first “a” is heavy, dragged out in that lovely, lilted way Will speaks, each syllable imbued with his accent. It makes Hannibal’s stomach twist and turn, like mayflies. He wants to say Will’s name in return, wants to shape the syllables with his own mouth and let them fall into the air between them. 

When Will realizes Hannibal is awake, his hands retreat, shy once more, but Hannibal will not let him go. He catches Will’s hands, holding them. There’s a pause, a moment suspended in time, and then Will’s lips are on his own.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative. Hannibal drinks in the taste of him, the sweetness, the warmth, but then something shifts. The innocence gives way to hunger, to need. A soft noise escapes one of them, and then the kiss deepens. Teeth graze, lips part, and Hannibal’s hand finds its way to the back of Will’s neck, pulling him closer. He suckles at Will’s lower lip, sips from him as if he is nectar, as though he himself is winged and blue.

Will kisses him like a man who has fought a thousand battles and finally, finally laid down his sword. There is desperation in it, yes, but also victory. Will’s hands clutch at him, frantic, grasping at his arms, his hair, his shirt. Hannibal feels the fear in him, the raw ache of someone who has fought so hard and lost so much.

He wishes he could tell Will that he is a demon himself, the very thing Will fears might steal him away. Will kisses him like a boy afraid of ghosts, flinching at shadows, and Hannibal answers with solidity. With warmth.

Hannibal opens his eyes. The sunlight filters through the trees, golden and dappled, and Will’s face hovers above him, flushed and alive. His cheeks are pink, his breathing quick, his eyes wide and searching. Hannibal cannot resist. He kisses him again, sighing into the warmth of Will’s mouth. Will presses him down into the grass as though he is something small. 

Hannibal would sink into the earth for him. He would let the soil swallow him whole.

Hannibal touches the skin of Will’s throat where he knows the larynx and vocal cords lie, the part where sound is born, where breath shapes itself into words. Hannibal’s fingers press slightly, enough that Will notices, enough that he feels it there, the silent insistence, the quiet possession.

Will nudges his nose against Hannibal’s jaw, a gentle bump like the way a dog might ask for attention. There’s no artifice in it, only the rawness of someone who’s never quite sure how to ask for what he wants but tries anyway. Hannibal’s hand remains on his throat, pressing just slightly again, guiding without force. It’s enough for Will to understand. 

Will’s voice comes low and soft, the words barely more than a breath, the same tone he uses when he talks to the lambs, to his horse, to Winston. 

“Little darlin’,” he whispers.

Hannibal had not known he could feel like this, not without the instinct to recoil, to run, to destroy the softness in himself before it could be destroyed by another. It is different. It is new. It is terrifying in its gentleness, its quiet power. They are like wild apricots.

Will shifts, rolling off him. Hannibal watches him move, the way he sprawls onto the grass beside him, one arm bent under his head, the other stretched out toward the sky. Hannibal follows, turning onto his side to stay close, until their temples touch. It’s a familiar position, one they’ve shared many times before, but now it feels charged with the possibility that if he turned his head just slightly, he could kiss Will again. 

He doesn’t know where the wildflower he’d been holding has gone. It doesn’t matter now. All that matters is the way Will’s face catches the light, the way he lifts a hand to cover it, his fingers spread just enough for the sun to filter through, turning his skin gold. Hannibal watches, entranced. He imagines those fingers beneath his teeth.

Will’s other hand shifts, moving toward his pocket, and Hannibal hears the faint crinkle of paper. Curiosity flickers to life, unbidden, and he watches as Will’s grin grows wider, more mischievous.

“Look what I got,” Will says, his voice light with excitement. He pulls a chocolate bar from his pocket and holds it aloft like a prize, the foil catching the sunlight. 

“Guess we got lucky this time,” he says, and there’s a boyish pride in his tone.

Hannibal reaches for his notebook. 

Did you barter for it, or was it a gift from fortune herself?  

“I don’t know about fortune,” Will says. “It was more like dumb luck. Found it shoved in the back of one of the boxes—looks like it’s been there for years. The foil’s all crinkled up, but it’s chocolate, right? Can’t go bad. Not really.”

He pauses. “At least I hope not. Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

They roll onto their stomachs, their elbows pressed into the grass, heads close together. 

“I’m not fortune's fool, anyways,” Will whispers. “I’m yours.”

Will tears the wrapper open with his teeth. He breaks off a piece of the chocolate and places it into Hannibal’s palm. He watches as Will eats his own piece first, his cheeks flushing pink with pleasure as he hums, the sound low and contented. Hannibal places his piece on his tongue, letting it melt slowly, savoring the sweetness as it coats his taste buds. 

“Good?” 

Hannibal nods, his smile small but genuine. He cannot remember the last time he tasted something so purely sweet. Perhaps it was before Paris, before Wyoming. 

Will fingers the corner of the chocolate bar, rolling the foil between his thumb and forefinger. “You ever steal anything?” he asks. “When you were a kid, I mean.”

Hannibal’s lips twitch and he takes up his pen again. The notebook rests against his forearm as he writes.

 No, but I did borrow things without the intent of returning them. Does that count?

Will reads it, snorts softly, and shakes his head. “I mean steal. Like, sneaky, sticky fingers, heart pounding, hoping no one catches you.” He gestures with the chocolate bar. “This, for example, might’ve been stolen if I thought anyone was paying attention.”

I once took a loaf of bread and a wheel of cheese. It was an act of survival, not thrill. Does that qualify as ‘sticky fingers’ in your book?

He underlines survival once, faintly, before turning the notebook toward Will.

Will reads it, his brow furrowing slightly as he looks up at Hannibal, tilting his head. “Bread and cheese, huh? That sounds… desperate. You must’ve been hungry.” His voice softens, a hint of regret slipping into it, as though the thought of Hannibal going without unsettles him.

It was a long time ago. Hunger sharpens a person, but it doesn’t define them. He pauses, watching Will read it, before adding beneath it, And what about you? Sticky fingers in your past?

Will huffs out a laugh, shifting to rest his chin on his folded arms. “Oh, yeah. Plenty of times. Mostly dumb stuff—candy from the corner store, a pack of gum. Once I took this tiny pocketknife from my uncle’s garage ‘cause it had my name scratched into the handle. Figured that meant it was meant to be mine.” He grins, the memory pulling something warm and mischievous out of him. “Got caught, though. My daddy found it and told me if I ever wanted to steal somethin', I had to do it with enough conviction that no one would ever think to question me.”

Hannibal raises an eyebrow. Did you take his advice to heart?

Will laughs again, this time more to himself. “Guess I did. Not that it’s ever gotten me anywhere good. You start lying or taking things, even if it’s small, and you just… keep goin'. It becomes part of how you move through the world. Like you’ve gotta keep one eye over your shoulder all the time.” He glances at Hannibal, a little sheepish. “Not exactly a glowin' endorsement for my moral compass, huh?”

Hannibal’s pen doesn’t move immediately. Instead, he looks at Will for a moment, something thoughtful passing across his face. When he finally writes, the message is simple. You are more than your past choices.

“That’s kind of you to say,” he murmurs after a beat. “Don’t know if it’s true, but… kind, anyway.”

It is true. You are many things, Will Graham. And kind is one of them, even if you do not see it.

Will blinks at that, his fingers stilling against the foil. He clears his throat and offers a crooked smile, his voice lighter as he says, “Guess you’ve got a soft spot for thieves and liars, huh?”

Hannibal writes quickly, turning the notebook to show his response. Only one, as it happens.

Will reads it, and his grin softens into something quieter, something almost shy. “Yeah,” he says.

Will pops another piece of chocolate into his mouth. “Y’know,” he says, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you enjoy something before. Not like this.”

And what, exactly, do I look like when I’m enjoying something?

“It’s hard to explain,” he admits. “It’s in the way you hold yourself, I guess.”

Perhaps I enjoy more than you think, Will.

Will huffs out a laugh, tilting his head toward Hannibal. “Yeah? Like what?”

Hannibal considers him for a long moment before his pen moves again. 

The way you laugh. The stories you tell about things you’ve seen in the woods, even when they’re more truth than embellishment. The way you offer pieces of yourself so freely.

Will’s breath hitches, and he looks away. “That’s… a lot,” he murmurs. “More than I expected.”

Hannibal’s pen moves swiftly. You asked. 

Will shifts closer, their shoulders brushing. “I didn’t think you’d answer like that,” he admits. “Didn’t think you noticed half that stuff.”

I notice everything about you.

Will lets out a breath, shaky and uneven, and rubs at the back of his neck. “Jesus, Hannibal, you can’t just say things like that.”

Why not?

Will groans, scrubbing a hand over his face, but there’s no real frustration there, only a kind of helplessness. “Because it’s unfair. You’re dangerous, you know that?” he murmurs. “Not just ‘cause you’re smart or good with words, but ‘cause you make me want things.” 

Hannibal doesn’t have anything to write in response to that. 

When the chocolate is gone, Will turns to him, his blue eyes blinking. “Let’s go exploring today,” he says. “Just you and me. Somewhere quiet, somewhere new.”

You have just returned from your trip. You barely rested. Must we always chase horizons? Will you ever simply stay?

Will laughs, a sound so warm and infectious it makes Hannibal’s chest ache with the force of it. God, that laugh. 

“We can relax later,” Will says, waving a hand like the idea is as far off as next year. 

