Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

Hannibal stood in the study, fingers resting on the edge of his desk, eyes drawn to the rain tracing patterns against the glass. He had just returned from seeing Abigail—alive, restless, waiting. Will had promised to come along with them.

And Hannibal… Hannibal was waiting to see if he would come as a friend, or a Judas.

There had been signals. Shifts in Will's gaze, the tension in his shoulders. The way he watched Hannibal’s hands when he cooked. The way the undead scent clung to him. All the subtle betrayals of someone pretending not to look too closely.

Hannibal had chosen not to name the suspicion. Not yet. If he spoke it, it would become real.

The clock ticked past midnight.

And then—

Something changed. A hum. A shift in the air pressure, like the apartment had exhaled. Hannibal turned. The lights in the hallway flickered—then flared, then burst. The chandelier shuddered. He walked forward calmly, like a man descending into a known dream.

Without hurry, he walked toward the foyer. The lights above flickered once, then steadied. He stepped down the hallway, his footfalls muffled against the Turkish rug.

There, sprawled on the floor, lay a man.

At first, Hannibal thought he was hallucinating. The body was slumped, breathing shallow but steady, clothes caked with dried blood, skin streaked with grime. But the face—the face was unmistakable.

Will.

Yet not.

This man sat up before Hannibal could speak. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t look afraid. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and tilted his head up to meet Hannibal’s eyes.

"Hello, Dr. Lecter." The man said, unflinching, he was completely in his element.

Hannibal said nothing. He stared.

“Curious.” The man went on. “I thought I’d land somewhere less... poetic. But you always did love a quiet entrance.”

"You're not him." Hannibal moved closer, slowly. "Your face looks exactly like him, but..."

The man’s lips quirked—not quite a smile, more a flicker of recognition. “I will be. In time.”

Hannibal’s posture shifted, barely. “Are you a dream?”

“Not the kind you wake up from.”

Hannibal knelt in front of him now. Close enough to feel the heat off his skin, to see the angry scar on his cheeks—he didn’t know that scar.

"I want to see—what you wanted for us in Florence, once." The man said, pausing a little. "What you still do, even if you pretend otherwise.”

Hannibal’s chest rose, but he said nothing.

As if sensing his wariness, the man huffed, defeated. “I’ll stay out of sight, when the time come.” Will added. “So, you won’t have to worry."

Silence stretched between them, heavy with something almost reverent.

Then Hannibal stood. “The guest room is clean. You’ll find fresh towels. The water runs hot.”

The man didn’t thank him. He only rose with the same unsettling grace, as though he already knew the apartment better than Hannibal did.

***

Baltimore, Maryland. One day to The Dinner.

The scent of citrus and searing duck filled the kitchen, curling through the warm hush of the apartment. Hannibal moved fluidly between pan and counter, his motions steady and exact—knife tapping softly against the board, heat blooming beneath his fingertips.

He didn’t speak. Neither did the man across the room.

The man stood in the periphery—sleeves rolled, leaning with casual ease against the far counter. He wasn't too close, or intrusive. He stood like he didn’t intend to stay long, even though they both knew he wasn’t leaving.

He had offered no questions. No explanations. Only the quiet rhythm of presence.

Hannibal did not ask him to assist. Still, when he reached for the strainer, it was already there. When he turned to plate the duck, the knife had been wiped clean and laid beside him. The towel was folded. The wine had been opened.

All of it was done without fanfare or performance.

The man made no effort to draw attention to the fact that he moved in concert with Hannibal’s intentions—as if he were simply reacting, reading cues, interpreting signals. But there was something too smooth in it. It wasn;t intimacy, but muscle memory honed by repetition—by learning how to survive, not how to belong. It was the kind of echo Hannibal recognized: grief worn down into habit.

Hannibal felt it. That careful mimicry, like a mirror. He wasn’t sure if it unsettled him or comforted him more.