You speak as though time stretches infinitely before us. But you also once said the sheep need me. Shall I abandon my flock so easily?

“Winston can take care of them,” Will says with unwavering confidence, like there’s no room for doubt. “That old boy knows the routine better than I do. Besides, he’ll be fine for a day. It’s not like we’re heading to the other side of the world.”

Hannibal tilts his head, his expression somewhere between skepticism and affection. He taps the pen against the edge of the notebook, considering. 

And if we find ourselves lost, wandering far from home, as you always seem to enjoy? What then, Will?

Will grins. “Then we’ll be lost together,” he says simply. “That doesn’t sound so bad, does it? Just the two of us, figuring it out as we go. I mean, hell, that’s kind of what we’ve been doing this whole time anyway.”

Hannibal’s lips curve faintly. It is a dangerous thing, trusting me to guide you. You may not like where I lead.

“You’ve already led me somewhere I never thought I’d be,” Will murmurs. “And I like it just fine.”

And where is that, Will?

“Somewhere I don’t feel so alone anymore.”

Hannibal studies him for a moment, the way his face glows with determination and mischief. Then he writes, Where will we go?

Will takes the pencil from his hand, his movements quick and playful as he begins to draw shapes on the page. The lines are nonsensical, looping and chaotic, much like the patterns he traces on Hannibal’s skin in the quiet of early mornings. 

“The grocery man told me ‘bout some abandoned train tracks some ways off,” Will says, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone. “Said not to go near them.” 

Hannibal takes the pencil back. If we were to heed every warning, we would never leave our tent. What compels you this time, Will? The allure of forbidden places? The thrill of being told ‘no’?

Will grins. “Maybe both,” he says. “Maybe it’s just the thought of somethin’ left behind, somethin’ forgotten, waitin’ for someone to come along and notice it again. Don’t you think places like that have a kind of magic to ‘em? Like they’re caught between worlds, still hanging on to the past, even when everything else has moved on?”

You speak of forgotten places as though they are people. As though they are longing for recognition, for connection.

Will reads the words and smiles, softer now, a little more serious. “Maybe they are,” he murmurs. “Or maybe it’s just me thinkin’ that way. Projectin’ or whatever you’d call it. But I like to think every place, every thing, carries a little of what it’s been through. Like memories, I guess. Like scars.”

And you wish to see these scars? To run your hands over the remnants of something broken, as though you can bring it back to life?

Will’s laugh is soft, almost self-conscious, and he scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, maybe. I don’t know. I just think it’s worth seein’. Even if it’s broken. Even if it’s dangerous.” He pauses, his fingers idly tracing the edge of the notebook. “Besides, we’ll be back by dinner. I swear it. And the Grahams are nothing if not men of their word.”

A promise from a Graham is worth exactly as much as the wild notion behind it. Which is to say, it is reckless, impulsive, and entirely unreliable.

“Yeah, well, you love it,” Will teases, nudging Hannibal lightly with his shoulder. “Don’t even try to deny it. You’d be bored out of your mind if I wasn’t around.”

Hannibal hesitates only for a moment before nodding. Will scrambles to his feet, grabbing the remains of the chocolate and stuffing it back into his pocket. Then he turns, extending a hand toward Hannibal, waiting.

The sun frames him, turning his edges golden, and for a moment Hannibal tenderly feels split open, wet and raw as if cut in two. He takes Will’s hand, his grip firm and warm, and does not let go even as he rises to stand. Holiness, he thinks, is in the hands, even if it is always the head that gets haloed. 

Back down at camp, Will mounts his horse, moving with a kind of strength that makes it look easy, but Hannibal knows it is not. He watches him for a moment, perched high in the saddle, his hat pulled low to shade his face. He wishes for Will to never tell another soul the secrets of his heart. He wants them to belong to him alone.

They decide to take only one horse. Hannibal climbs up behind Will, his hands brushing against him as he steadies himself. He wraps his arms around Will’s waist, careful at first, unsure, but as the horse starts moving, he lets himself hold on tighter. His head rests softly on Will’s shoulder.

Will leads them toward the train tracks. They carry with them a bundle of berries Hannibal picked, wrapped carefully in a tea towel. He listens as Will talks. 

“You know,” Will says, his drawl softened by thought, “when I was a kid, I’d climb up into the trees like these, sit as high as I could get, just to feel like I was above everything. My daddy used to yell at me—always thought I’d fall and break somethin’. But I never did. Maybe I should’ve. Might’ve scared some sense into me.”

Hannibal’s gaze lingers on Will’s profile, the way the sunlight carves out his features in soft, golden lines. 

“And there was this one tree,” Will continues, gesturing ahead with his free hand, “biggest oak I’ve ever seen. Its branches stretched out so wide, they blocked the sky if you stood under it. I used to call it the ‘world tree,’ like it held up the whole damn universe or somethin’. Spent hours up there, thinkin’ about what it’d be like to fly.”

He pauses, turning slightly in the saddle to glance back at Hannibal. “You ever do somethin’ like that? Climb trees? Bet you didn’t. You’re too...what’s the word? Precise. Bet you never even got dirt under your nails before me.”

Hannibal gives Will a pointed look. He knows Will is joking. They both know how wild Hannibal can be. 

“Alright, alright,” Will says, grinning. “Maybe you did. Or maybe you’re just gonna let me wonder about it, like you do with half the things I ask you.”

Hannibal’s cheek brushes against the back of Will’s neck, where his curls are damp with sweat. The world around them feels softer now, quieter, as if it knows to hush itself for the sound of Will’s laughter. When it comes, Hannibal closes his eyes against it. It is too much, too bright. 

He wants to lodge this moment into the white of the stars, to mimic somehow the burning inside him—this magma that swells in his chest, this undying warmth greater than the sun’s manifold rays. Sweat clings to their skin, their shirts damp and sticking to their backs. The air smells of dust and heat, and Hannibal knows that after a day like this comes the end of it. 

The cooling into night, the eventual slide into winter. He closes his eyes and presses his face into the curve of Will’s shoulder, breathing him in. He will not think of it. He will not think of the end of summer. The end of anything. He will think only of Will. 

The horse slows, and Hannibal blinks his eyes open, his arms tightening around Will for a moment before he lets him go. The train tracks lie just ahead, overgrown with grass and wildflowers, the steel rails rusted but still straight, still stretching forward into the distance. Will slides off the horse first, his boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. He turns and reaches up to help Hannibal down, their fingers brushing. Together, they walk to the tracks.

Will glances at him, grinning with that wild-eyed look that comes only from a boy with a farmer’s tan, and Hannibal’s heart stumbles in his chest.

Will steps onto the edge of the tracks, balancing precariously as he walks. He stretches his arms out for balance, his boots wobbling on the narrow rail. He trips, curses softly. This is pointless. There is work to be done, reasons to be elsewhere, but none of it matters. They are here because Will wanted to come, and Hannibal wanted to be where Will was. It is as simple as that.

Hannibal doesn’t look at him right away, his gaze tracing the long stretch of tracks ahead, vanishing into the silhouette of a rusting bridge in the distance. He wonders when they were last used. Decades ago, perhaps. He doesn’t know, and yet he feels the weight of them, the stories they carried, the memories buried beneath the iron and wood.

“You know,” Will says, his voice softening as if he’s speaking more to the air than to Hannibal, “there was this train that used to come through my hometown. Once a week, same time every Sunday. You’d hear the whistle long before it came around the bend. My dad hated it. But I’d run to the edge of the yard and just stand there, waitin’ to see it. Sometimes I’d wave, like an idiot, hopin’ maybe the conductor would see me. He never did. But it didn’t stop me from tryin’.”

Hannibal watches the way Will’s smile lingers, a soft curve that doesn’t quite fade.

Will’s voice pulls him back. “Reckon that’s why I wanted to come out here,” he says, gesturing loosely toward the tracks ahead. “Not for the tracks themselves, but for what they mean, you know?”

Will’s voice carries over the stillness, and Hannibal thinks if he has a name, let it be this sound. There is no word in any language for this feeling. 

Will’s joy surrounds them, bright and uncontained, filling the empty spaces of the world. He seems to crave things that are both meaningful and cruel. Hannibal understands this. He feels it too. It reminds him of two mornings ago, when Will had lain against him, his jacket still on, his face pressed to Hannibal’s chest. When he finally lifted his head, the imprint of the zipper was left on his cheek, a soft line pressed into his skin. Hannibal had kissed it. Will had not known it was there.

Hannibal remembers the urge he felt then, the fleeting desire to bite him. He did not do it. But the urge remains, buried and silent. Will does not know, and Hannibal thinks he must always be gentle with him. 

Will is gentle with him—shy and afraid of everything, and yet, here he is, laughing on the train tracks, daring the world to let him fall. But he thinks there is nothing more fragile than the way Will’s laughter sounds like hope.

They both sit on the train tracks after a while, knees touching where they sit. They share the berries together, passing them back and forth from calloused fingers. The taste lingers, sweet and sharp on their tongues, but it is sweeter still when Hannibal leans forward and kisses Will to taste them there. 

He cannot stop kissing him. His face, his cheeks, his shame-tinged smile that Hannibal wishes to warm like syrup. The sweetness of it is unbearable, and he does not try to bear it. His lips linger on Will’s jaw, his temple, the delicate edge of his ear, wherever he dares, because Will does not stop him, and Hannibal has never been this close to someone before.

Friendship feels too small of a word to describe it now. Brotherhood, though Hannibal thinks that word sounds dumb and clumsy, like something a child would say when they don’t understand what they mean.

It is strange because he has never felt close to someone like this since his sister. He cannot reconcile it in his mind, this chasm that Will fills so completely. He has no name for it. 

Hannibal lays his head on Will’s shoulder again as they both look out at the train tracks. Their hats sit discarded beside them, tossed away carelessly to let the sun burn their scalps to redness. It stings. The notebook sits open on Hannibal’s lap, pages fluttering faintly in the breeze, but he has not begun to write. His pencil is tucked behind his ear, a habitual place for it, but his thoughts are too crowded, too heavy to spill onto the page just yet. His lashes flutter as he feels a soft touch on his ear, and then his pencil is being slid away from its resting place, placed delicately in his hand.

“You’re doin’ it again. Thinkin’ too much. I can see it, plain as day.” Will says to him softly. 

Hannibal feels translucent, like the lace curtains in his childhood bedroom that did nothing to shield the light from coming inside. His mind is too visible; Will sees it all, and still, Hannibal writes. 

Will looks down as he always does, curious, his breath brushing the side of Hannibal’s face. He smells like sun and salt.

Where do you believe the train tracks lead?  

Will shrugs, glancing up at him with a small smile, almost shy. “Dunno,” he says simply.

The answer upsets Hannibal, though he cannot understand why. He suddenly has the urge to run, wild and free, to follow the tracks and never stop. He feels it like a presence beside him, this longing to escape, to leave, to let summer never end at all. The tracks stretch out like veins, pulsing with the promise of motion, and he wants to chase them, to see where they lead, to outrun the world and its weight. Hannibal is untrustworthy to himself, he is beginning to learn. There is no promise to himself that he has made that he has been able to keep.

We could follow them. See where they go. Leave all this behind.

Will huffs a laugh, low and warm, and Hannibal feels his nose brush against the top of his head where it is warm and soft. “If we tried, it’d probably keep going forever,” he whispers.

Will blinks, his expression softening. “Leave?” he repeats, his voice quieter now, cautious. 

Hannibal nods. 

Follow the tracks, find somewhere new. Just us. No sheep. No responsibilities. Just motion. Endless summer. A life that belongs only to us. A place where the air tastes different. Where we do not have to explain anything to anyone. 

Will huffs a soft laugh, but it’s not unkind. “That’s a pretty picture, Hannibal,” he says, his voice gentle, tinged with something wistful. “But dreamin’ like that… It’s not for us. Dreamin’s for kids.”

Hannibal looks up at him, his face betraying none of the ache those words create. He wants to protest, to write that dreaming is not just for children, that dreaming is survival, that dreaming is what keeps his hand moving, what keeps his heart beating. Instead, he presses the pencil down harder. 

Why shouldn’t it be for us? Why can’t we leave and make something new?

Will’s smile fades, and his eyes take on a faraway look. “Because it don’t work that way,” he says after a long pause, his voice steady but sad. “Not for people like us. We got roots. They’re ugly and tangled, but they hold us in place. You rip those up, and all you’re left with is a mess.”

Hannibal’s hand tightens around the pencil, his knuckles whitening as he writes again, the words bold and decisive. 

A mess is better than this—better than living for sheep and staying in a place where we are only half alive.

Will shakes his head. “You think that now, but out there?” He gestures toward the horizon, the tracks stretching endlessly before them. “Out there, you don’t know what you’ll find. Could be worse than this. Could be nothin’ at all.”

Hannibal wants to argue, to press the point, but Will leans in, his voice dropping into a near whisper. “You’re not dumb, Hannibal. But you gotta stop thinkin’ the world’s kinder than it is. It’ll eat us alive if we let it.”

There’s a finality in Will’s tone that makes Hannibal stop, the pencil faltering in his grip. 

 I only wanted to imagine a place where you could be free.

It feels like being called foolish, like being dismissed, and his face burns with it, but Will only sighs, his shoulders rising and falling in a way that feels like defeat. “The sheep—” he begins, his tone weary, but Hannibal huffs a sharp sigh.

The sheep. Always the sheep. Their needs, their demands, their unrelenting bleating. 

The sheep need them, he knows. But who cares for the sheep? Who cares for anything at all but this? This thing between them, this blooming, beautiful thing. Hannibal never wants to return home. Paris is nothing. The idea of it feels like sand in his teeth. He wants to live a life that is full of life. Full of ripe-smelling flowers that blossom at his fingertips and the wildness of Wyoming. The grass that whispers its mellow scents, floral and botanic. To curl his spine like a withered rose, to hold this friendship in the apple of his palm, to always be tender with fragility, to tame his abrasiveness. To know what it means to live. To be a creature. To feel bad feelings, to feel good ones. To take up space and to be vibrant and gentle.

“We’re alright here,” Will says softly, like a secret. “Might not be perfect, but it’s ours. You don’t have to dream to make this good.”

He hears a shaky breath beside him and feels a hand slip into his hair, making him sigh despite himself, his body leaning instinctively into the touch. “I don’t think you’ve ever felt anythin’ that didn’t hurt you. Like every good thing’s gotta cut deep just to get through.” 

We found each other. Out of everyone else in the world, it’s you and me.

“Does that hurt too?” Will asks, his voice barely more than a whisper, his breath warm against Hannibal’s skin.

Hannibal leans into his shoulder again and nods, small.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Will says, his voice breaking slightly on the words. “I mean it. I don’t want to be another thing that leaves you worse off than you started. I couldn’t stand it.”

Hannibal closes his eyes and writes. I don’t care.

He tells him honestly. He makes another contract with himself. He will love Will and forget the consequences—just this once. He can have everything. He does not know if he can keep this promise either.

Will grabs Hannibal’s face in the palms of his hands. Hannibal lets himself be guided upward until their eyes meet, and his breath catches in his throat, shallow and uneven. He thinks, foolishly, that his expression must be unguarded, that perhaps a pout lingers on his lips. It feels foreign to him, a remnant of a younger, more naïve self who once dared to whine for the things he wanted but did not yet know how to take. 

Will looks at him, his thumbs tracing slow circles into the heat of Hannibal’s cheeks. Will sighs and Hannibal tastes it before it even leaves his lips. It is salt and smoke, warmth and weariness all at once, and Hannibal does not know how to hold it.

“Let’s just be here,” Will says, his voice low. There is a softness in his tone, a kind of plea that Hannibal cannot ignore. “Don’t think about anything else.”

I don’t know how to stop.

Will tilts his head slightly. “You don’t have to stop,” he says softly. “You just… pause. Just for a little while. Enough to let this moment sink in, y’know?”

Hannibal hesitates. You make it sound so simple.

Will laughs softly, the sound more breath than voice. “It ain’t simple. Not for you, at least. You’ve got this way about you, like your brain’s always runnin’ ahead of you, chasin’ somethin’ you can’t quite catch. But that’s okay. It’s why you’re you.” He pauses. “All I’m asking is, for right now, let me be the thing you catch. Just for a little while.

Hannibal stares at him for a long moment, his pencil still against the page. You already are.

Will smiles at that, a soft, crooked thing. “Good,” he says quietly. “Just look around. It’s quiet, it’s ours, and there ain’t nobody here but us.”

Hannibal looks up at him, his vision filled with the curve of Will’s face, the way the light softens the angles of his jaw and catches in his eyes. He wants to say, Will, my sweet Will, how I hate you. They die before they can reach his tongue. He cannot speak them, even if they were true. And they are not true.

Will leans in, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, brief. Hannibal’s lips part slightly, his breath hitching as the kiss ends too soon. He frowns, his lips chasing after Will’s as he pulls away, only for Will to repeat the gesture. Again and again, until Hannibal makes a sound he did not mean to make, a soft, plaintive whine that feels too young, too vulnerable. It embarrasses him, but he cannot stop. Will rewards him then, tilting his head and pressing their mouths together.

Will laughs against his lips, a soft, breathy sound that Hannibal swallows greedily. Hannibal wishes, for a fleeting, blasphemous moment, that these tracks were still in use, that a train might come and take them both, scatter their bodies like seeds into the earth. The thought is fleeting but vivid, a flash of what-if that leaves him breathless. He kisses Will wildly, his teeth scraping, until Will murmurs against him, “Easy, easy.”

He wants Will inside him again, to feel him, to hold him, to bind them together so tightly that no force on earth could tear them apart. He wants to transform these mortal shells into something divine because the weight of morality is unbearable.

Will is right—Hannibal has never felt anything that did not hurt. Even this, this sweetness inside him that feels like ripe figs, is tinged with pain. The ache is mellow now, but he knows it will deepen, will become the kind of agony that makes him beg for the gentler hurt to return. The sweetness is fleeting, a momentary reprieve before the inevitable. But Will said, don’t think about anything else. So he tries. He tries. 

“I’d give you anything,” Will whispers. 

This is how it has been the past days, touches shared between them like wild things, though never going as far as they had that night in the tent. Hannibal hungers for it. He sleeps in Will’s tent now, the two of them pressed close, tangled into each other until morning, their breaths mingling in the cool mountain air. There is no reason for him to remain alone down at camp, not when Will allows this.