Will’s face—this man—watched with the ease of someone who had learned restraint through necessity, not obedience. There was confidence in his stillness. A kind of quiet knowing in the tilt of his head, the slow blink of his eyes.

But it was a calculated thing. The kind of calm that invited you to forget you were being watched.

Hannibal set the knife down. He felt the man’s gaze, no longer on his hands, but on his spine. His neck. As if measuring how deeply he could cut before blood reached the collarbone.

A flicker of amusement touched Hannibal’s lips—but didn’t stay long.

He didn’t speak. Neither did the man. It was a strange peace. Temporary.

And they both knew it.

***

7a.m. Twelve hours to the Dinner.

Early morning sun filtered through the kitchen windows, casting gold across the floor.

Abigail’s laughter rang out—light, real. She was at the counter, slicing strawberries with theatrical precision, eyes flicking up to see if either of them was watching. They were.

The man leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, smile tucked at the corner of his mouth.

And Hannibal stood at the stove, plating pork with wild rice and orange glaze. He wasn’t smiling—but his eyes were soft. His hands moved with quiet ease. He didn’t have to ask the man to set the table. He had already done it.

There was no music, no conversation—only the sound of plates clinking, Abigail’s chatter, the bubbling pot, and three heartbeats syncing into something whole.

For one fleeting moment, they looked like a family.

***

6 p.m. One hour before the Dinner.

The door eased shut behind Will with the soft sound of finality. Rain tapped steadily against the high windows, drawing long shadows down the polished floor. Will stepped out of his wet shoes without looking up, water still trailing off the hem of his coat. His shoulders were hunched slightly, but it wasn’t cold. It was something older, heavier.

Across the room, Hannibal watched him. He stood with one hand loosely cradling a glass of wine, the other resting by his side. His posture was impeccable, almost too still, like a man carved in the moment before motion.

“You were supposed... to leave.” Will said.

Hannibal’s eyes never left Will’s face, searching it with a surgeon’s precision—not for lies, maybe for hope.

When Will finally raised his gaze, he was met not with accusation or rage, but with something softer, more dangerous: invitation.

“We could go.” Hannibal said, his voice barely above a murmur.

Not a question. Not a plea. A possibility, offered like a gift.

Will’s expression didn’t change, but his throat moved—tight, as if the idea had landed somewhere it shouldn’t. He didn’t answer. Not right away. His fingers twitched at his sides, but he said nothing.

Hannibal took a slow step forward.

“Tonight.” He added. “No one would follow. No Jack. No anyone. We would simply disappear.”

The way he said it—measured, even calm—belied the tension in his body. There was a slight tautness at the corner of his mouth. His eyes held their usual stillness, but the muscles at his jaw had tightened, just enough for Will to see.

Will took in a shallow breath, then exhaled through his nose. His eyes flicked downward, toward the hardwood floor between them.

“I know you’ve thought about it.” Hannibal said, he wasn't pressing, or demanding. Simply naming the truth between them.

“I have.” Will admitted quietly. His voice sounded like it had to squeeze past something painful in his chest.

Hannibal waited. He didn’t speak again. He just watched.

Will’s silence was answer enough.

Hannibal’s lips parted, as if to speak, then stopped. His expression didn’t crumble, but it faltered. Barely. Like the wind brushing the edge of a curtain.

He gave a small nod. Controlled. Accepting. The moment sealed itself.

Then, almost distantly, he said, “Dinner will be ready soon.”

Will didn’t move. He watched Hannibal turn away, footsteps deliberate, unhurried. His coat shifted as he walked, catching the warm light of the dining room beyond. It would be beautiful, the table. Hannibal always made things beautiful, even when they were soaked in blood.

Will stood frozen in place, breath shallow.

The door behind him was still unlocked. He could leave—should leave. That was the plan. Jack was waiting. He’s counting on him.

But his hand twitched at his side.

He wanted to call Hannibal back. He wanted to say yes.