Hannibal does not blame Will for this, for how tentative their touches are, for how guarded he remains. There is no anger in him, no resentment for the fact that it always could have been this easy between them, though it still isn’t. Not truly. Will’s shoulders still tense beneath Hannibal’s hand. His eyes dart in paranoid glances as though expecting the forest itself to betray them, though there is no one but them on this mountain. The bible has been shoved into the corner of the tent to make room for Hannibal instead. It is more than Hannibal thought he would ever have, this fractured peace, this fragile togetherness. It is enough, though the hunger remains. It is always enough, though it will never be enough.

In the early mornings, when Will sleeps and Hannibal does not, he watches him. Hannibal’s gaze is heavy, tracing the lines of Will’s face, the faint creases at the corners of his eyes, the furrow that lingers between his brows even in sleep. His hair is mussed, curling at odd angles, and his lips are slightly parted as he breathes. He still thinks of killing him sometimes, of smothering him while the world is quiet and Will’s breathing is slow and even. But it is not because he wants to hurt him. It is something stranger. Guilt, perhaps—a foreign, uncomfortable thing that coils in his chest when he sees the hesitancy in Will’s touch, the way his fingers curl when he prays.

Hannibal wants to destroy everyone who has made Will this way. He wants to tear apart the ones who made him fold in on himself. He imagines what he would do to them, things that Will would think terrible but that Hannibal longs to do regardless. He wants to erase their words, to strip them from Will’s mind as if they never existed. It frustrates him. Sometimes he cannot understand why Will holds onto their words as if they matter. They are nothing. Less than nothing. Will is everything. He is bright-eyed and curious.

It is this thought that quickens Hannibal’s breath, that makes him duck his head and press his cheek to Will’s chest in a gesture that feels desperate and uncharacteristic but is wholly out of his control. He listens to the frantic beating of Will’s heart, still fast whenever they touch, like a rabbit’s. Hannibal’s teeth ache. 

“Hey,” Will murmurs, his voice soft, barely more than a vibration against Hannibal’s ear. “You don’t gotta hide from me, y’know.”

Hannibal doesn’t move, doesn’t lift his head. He can feel Will’s heart thundering beneath his ear.

Will continues, his voice low and warm. “You’ve got this way about you… like you’re always tryin’ to disappear into somethin’. Into your thoughts, your work, me.”

The words hit something deep inside Hannibal. His fingers tighten slightly where they rest against Will’s side, and he presses closer, his breath hitching just enough for Will to notice.

Will’s hand moves slowly, his fingers combing through Hannibal’s hair, his palm warm and steady against his scalp. “It’s okay,” he says softly. “You’re okay. We’re okay.” 

He presses closer, his breath warm against Will’s skin, and for a moment, he allows himself to believe this is enough. That this could always be enough, even if it never truly will be.

Later, when they return to camp, they do what is needed of them. They wrangle the sheep and count them, feed them as Winston barks, darting around their legs in a joyful frenzy. Hannibal watches Will on his horse, the easy way he moves. He is summer itself, vibrant and golden, and Hannibal thinks of David again, the shepherd boy who slayed the great Goliath. Will could slay greater things if he wished. If he knew he could. He could slay Hannibal, and the thought thrills him. Hannibal wants to see it, wants to feel Will’s strength, his righteous fury.

Will wrangles a runaway sheep, his movements quick and sure, and swings it across his shoulders. He holds it by its feet as it bleats in horror, his grin wide and unrestrained as he glances at Hannibal. The sight makes Hannibal smile in return. The sheep are restless today, forcing them to work harder, and Will is radiant in his efforts. 

At night, they go to Will’s tent, as they always do. The air is thick with summer, heavy and close, wrapping around them like another layer of skin.

The lantern glows softly, its light spilling out in uneven pools, making shadows dance across the fabric walls. They lie together, their skin touching from the waist up, bare and warm. Hannibal’s fingers move slowly, tracing the knobs of Will’s spine.

Will is strong, Hannibal knows this. He has seen it in the way he moves. But he is also skinny, too skinny, and the sharp lines of his ribs press against his skin like a warning. He wants to feed him, to give him everything he has, everything the world has to offer. Bread, honey, wine—anything to fill the hollow spaces that seem to linger behind Will’s ribs. 

Will shifts against him, his body pressing closer. Hannibal forgets, sometimes, that he is angry—so angry that it burns inside him. But Will has a way of softening it, of turning the heat into something warm and bearable, like the whiskey that lingers on his breath on nights when they kiss too much.

Will’s head lifts, and the soft click of a lighter breaks the stillness. The smell of cigarette smoke follows, sharp and bitter, curling into the air between them. Hannibal watches as Will’s face comes into focus, illuminated by the faint glow of the cigarette’s ember. He looks at Hannibal, his eyes soft and searching, and Hannibal can’t look away.

Will takes a slow drag from the cigarette, the ember glowing bright, and then he exhales, the smoke curling out of his mouth in lazy spirals. 

“You ever try one?” he asks, his voice teasing, but there’s something gentle in it, too. Hannibal shakes his head. No, he has not. The idea of it has always repelled him, but now, watching Will, he finds himself curious. It is strange, he thinks, how something he has always abhorred can seem so different when it’s in Will’s hands.

Will hums softly, the sound vibrating in his throat as he turns his head to exhale the smoke away from Hannibal. He looks at him again, his eyes bright and amused, and then he holds the cigarette out, the glowing end hovering just in front of Hannibal’s lips.

“Go on,” Will says, his grin widening. Hannibal hesitates, then leans forward, his lips brushing against the cigarette as he inhales. The taste is sharp and acrid, filling his mouth and lungs with something bitter and unfamiliar. He coughs, the sound harsh and sudden, and Will laughs again.

But then Will sighs, and it’s a different kind of sound, softer. Hannibal hears it often, this sigh, whenever he makes a noise, even just the sound of his breath. He doesn’t know what to think of it. He wonders, sometimes, if Will longs to hear his voice. Will is so understanding, so patient. They don’t talk about it very much, but Hannibal can’t help but wonder. Does Will wish for him to whisper things into his skin, the way Will does to him?

Ash falls from the cigarette, landing on Hannibal’s collarbone, a sharp sting against his skin. Will leans down, his breath warm as he blows it away, his lips brushing against the spot where the ash had been. The sting fades. It makes Hannibal close his eyes, his face pressing into the palm that Will brings to his cheek. His lips move, shaping the soundless syllables of Will’s name. Again and again, he tries, but only the sound of escaping breath emerges.

Will watches him, silent and patient, as Hannibal’s frustration grows. He tries again, but the words refuse to come. The anger bubbles up, sharp and hot, and he snarls, pushing Will away. He sits up, his chest heaving, his hands trembling, and makes to leave, though he doesn’t know where he would go.

“Hey,” Will says, his voice low and coaxing. He reaches for Hannibal, pulling him back down, his arms wrapping around him. The cigarette is gone now, forgotten. “It’s alright,” he says, his voice steady and sure. “You’re alright, you hear me? It’s alright. It’s just me.”

Hannibal fights him, his movements restless and uncoordinated, but Will doesn’t let go. He shifts, pulling Hannibal’s back against his chest. Hannibal goes still, the fight leaving him all at once, and he slumps against Will, his breathing ragged.

He reaches for the notebook beside them, his hands still trembling slightly as he writes. 

I do not know what my voice sounds like. The last time I heard it, it was high and thin, like a child’s. I do not know if it has grown stronger with the years, deepened to match the weight of my bones, or if it remains trapped, small and afraid. I don’t know.

Will reads the words over his shoulder, his breath warm against Hannibal’s neck. His lips brush softly against his skin as he speaks. “I can hear it, you know,” he says after a moment, his voice low and quiet. “Not all the time. But sometimes… I can hear it in my head.”

The words make Hannibal’s throat tighten. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to respond to this quiet, terrible tenderness. Will’s fingers move then, tracing the shape of Hannibal’s wettened eyelashes, so softly. 

Hannibal writes again, lashes fluttering against Will’s touch as he watches Hannibal write. 

Tell me what it sounds like.

He looks at Will, turning his head, eyes pleading. 

Will shrugs, looking back with a furrow on his brow as his eyes rove over Hannibal’s face, searching, studying, feeling. “It sounds like you,” he says finally.

The words come fast, his script tight and slanted. Tell me more.

Will sighs, his shoulders rising and falling. 

“It’s… accented, definitely,” Will says at last, his voice softer now. “But not like mine. More pretty.” He turns his head back to Hannibal, a faint smile tugging at the edges of his lips. “Somethin’ special about it. That’s just as soft as you are. With all your fancy words from all your books. Like violin strings and amber. As pretty as the flowers that were blooming up here the day we met.”

Hannibal’s lips part slightly. He moves slowly, turning in Will’s arms. His hair brushes against Will’s chin as he shifts, the strands catching the light in shades of dark gold and brown. He presses himself closer, curling into Will. The notebook stays in his hands, held against his chest like a shield. 

There is a fragility to Hannibal now that he can hardly fathom. Will has seen him with blood under his nails, his skin dyed crimson by the wildness of his actions, a force of nature contained in human form. Yet here he is, quiet and curled, a being of softness and stillness. 

Hannibal shifts just enough to free his notebook, the pencil moving swiftly as he writes. I wish to hear it too.

Will’s hand moves without thought, his rough palm skimming down the length of Hannibal’s arm. The skin there is cool, dotted with goosebumps that rise under his touch. Hannibal aims to be lionhearted, but his hands still shake and his voice will never be quite loud enough. 

“You will one day,” Will says softly. “One day, you’re gonna talk, Hannibal. You’re gonna have so much to say that it’ll spill out of you like a flood you can’t stop. And people…” He pauses, his brow furrowing as he looks at Hannibal. “People are gonna stop what they’re doin’ just to hear you. Because when you speak, it’s gonna mean somethin’. It’s gonna sound like the truth. Like somethin’ bigger than all of us.”

Hannibal closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, there’s a flicker of something—hope, maybe, or disbelief—but it’s there, fragile and real. 

You make it sound like I’ll move mountains.

“You don’t need to move mountains,” Will says, shaking his head slightly. “Just speak, and the mountains’ll move on their own. That’s the kind of voice I think you’ve got.”

Hannibal’s breath hitches, barely audible, and he leans in, pressing his face into the hollow of Will’s collarbone. Will’s thumb moves to Hannibal’s bottom lip, pressing gently, rubbing back and forth. His hands still tremble—they always do—but there is a steadiness in his touch now.

He thinks of coffins stuffed with worms, the way divinity tastes like copper coins, the way the earth smells after rain. His gaze falls to the pale skin of Will’s wrists, to the veins that crisscross there like rivers. He wonders, fleetingly, if they taste like copper too. He picks up his pencil again, his hand moving almost on its own: Tell me of home again.

“You always want me to talk about it,” he murmurs.

Hannibal’s pencil scratches against the page. I like to hear it.

And it is true. If he cannot hear his own voice, then Will’s will suffice. It always does.

Will chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Brown eyes like a fox and soft hands that pick me flowers, and—”

Hannibal’s hand darts out, pinching Will’s side. His expression is serious, though, as he writes. Do not jest.

“Alright, alright.” Will’s laughter bubbles up. “That town never grew on me,” he says after a moment. “It grows inside you, though, in your soft belly.” His hand drifts to Hannibal’s stomach, pressing lightly against the vulnerable flesh there. 

“I remember the dog fences,” Will says. “And the neighbor with the swimming pool. Summers smelled like chlorine and cut grass, and I’d sprint barefoot through the yard, shivering like a pup. Played hard, stabbed overripe fruits with my old buck knife, went hunting with my daddy before the sun came up.”

Hannibal’s hand finds Will’s, guiding it to his arm so that Will’s fingertips can brush against the fine hairs there. What were the people like?

“Men there,” he starts, “got hearts like crowbars. Big and heavy. Everybody over forty’s got a box of deer bones stashed somewhere and a story about how they met the devil once and lived to tell the tale. They wear frayed coats, torn jeans, got coal-dust lungs, and mouths that forgot how to sing a long time ago.”

Hannibal listens, his lips parting slightly as he takes it all in. His notebook lies forgotten for a moment as he leans forward, pressing his lips against the closest patch of Will’s skin. 

When he pulls back, his pencil moves again.

You did not belong there.  You do not belong to smallness, to places that would bury you. You are new and interesting and beautiful. Like Mount Vesuvius. Yellow-feathered hope and refrains about dreaming.

Will’s arms tighten around him, his embrace almost crushing. He buries his face in Hannibal’s hair, his breath warm against the strands. Will touches him like he’s the patron saint of tender hands, gentle sunlight, and calmed dogs. 

“You dream too much,” he murmurs.

Hannibal shakes his head slowly.

“I wasn’t joking, you know,” Will says, his voice thick. "You are home." 

Hannibal writes, I know.

The next day finds Hannibal’s jeans stained green, the dye of yesterday’s laughter soaked into the fabric from the dampness of the grass after soft rain. The smell of earth clings to him, mingling with the faint sweetness of crushed clover. Their heads bear daisy crowns, woven with fingers that trembled with concentration, like they are kings of this mountain—rulers of a fleeting eternity. Forever. 

The forest is alive, green and endless. They run through it, bare feet slapping against the forest floor, the coolness of the soil kissing their soles and sending tiny shocks up their legs. Hannibal’s boots lie abandoned somewhere far behind. Will is a streak of light ahead of him, a blur of sunlit curls and swift limbs. Hannibal tries to catch him, his arms stretching forward as if he could hold light itself, but Will is always just out of reach, slipping away like the edges of a dream.

Will is dangerous in a way that makes Hannibal’s breath hitch, but beneath it all, he’s soft—a golden boy with a bruised soul. Hannibal sees the way Will tries to act tough, the way he sharpens himself like a blade, but he also sees the moments when that toughness melts away, when the boy inside shines through. It’s in the way Will’s eyes soften when he thinks no one is looking, in the way he lets out little sighs when he feels safe. Hannibal wants to catch him. Wants to hold him. 

And yet, Hannibal wants Will to catch him too. Will’s shoulder blades are sharp beneath his skin, moving like they might unfurl into wings at any moment. If that happened, Hannibal thinks his own kneecaps might buckle, his throat quake into something soft and warm like melted chocolate and sunlight. You and I, he thinks. Me and you. No difference between the words now. No difference at all.

Hannibal once dreamed of being a doctor, of standing taller than his shadow, of wielding knowledge like a weapon and rising above the smallness of his world. He wanted to be something. Someone. But now, he dreams only of Will. He wonders what he thought about before this, if he even thought at all. It frightens him, how someone can take over your mind and body so completely. Skin hunger, they call it. He read about lambs once, given the choice between a wire mother with milk and a soft wool mother with none. They chose the softness every time. Hannibal understands that.

Hannibal’s chest heaves, dirt streaked across his skin, a wildness in his eyes that mirrors Will’s. He thinks of his uncle, the man who scolded him for slouching, for not being enough. Chin up, Hannibal. Stand straight, Hannibal. But now he bends, crouching low, mud painting his body like war paint. He feels alive in a way he never has before. They look like they were raised by wolves.

“You’re awful at hidin’,” Will calls out, his tone dancing somewhere between laughter and affection. “If you’re gonna play, you’ve got to commit. Can’t crouch there like you’re waiting for a photographer to catch your good side.”

Will is looking for him now, eyes darting, searching. There is something sacred in the way Will looks for him, something so tender it feels like it might shatter. Hannibal knows he’ll never see anything like this again. Never see anyone like Will.

Forever creeps back into his mind. To miss someone, Hannibal thinks is to feel your bones grind thin with longing. Voices ricochet through the corners of your mind. You try to grasp them, but they slip through your fingers. What colour were her eyes? Brown, like his own. But sometimes green. Sometimes amber. Sometimes—

Will’s eyes are blue. That maddening, endless shade of blue.

Forever is nothing. Forever is losing your voice. Forever is not a young smile with red cheeks, a laugh that fills the air, or the feeling of being found in the woods. Forever is the opposite of this moment. Hannibal wants nothing to do with forever.

Hannibal rises from the burrow of his thoughts and he runs. His feet stumble over the uneven ground, catching on roots and patches of soft earth, but he doesn’t stop. The force driving him forward is bigger than his body, bigger than his fear, bigger than anything he’s ever known. 

It tears at his chest. He cannot stay where he was. He cannot trap this moment, no matter how much he wants to. He has tried before—he has locked it away behind doors in his mind, bolted them shut, and braced himself against them. 

If he could see Will every day until the world ended, it wouldn’t be enough. Each meeting would change something: a curl of hair shifted by the wind, the light in his eyes dimmer or brighter, a freckle kissed by the sun or hidden by winter. But right now, this moment—nineteen and wild, a little sunburnt, his skin flushed with life and hope—this version of Will won’t come again. Even if Hannibal sketches his face a thousand times, steals locks of his hair, keeps every trinket Will leaves behind, none of it would hold him as he is now, here.

So Hannibal runs. He runs until the ache in his legs matches the ache in his chest, until the world around him blurs into streaks of green and brown and blue. And then he sees him. He grabs Will. His arms lock around him, and the world tilts. For a moment, he is terrified, young, and raw in ways he hasn’t felt in years. Will’s wide blue eyes turn to him, always brimming with worry, always searching Hannibal’s face like he might find answers there.

“Hannibal,” Will says. Hannibal’s hands clutch at him tighter, as though he could press himself into Will’s skin, fuse their bones together, and never let go. He wants to swallow Will’s voice, steal it, make it his own. To speak what he feels without relying on paper and ink. He’s sick of writing, of scratching feelings into surfaces that will never hold them the way he wants.

The mud on their skin mingles. Hannibal holds him tighter, tighter still, until he feels the shift of Will’s bones against him. Until Will’s breath stutters and stops in his ear, and he wriggles, trying to break free. Hannibal knows he can’t keep this. Not like this. Even if he clings until the end of time, Will’s body will betray them both. It will rot. The life in his flesh will drain away, leaving nothing but fragile, child-like bones that Hannibal could snap in two with his bare hands.

Reluctantly, he lets go. Will stumbles back, dragging in great gulps of air, his hand pressed to his stomach. Hannibal turns his gaze to the ground. He cannot look at him now.

“Christ,” Will says, a shaky laugh breaking from his lips. The sound is a strange, fractured melody—nervous, exhilarated, wild. It’s so like him to laugh at moments like this, to take the jagged edges of Hannibal’s soul and smooth them with his ridiculous joy.