He imagined it—what it would feel like to stop running. To wake up to morning light and soft footsteps in another room. To feel hands on his shoulders that didn’t want to cage him, only to stay.
But then he saw it too clearly—how easily comfort would turn into surrender. How quickly he'd lose himself again.

There was something unbearably human in the way Hannibal had said it—"We could go." No menace. No manipulation. Just quiet hope. As if he could undo everything with a single choice, and Will would let him.

He opened his mouth.

“Ha—” His voice caught in his throat.

He couldn’t.

Not because he didn’t want to. Worse, because he did.

And that terrified him more than anything. So instead, he turned.

***

7p.m. The Dinner.

The table was set. Candles flickered. Three plates. Three glasses.

The second knock was harder, sharper. Less polite.

Hannibal crossed the foyer without haste, his fingers brushing the edge of a console table as he passed, almost as if grounding himself. He opened the door with calm, deliberate precision. Jack stood in the rain, soaked to the shoulders, his service pistol already drawn. His stance was solid, practiced—but his eyes held something quieter beneath the surface. Sadness, maybe. Or certainty.

“You know why I’m here.” Jack said, voice flat.

“I always do.” Hannibal replied, voice low, almost kind.

For a long moment, neither man moved. Then Hannibal stepped aside with a strange formality, like he was still a host and this was still his apartment.

Jack entered without lowering his gun. His boots left streaks of rain across the polished floor. Hannibal closed the door behind them with a soft, controlled click that sounded far louder than it should have.

Jack’s gaze moved carefully across the space—walls, corners, doorways. He took a few slow steps forward, toward the kitchen, gun raised and steady. Hannibal followed him at a measured distance, silent.

As Jack’s eyes swept across the countertops, he stopped. A knife lay waiting beside the cutting board.

The handle was turned outward, intentionally. Gleaming. Hannibal’s face remained unreadable, but his body had shifted—weight balanced slightly forward, shoulders relaxed in a way that was almost predatory.

Jack understood then: he hadn’t come for an arrest.

He’d walked into an execution.

He started to raise the pistol further—but Hannibal moved first. With sudden, terrifying speed, Hannibal closed the space between them, one arm slamming into Jack’s wrist, sending the shot wide. The gun discharged with a deafening crack, the flash lighting up the kitchen for a single second. Glass shattered somewhere behind them.

Jack staggered but didn’t fall. He countered with a punch to Hannibal’s ribs that landed hard, knocking the air from his lungs. Hannibal retaliated with precision—an elbow to Jack’s jaw, a knee to the gut. Jack grunted and swung again, catching Hannibal across the cheek. Blood welled instantly from the split skin beneath his eye.

They crashed into the kitchen island, breath ragged, fists flying, neither speaking.

This was not a choreographed battle.

It was a brutal brawl between two men who knew each other too well to miss.

Hannibal’s fingers found the knife. Jack grabbed for his arm, forcing it upward. The blade sliced into the edge of the cabinet with a metallic shriek. Wood splintered. Both men slipped on the slick tile—someone was bleeding now; it wasn’t clear who.

Jack shoved Hannibal against the counter, trying to pin him. Hannibal twisted, slammed the back of his head into Jack’s face. Jack recoiled, blood from his nose already mixing with sweat and rain.

Another crash—Hannibal threw him through a chair. The legs gave way with a crack, and Jack landed hard.

They didn’t pause.

Jack lunged. Hannibal caught him.

They fell together in a tangle of limbs and pain, fighting like animals.

Until, at last, Hannibal rose, chest heaving, knuckles split and bloodied.

Jack lay barely conscious in the pantry doorway, one arm pinned beneath him, the other still reaching for a gun he’d never grab again.

Hannibal looked down at him.

Not with satisfaction. Not even with anger.

Inevitability.

***

Blood ran down Hannibal’s wrist, dripping onto the tiles as he moved through the wreckage of the kitchen. His shirt was tainted with red blood, no longer appropriate for hosting.

The table was still set.