The silence that follows is heavy, filled only with the sound of Will’s breathing. Hannibal stays rooted, caught in the aftermath of his own madness. Then there’s a shift, the sound of bare feet padding across the grass. Hannibal flinches when a hand brushes his face. Will’s fingers curl under his chin, lifting his lip, and Hannibal’s eyes flutter closed as Will’s thumb grazes the sharp edge of a tooth.

“I know you hide them,” Will says again, slower this time, his voice low and breathless, still uneven. “Don’t think I don’t see it. Don’t think I don’t feel it.”

He pauses, the words hovering between them, and Hannibal remains still, as though even the slightest motion might make Will stop. But he doesn’t.

“You carry it everywhere,” Will continues, his voice dipping into something softer, almost tender. “The hunger. The itch. It’s not just in your hands or your eyes; it’s in the way you breathe. It’s in the way you touch me like you’re afraid you’ll break me, but you want to know how far you can push before I do. You’re holdin’ it back, keeping it locked behind your teeth, but it’s there, Hannibal. It’s always there.”

Will leans closer, his breath brushing against Hannibal’s lips now. “Don’t tell me you’re not starvin’,” he whispers. “Don’t tell me you don’t want me to see it, to know it. Because I already do.”

Hannibal’s breath hitches, but Will doesn’t stop. “I dare you,” he says, his lips so close they almost touch. “Open your mouth, Hannibal.”

It’s spoken with the cadence of a childhood game, a dare thrown across a dusty yard. But this isn’t the same. They both know the danger in what Will asks. It isn’t a game. All he sees is Will. Wide blue eyes, a throat bared and waiting. The voice that tempts him comes from there. It’s where he will bite.

His hands shoot out, tangling in Will’s hair, and he pulls him close. His mouth finds the curve of Will’s throat, the delicate ridge of his Adam’s apple. Will cries out as Hannibal’s teeth sink in. Blood floods his mouth, hot and coppery, tasting of life and something sweeter. It’s the taste of Will. If this is love, Hannibal will drown in it, choke on it, die for it. 

Hannibal’s teeth break away from Will’s neck. He does not know when it happens, does not feel the precise moment he loses the steady pulse of flesh against his lips, but suddenly there are lips against his own. They are wild and hungry, smeared crimson with the red that travels from tongue to tongue. It does not even feel like kissing. It feels like merging. And Hannibal wants him—wants him so badly. 

He wants to be the only thing touching him, the only thing that ever touched him again. Hannibal wants to breathe him, to inhale his very essence and feel Will fill up his chest until his ribs strained and he broke open like ripe fruit beneath a paring knife. He would be raw, tender and exposed. He would freckle and blister in the sun. He would teach his body to regrow his heart each time he gave it to Will, over and over and over again. 

Will’s back collides with a tree. Their hands are grasping, groping, full of want and years of hunger, fingers clutching at shoulders and ribs and hair. Will trembles and shakes, and so does Hannibal. He clutches Hannibal to him, one hand gripping his back with desperate strength and the other buried in his hair, fingers tangled and pulling. 

“There,” Will begs, his voice raw and breaking, every word catching on his breath. “Right there.”

Will groans as his cock, straining stiff within his pants, presses against the sharp angle of Hannibal’s hip. He rubs against him, helpless, laughing in a way that sounds broken and free all at once, his movements erratic.

“Don’t stop,” Will says, his breath catching on every word. “Not for anything.”

Hannibal would never stop. He could never stop. He is undone by the weakness of his own mouth as it gives itself away to the universe of Will’s body, his hands mapping the endless roads of Will’s wrists and thighs. They move against each other like the animals they are, and Hannibal is nothing of the prim and proper boy he once was, the one he never wishes to be again. 

He cannot help it; he sinks to his knees. His tongue follows a trail of blood on Will’s skin, a crimson path that leads him downward until his knees meet the soft earth. He presses his lips to Will’s stomach, trembling and alive beneath him, the warmth of his skin seeping into Hannibal’s mouth. The kisses he leaves there are soft, but the nips are sharp enough to draw sounds from Will. 

Will sighs above him, his voice unsteady and breaking as Hannibal’s hands find his belt. “Hannibal—” he begins, his voice thin and shaking, but Hannibal shakes his head. 

He does not care that they have been sweating, that they have not bathed, that mud and blood stain them both. None of it matters. He tugs Will’s clothes down, baring him, and he sees Will’s want in front of his eyes: the flush of his cock, the hardness of it, the way it stands against the trembling expanse of his stomach.

Hannibal licks, his tongue dragging over sensitive skin, and wraps his hand around the base, drawing a high, startled noise from Will that sends a thrill through him. He looks up, his eyes tracing the line of Will’s body from the trembling stomach streaked with blood and dirt to the parted, swollen lips panting quick, shallow breaths. His gaze lingers on the wide, bright eyes that shine the bite mark blooming on Will’s pale throat.

His thumb brushes along the curve of Hannibal’s jaw. “You’re... you’re gonna kill me like this.”

Having Will in his mouth like this is unlike anything he has ever felt. It is overwhelming, it is consuming, it is magnificent. He wants to bite, to taste the fullness of him, but he also wants to stay here, to linger, to let the heat and weight of Will fill him until he drowns in it. He could fall asleep like this, Will’s life against his teeth.

Hannibal shivers as Will’s hand comes down to tangle in his hair. Hannibal’s mouth moves unpracticed, exploratory, each movement of his tongue unsure but driven by want. His lips, soft but trembling, press with intention, though he does not know if it is the right way. His tongue swirls with tentative intent, testing, tasting, finding the shape of Will. His teeth, despite his care, sometimes scrape in ways that make Will hiss and cry out, sharp and startled. 

Hannibal freezes each time, a jolt of fear racing through him, but Will never tells him to stop. The silence is permissive, the small sounds Will makes—half gasps, half moans—feel like encouragement. It fills Hannibal with fire, a slow-burning heat that rises up his spine and makes his skin feel too tight. 

He feelslike he could be sweet, as though sweetness could be born in him after all. His mouth, he thinks, is finally being used for something true. He presses his nose against the dark curls that crown Will’s pelvis, that lead like a river to the hollow of his navel, and inhales deeply. 

Will’s body shudders, a full-body tremor that Hannibal can feel beneath his palms, as though Will’s very being is responding to him. Hannibal’s lips are the first—the only—to touch Will here. 

“You don’t have to hold me so tight,” he murmurs, his accent curling warmly around the words. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, Hannibal.”

When Will’s hand comes to rest on his cheek, Hannibal leans into it instinctively. Hannibal clings to him with hands that shake as they find purchase on the sharp angles of Will’s hips. His fingers curl against the jut of bone. He presses his forehead into the flat of Will’s stomach, the skin warm and trembling beneath him. 

Will’s voice falters, and his hand tightens in Hannibal’s hair again. “But don’t—don’t disappear into me, alright? Don’t lose yourself. I need you to stay as you are, Hannibal. I need you to stay exactly like this, so I can find my way back to you when I get lost.”

A thought strikes him then, a brutal, blasphemous thing. He wants to tell Will that neither of them are going to heaven, that this act, this union, has chained them both to the earth. But he does not say it. He imagines ripping God from his gums, from the roots of his teeth, and offering it to Will. The blood still lingers on his tongue, a taste like iron and poetry. When Will pulses in his mouth, the salt and desperation of him flooding Hannibal’s senses, he swallows it down. 

He would give him everything—his ashes, his days, the bright, unrelenting heat of this July night that makes them feel, absurdly, that hope is still possible.

Will is everything: sand and wind and sun and the burning, boundless sky. He bends and breaks and reforms Hannibal. He might have been born for this, for Will, for this moment that stretches out like eternity. Above, below, beside him. Surrounded by him. 

There is nothing else Hannibal knows how to be anymore—nothing but this melting creature at Will’s feet. He would never eat him. How could he? It would be like the snake that eats itself from the tail. 

Will lowers himself, sinking to his knees so that they are level, so that they are equals. His hands find Hannibal’s face, and he holds him there, their breaths mingling, their foreheads almost touching. He wants to tell Will he loves him. He wants to say it. But his notebook is not with him.

So he says nothing. 

The evening finds them bathed and sitting by the fire. The sheep are tended, the day’s work is done, and the reason they are here has been fulfilled. Their hair is wet and their skin glows pink, scrubbed clean. Will’s hands had washed his hair, the warm weight of his fingers combing through the damp strands in the water. Hannibal’s had done the same for Will. 

The bite mark on Will’s neck is still fresh, dark purple bruises etched into his skin. It looks raw and angry in the firelight, the edges swollen. Hannibal had cleaned it, pressing soft kisses around the wound before blowing cool air over it as Will hissed at the antiseptic’s sting. Will had laughed then and swatted Hannibal’s shoulder. Sweetness. He is sweetness. 

Will shifts against him now, a soft sigh escaping his lips. His body curls closer, his hand resting lightly against Hannibal’s knee. “Tell me about home,” he murmurs.

Hannibal’s hands tighten where they rest, a momentary clench before they relax again. He is tired; his shoulders have carried too much, and they slump under the weight. Still, he reaches for his notebook, and begins to write.

His heart beats unevenly as he scrawls the first words: blue eyes, curly hair. 

Will laughs softly, the sound rippling through the stillness, and nudges him, jostling Hannibal’s pencil. The tip smears across the page, a faint mark like a scar. 

He could describe Lithuania—the fireflies that danced like tiny lanterns, the snails that traced silver paths in the garden, the towering walls of the estate that loomed like sentinels, and the darkened halls. He could describe Paris, his uncle’s home, or the bitter rot of his own freezing and vandalized childhood. But these feel like surface things.

Will is warm against him. He wants to tell him everything, to pour out the tangled mess of his history. He could never tell it all, but he could tell something. Will has been brave; Will, who carries guilt like a second skin yet moves forward every day. Hannibal thinks he can be brave, too. Now. Here.

He crosses out his initial words and writes something else.

I have not washed anyone’s hair since my little sister was two. She trusted me, utterly, and in that trust, I felt... powerful. Not in the way you think, not cruel. It was as if I could protect her from the world with my hands alone. I remember sitting in the tub with her, holding her head in my palms, scrubbing her clean. My hands felt like a god’s hands. But there was nothing to absolve. She was my sister. How could there be anything?

Will shifts slightly, his body closer now. “I ain’t ever washed anyone’s hair before you,” he admits, the hint of a drawl curling around his words. “Always figured it was somethin’ tender, somethin’ you do for someone you love. And you—well, you sayin’ that, it sounds like you loved her, Hannibal. Loved her so much it made your hands holy for a while.”

Hannibal swallows. He can see her tiny face, her eyes bright and trusting. He can feel the way her hair slipped through his fingers, soft and slick with soap.

“You make it sound like... like she was more than just your sister. Like she was a little piece of yourself you were tryin’ to keep safe. That’s love, Hannibal. It don’t need any explainin’ beyond that.”

His hand trembles slightly as he writes again.

The warm skin of her neck prickled as I washed it. The soap turned my fingers into silk. She looked at me like I could do no wrong, like the world couldn’t touch us as long as I was there. I was just a boy, but in those moments, I believed it too.

Will’s hand comes up, cupping the back of Hannibal’s neck. “You were a boy,” he says gently. “But even boys can be gods in the eyes of someone who loves them like that. You gave her somethin’ she’ll carry with her forever, even if you don’t realize it. That’s the kind of love people spend their whole lives lookin’ for.”

Hannibal’s lips part, but no sound comes. Instead, he lowers his gaze, his hand moving to write again.

And yet it is gone. She is gone. And my hands are no longer holy, Will. They are something else entirely now.

Will’s fingers tighten slightly on Hannibal’s neck, his other hand coming to rest on Hannibal’s knee. “Your hands aren’t ruined, Hannibal,” he says. “They’re just... different.

Will kisses him again, their mouths meeting softly, and Hannibal feels the heat of Will’s breath as he speaks. “I don’t know how many times I’ve scrubbed my hands since that night,” he murmurs. “But I think—hell, I know—there’s still dried blood under my nails. You call it art. I call it murder. And maybe neither of us is wrong. But what matters most, I think, is the space we’ve carved out for ourselves in the middle of all that mess.”

Hannibal smiles faintly, his pencil pausing. We are going to hell, he writes.

Will’s smile wavers, sadness creeping in. “I just want to be where you are,” he whispers. His voice trembles. “I just want to be where you are. That’s all that matters to me.” 

I love you. I love you. I love you. 

Will kisses the unspoken words from his lips, and Hannibal presses his cheek against Will’s. He glances down and writes once more.

Carve out my bones and place them in the hollow of a tree or promise me this is some kind of forever. 

Will trembles, his arms tightening around Hannibal, his face buried in his shoulder. “Don’t think about that,” Will murmurs. “Just make me breakfast tomorrow, like you always do, alright, darlin’? Just make me breakfast.”

So that is what Hannibal does. 

The morning breathes cold against his face. He crawls from Will’s grasp slowly, carefully, so as not to wake him. The tent’s fabric shivers as he lets the flap fall shut behind him, the sound too loud in the quiet dawn. 

The camp is silent in a way that feels too large, as if the quiet could stretch out forever, swallowing him whole. He keeps his eyes down as he walks to the fire pit, his gaze catching on small things: the dew collecting on a leaf, a spider’s web trembling with the faintest breeze, the faint imprint of Will’s boot in the soft earth. 

He stands there for a long moment, his gaze unfocused. His body sways slightly, the pull of sleep still heavy on him. The fire’s warmth brushes against his skin, but it doesn’t reach the hollow place inside his chest, the space that feels both full and empty all at once. He does not think of forever. He tries not to think at all.

The sound of footsteps reaches him later, soft but distinct against the damp ground. There is the rustle of fabric, the faint creak of leather, and then Will is there, solid and warm behind him. An arm wraps around Hannibal’s chest, firm and steady, pulling him close. A chin rests on his shoulder. The brim of Will’s hat nudges against Hannibal’s own. 

“You’re sleepin’ on your feet like a horse,” Will says.

Hannibal closes his eyes, letting himself be held. The weight of Will’s arm around him, the sound of his voice, the warmth of the fire—these are the things he lets himself feel. He does not think of forever, only of now, only of this.

Chapter Text

Will wishes he had a guitar. 

That’s the first thought he has when he wakes up in the morning, eyes still heavy, his body still sunk into the heat of the tent like he doesn’t have any bones to carry him up yet. His heart doesn’t kick up like it used to.

He just lies there, still, heavy-limbed, warm, and he thinks—he wishes he had a guitar. So he could sit up, stretch real slow, feel the bones in his back pop one by one, and play something soft, let the sound settle into the air like dust and sing for Hannibal.

It doesn’t feel like much, that thought, but somehow it settles in his ribs like it belongs there. Important in a way that isn’t loud, isn’t screaming at him, just there, settled. It’s important that he can wake up and think something like that. That it doesn’t send him hiding from himself like it used to.

The arm around his waist is tight, heavy, flesh and bone wrapped around him so firm it almost knocks the breath from his lungs, but it doesn’t make him panic. It doesn’t make him flinch or move away. It makes him want to laugh, something soft and hoarse and too tired to be real, but it doesn't quite make it out of his throat. Instead, something in him feels soft, in that place deep down where he doesn't let the light touch too often. Hannibal’s been clinging tighter lately. 

Will knows why.

They both know why.

Will sighs, squirming a little, the feeling of that arm tightening around him making something real sore bloom in his chest. Hannibal’s breath catches when Will shifts, and even in sleep, that grip doesn't loosen. If anything, it tightens. Will doesn’t pull away again. He doesn’t make Hannibal chase after something he’s already caught.

He just lays there, listening to the sound of slow breathing against his neck, the warmth of lips pressed against the curve of his shoulder, something unconscious and gentle, something that isn’t quite a kiss but might be if there was enough dream left in Hannibal to make it so. It feels like something that isn’t new, something that’s always been there, if Will lets himself settle into it. If he lets himself feel what Hannibal feels.

Will thinks of Hannibal’s sister, of the way he must have held her when she was small, the way she must’ve clung to him in the dark, needing him the way Hannibal seems to need Will now. He keeps that thought close, holds it in his chest like a locket with no key, something that stays closed until Hannibal wants to open it himself and spill everything out.

Will shifts again, just enough to lay his hand over Hannibal’s, pressing it tighter against his stomach, til it creaks his ribs. He likes the feeling. Likes how it roots him to the here and now. They’re both shirtless, and their skin sticks together in places, sweat making the heat between them heavy. Hannibal’s breath stays warm against Will’s neck, the shape of his mouth still resting there, still making that quiet, secret kind of contact. They’re lying so close it doesn't feel like they’re two people anymore, like they’re blurring into each other, like one body is giving way to the other.

Sometimes, when Hannibal dreams, Will can feel his lips moving against his skin, not in kisses, not in anything soft and sweet, but in words. Words that don’t come out. Words that stay trapped behind his teeth. Will strokes his hair, wonders who Hannibal might be talking to. Wonders if he’s speaking to something in the past, something old, something deep in him that Will hasn’t touched yet.

Will wasn’t lying when he said he hears Hannibal’s voice in his head sometimes. He does. And it sounds like music. That slow, measured accent of his, shaped by lips Will’s touched and will keep touching til the world splits open and swallows them both whole. He knows Hannibal will speak again someday. Knows it in that same deep place that told him to stop running.

Last night, Will dreamed they pulled bodies out the lake. Rotting, bloated things, their skin slipping off in ribbons, waterlogged and ruined. They rose to the surface, drifting toward them like they knew them, like they belonged to them. The sky was heavy, purple and low, and the horses ran in circles around them, their hooves cutting deep into the earth, like they forgot what they were, like they weren’t creatures meant to be ridden, meant to be broken.

Hannibal had clung to his hand then too, when they dragged the bodies onto the grass and looked down at them. Will didn’t know their faces. It looked like Hannibal did.

Will didn’t wake up scared. He just woke up wanting to tell Hannibal not to think of forever again. Not to write it or dream it.

This isn’t like a tree, where the roots have to end somewhere.

Their days are golden, and every time they kiss, another flower blooms, and things are good.

Will feels… good. Their bodies are pressed and possessed by light. Will didn’t think of God when he woke up, and Hannibal’s skin is sticky and soft. 

Will’s whiskey-drunk poet and sleeping boy. 

That’s all. That’s all.

It’s still summer.