The candles flickered, untouched. The lamb had gone cold. A faint wisp of rosemary still clung to the air, mingling now with the copper sting of blood.

Hannibal paused at the end of the table, breathing carefully. His body ached—ribs bruised, cheekbone swelling, muscles humming with the aftermath of violence—but none of it registered the way it should.

He turned his gaze toward the door. It would be Will. It had to be Will.

There was no room left in his mind for doubt. He had asked. He had offered. The only thing left was the answer.

Seconds passed. One minute. Ten minutes...

He stood there like a monument, breathing through pain, waiting for the moment.

Footsteps sounded beyond the door. Steady. Too steady.

Hannibal’s breath hitched. The doorknob turned. He took a step forward.

The door opened— and he froze.

It was Will.

But not the one he waited for. Those shoulders squared differently. And his expression was not confusing or afraid—but calm. Commanding.

This man didn't hesitate at the threshold. He stepped inside as if he’d done it a hundred times before.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Blood dripped from Hannibal’s hand to the floor.

“I expected someone else.” Hannibal said, voice rough from the fight but perfectly clear.

“I know.” Will replied. His eyes swept the room—Jack’s blood on the tile, the broken table leg, the set dinner. Then back to Hannibal.

“You’re bleeding.”

“So I am.”

The man walked further inside, his gaze steady, his voice calm. He didn’t look at the knife, or the wreckage. Only at Hannibal. “I stopped him.” he said.

Hannibal’s brow twitched. “Stopped who?”

“Me.” The man shrugged.

Hannibal studied him for a long moment. His mouth moved slightly, but he didn’t speak the question aloud.

“You were going to kill him.” He said, quietly. “And her. You were going to make it all end.”

Hannibal’s eyes didn’t waver. “Was that not the point?”

“It was the end.” The man said. “But not the ending you wanted.” He stepped even closer now, just enough for Hannibal to see the difference in him. The calm wasn’t apathy—it was memory. The certainty of someone who had already lived the devastation Hannibal was still standing in.

“Where is he?” Hannibal asked, low and cold.

“Alive.” The man replied. "One hit on the nape, and he gone. I'd restrained him. He won't be here for hours."

The tension in Hannibal’s shoulders didn’t release—but it didn’t tighten either.

“You took that from me.”

“You don’t know what it’s like to see the ending and have to come back anyway.” He looked away then—briefly. As if the act of remembering cost him something. “I gave you this instead.”

Hannibal turned away, slowly, eyes sweeping across the candlelit table. “The meal is ruined.”

“I know.”

Hannibal reached for the wine, poured into his own glass without looking. He didn’t offer any. The other man stepped beside him, watching him drink. “You waited for me.”

“I waited for someone.” Hannibal said. “You arrived.”

The clock ticked somewhere in the silent apartment. Then the man's voice, softer.

“You still have a choice.”

Hannibal looked at him now, truly looked. Blood on his face, mouth set, breathing shallow. And for the first time that night, something in his expression cracked.

—

Jack’s body lay where it fell, slack and broken, arm curled unnaturally beneath them. The man knelt next to the body, closing his eyes with reverence, while his movements were decisive, the mourning was still there.

Hannibal stood unmoving in the center of it all. His shirt clung to his side, damp with sweat and blood. His hands—one trembling faintly now—still dripped red.

Then—A soft sound from the stairs. Bare feet on hardwood. Hesitant. Uneven.

Abigail.

She appeared in the doorway, half-shadowed, eyes wide with sleep and something more—something ancient and fearful. She took in the scene with the mute stillness of a fawn: shattered glass, the overturned chair, the body crumpled in the corner.

Her gaze found Hannibal first. “Hannibal?” she whispered.

His mouth parted slightly. He didn’t answer.

Then another figure moved behind her.

The man—Will, but not Will—appeared at her side. He placed a hand gently on her shoulder, not pushing her back, but steadying her. Grounding her.