Hannibal wakes up like a dog stretched out in the sun, breathing deep and easy, lost somewhere between sleep and waking. He can count on his fingers how many times he’s had this—waking up next to him, watching him go from dream-heavy to aware—but he’s getting real close to running out of fingers. And that thought makes him smile, because it means he gets to keep having this, having him, morning after morning.

The sheets cling to them both, a little damp, a little wrinkled, smelling like sleep-warm bodies tangled up too close for the last several hours. Hannibal’s arm, still draped over Will’s waist, shifts just a little, loosens like he’s finally coming up for air, and Will takes that as his cue. He turns, wanting to see him, needing to see him. 

Him, Him, Him. 

"Hi," Will whispers, voice still thick from sleep, and Hannibal breathes in deep, lashes fluttering like he’s fighting to stay in the dream a little longer. 

Then he blinks. His eyes—those deep, dark things, lock onto Will’s, still hazy, but real. And then he stretches, arms reaching up over his head, toes pointing sharp like he’s trying to make himself even longer than he already is. 

Will watches, doesn’t bother hiding the way his eyes trace over the lines of him, the way his ribs shift under his skin, the way the muscles in his stomach pull tight before relaxing again. It’s a good stretch.

And then he’s done, settling back down, and Will moves in closer, fitting himself up against Hannibal. Their legs tangle easy, and then he’s kissing him, just ‘cause he can. Hannibal’s stubble is rough against Will’s mouth, a scratchy little thing that makes him grin, makes him laugh against Hannibal’s lips. 

It’s like dust bunnies caught on his face, something that makes Will want to bury himself in him, press his face against his jaw just to feel it scrape against his skin. It makes him feel pride, that he can grow a full beard if he wanted to. 

Hannibal’s stuck with his bunnies for now. Hannibal kisses him back, lazy and gentle, and Will wants him—wants him the way he always does, all the time, at any hour, in any way.

They got things to do, places to be, but Will doesn’t care, doesn't even let the thought cross his mind for more than a second. He just wants this. Wants to wants to press his mouth to every inch of Hannibal’s skin, wants to bite and suck and mark him up, wants to feel the way Hannibal’s body gives under his hands. 

Speaking of bite—the one Hannibal left on him still stings, scabbed over now, and Will doesn’t know if it’ll scar. He hopes it does. Kinda wants it there, wants the proof of it, wants to be able to look in the mirror and see that little mark and know exactly who put it there. 

It itches like hell, though, and he’s been going on about it all week, but every time he does, Hannibal just hushes him with soft little kisses, lips pressing against the bite like he’s soothing it. And he never says sorry, and Will doesn’t want him to. 

There’s nothing to be sorry for.

Will’s got a hunger in him, deep and endless, and he licks into Hannibal’s mouth slow.

It’s the kind of thing that would make the ladies at church whisper, that would have people clutching at their pearls, but Will doesn’t care, doesn’t give a single damn about anything but this, but him, but the way Hannibal arches just a little, breath hitching, body fitting against Will’s. Will’s never appreciated being awake this much. Never felt this kind of quiet, steady joy in just opening his eyes and seeing someone else there.

Last night, Hannibal told him a story about how swallows sleep in temple eaves, and Will thinks maybe this is their temple. Right here, bodies warm and close, breath mingling, heartbeats steady and slow. 

Something important in the way Will’s hands move over Hannibal’s skin, in the way Hannibal lets him, in the way he gives and gives. Will’s hands wander lower, down the soft planes of Hannibal’s stomach, feeling the way his breath hitches, the way he’s warm and pliant, the way he’s real. 

Will wants him all the time, just like he did last night, just like he will tomorrow. They need to wash up, but Will doesn't care much for that either, doesn't mind the way their skin sticks together, and doesn't mind the way Hannibal’s stomach is glistening from where Will came undone last night. It’s proof of something, proof of him, of them, and it makes Will grin against Hannibal’s cheek, pressing a kiss there just to feel the way he shivers. Will’s daddy always talked about manhood , well there it is, drying right on Hannibal’s stomach. 

Hannibal kisses him once more, slow and lingering, before he’s shifting, gently pushing Will off him. Will huffs, grabbing at him. "Where are you goin’?"

He catches Hannibal by the back of the neck, pulls him close again, but then Hannibal is on top of him, pressing him down, their mouths meeting, hands gripping, bodies moving. It makes Will arch, makes him blush, heat crawling up his neck, down his chest.

Will beneath him, writhing, reaching. Will swallows, his throat working around something thick, something hot, and then he mutters, “Ain’t fair, you know. Gettin’ me all worked up like that just to leave me laying here.”

Hannibal only hums. Will huffs, dragging a hand through his hair, then lets himself fall back against the pillows with a groan. “Goddamn tease,” he grumbles, but there’s no real bite to it. His fingers twitch against the sheets, his body still warm, still aching.

Then, softer, rougher—“I want you.”

They still haven’t done it—that way. And Will thinks maybe he wants it now, doesn't care about the idea of it anymore, doesn't care what it means or doesn't mean. They’re both boys, both hard and aching, both wanting. But Hannibal just kisses him again, then pulls back, reaching for his flannel, shrugging it on like he hasn’t just left Will breathless and burning.

Will props himself up on his elbows, glares at him. "I could kill you," he mutters.

Hannibal just raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. Will studies him, then bites his lip, drags his foot up Hannibal’s thigh where he kneels, making himself look coy, making himself look like something wild and young, red-cheeked and blue-eyed, like something Hannibal can’t resist. And he knows Hannibal can’t resist.

“I mean it. I could kill you. Right now. In cold blood. Wouldn’t even blink. Strangle you with that damn shirt, bury your bones out back. No one’d ever find you.”

Hannibal hums again, tilting his head like he’s considering it.

Will scoffs. “I’d hide you so goddamn good, no one’d ever know you were here.” Then, after a pause, “Except for all the evidence I’d definitely leave behind. And the fact that I’d immediately confess. And, y’know, probably break down cryin’ about it.”

Hannibal catches his foot, fingers wrapping around his ankle, and Will pleads with his eyes, filthy and sweet all at once. He feels like Eros, Hannibal wrote his name in his notebook two days ago when Will distracted him from cutting wood. He feels like something dangerous.

Will swallows again, his throat bobbing. “Come back here,” he murmurs, tilting his chin just a little, a challenge, a plea. “Put your hands on me. Stay.”

Hannibal goes to kiss him again, messy, hungry, in a way that means, make it quick. And Will does.

Fifteen minutes later, Will and Hannibal get dressed, stretching the morning out between them like it’s something that can last forev—the sun’s already up over the hills, spilling gold over the valley. They move without hurry, buttoning shirts with hands still warm from sleep, shaking out blankets and boots, the smell of dirt and summer thick in the air. It’s quiet in a way that feels alive, birds calling from the trees, the wind pushing soft through the grass.

They take a slow walk around the sheep, eyes scanning the edges of the land, making sure nothing’s gotten in during the night. Will’s got his hands in his pockets, thumbs hooked on the edges, and he glances at Hannibal as they move, watching. The sheep are fine. Nothing’s gotten in. There hasn’t been any coyotes lately.

Will climbs onto Hannibal’s back like a kid, arms loose around his neck, pressing his forehead against the side of his head.

Hannibal just reaches back, steady hands gripping under Will’s thighs, pulling him up a little higher, adjusting his grip like he was expecting it. Like carrying Will is as natural as breathing.

Will feels his heart press tight against his ribs, feels the warmth of Hannibal’s skin through his shirt, the steady rise and fall of his breath. He closes his eyes for a second, just listening. The earth under Hannibal’s feet, the rustle of leaves in the wind, the distant sound of a bird calling out across the hills. 

He doesn’t put him down ‘til they reach camp, and even then, Will lingers, hands slow as they slip from Hannibal’s shoulders. He don’t step away immediately. Just breathes in, breathes out, before finally dropping himself onto the log near the fire pit.

Hannibal moves like he always does. He doesn’t waste time, just starts up the fire, pulls out the oats, the can of peaches, quiet in the morning air. Will watches, head resting against his hand, his elbow braced on his knee. 

Hannibal hands him the can of peaches first, and Will drinks some of the syrup straight from it, thick and sweet on his tongue, sticky at the corners of his mouth. It tastes like being a kid again, like hot summer days and hands covered in sugar, like something simpler. He swallows and hands it back to Hannibal, who just dumps the rest into the oats, stirring ‘til the peaches break apart and turn everything soft and orange.

They eat straight from the pot, steam curling up in the morning air, warm and thick, faces hot from the heat of it. It’s almost too sweet, but it tastes good, like dessert, like something they aren’t supposed to have but do anyway. Will doesn't say anything when Hannibal reaches over and wipes a bit of oatmeal from the side of his mouth with his thumb. 

Will does it again on purpose. Lets the oatmeal stick to his mouth, just to see if Hannibal’ll do it again. And he does.

It’s all he can do. They can’t talk about it again. 

They won’t. Will won’t.

He looks at Hannibal, at the sunlight catching in his hair, at the smudges of dirt still on his cheeks. They haven’t gone down to the water yet. He’s beautiful, he thinks. Dark eyes like coffee, soft like a baby fresh from God.

God—

Will’s stomach twists. He didn’t pray last night. Didn’t say grace neither. He was too wrapped up in Hannibal, too caught up in the warmth of his hands, the sound of his breath, the space between them that doesn’t feel like space at all.