“It’s all right.” he said, calm and low.

She turned toward him, blinking, uncertain.

“Come here.” he added, and though his voice held no command, she obeyed. She stepped into his arms without another word, tucking her face against his chest like it was the only place left that made sense. He held her with quiet certainty, one hand curled around the back of her head.

Hannibal watched.

He watched as Abigail’s breath slowed. As the tremble in her shoulders stilled. As she accepted comfort without question, like it had always belonged to this version of Will.

And this man—stranger in familiar skin—did not look at Hannibal. Not once.

Hannibal’s gaze drifted back to Jack. The man who’d once believed in justice, now broken and bleeding across polished tile. This was supposed to be the ending. An elegant finish. A reckoning.

Instead, the apartment smelled of copper and wine and cooling fat. His hand tightened around the edge of the dining chair, knuckles bone-white.

This was not what he planned.

This was not his design.

Yet here it was—presented to him, beating, breathing, real.

The man stepped back slightly, guiding Abigail to the hallway. She looked over her shoulder once, her face pale, her expression unreadable. Then she disappeared down the corridor with him, swallowed by candlelight and quiet.

And Hannibal—Hannibal remained still among the wreckage. His chest rose once, slow.

Was this ruined? Or rebirth?

He didn’t yet know. But he turned toward the door, following them into the dark.

***

8p.m. One hour after the Dinner

Will surfaced slowly, like breaking through thick ice.

His first sensation was cold—stone beneath his spine, unforgiving and damp. A dull ache pulsed at the base of his skull, blooming outward in rhythmic waves. He let out a soft breath through his nose, his mouth too dry to speak. When he tried to shift, he felt the pull of something tight around his wrists.

Plastic. Zip ties.

He blinked. The ceiling above him was unfinished wood, warped from years of damp. Water dripped from somewhere nearby, echoing faintly in the space. There was a faint scent of mildew, and something sharper—gasoline, maybe. Or sweat.

Will pushed himself upright with a low groan. His limbs were stiff, sluggish, like they belonged to someone else. He squinted into the half-darkness, eyes adjusting to the gray light filtering through slats in boarded windows.

Then footsteps.

He tensed automatically, breath catching in his throat, jaw tight.

A flashlight beam cut across the room, and for a moment, he could only see the glare. Then it dropped, and a familiar voice followed.

“Graham?”

Will blinked again. Price stood in the doorway, coat damp, expression wary. His shoulders were squared in that awkward way that said he hadn’t expected to find Will alive.

“You found me.” Will said, and even to his own ears, his voice sounded wrong—hoarse, distant.

Price stepped closer, crouching beside him, the flashlight now aimed at the zip ties binding his wrists. His fingers worked quickly but carefully. Will noticed the tremor in them.

“We’ve been searching since midnight. Your car was abandoned outside the Lecter residence. Signal cut. You vanished. We thought—” He didn’t finish the sentence. “You’re lucky we tracked the secondary beacon.”

Will’s lips parted, but he didn’t answer.

He wasn’t sure what he would say.

His heart was beating too fast now. A sense of wrongness that hadn’t left his body since he opened the car door and stepped into the rain.

He remembered the way the night felt. The weight of the air. The apartment was just ahead of him. The pull in his chest.

And then—nothing.

A blank space where confrontation should have been.

“I didn’t fall.” Will murmured, brows drawing together. His voice was quiet, but thick with confusion. “Someone stopped me.”

Price looked up. “Stopped you?”

Will nodded slowly, eyes unfocused. His hands were free now, resting limply on his thighs. He didn’t move.

“There was someone else.” he said. “I don’t know who. But he knew. He knew I was coming.”

The air in the room felt too still.

Price didn’t speak. His face was difficult to read now—caught between concern and disbelief.

Will didn’t clarify. Couldn’t. There were too many missing pieces, and whatever filled them in wasn’t something he could share—not yet. Not until he was sure.

But somewhere in the back of his mind, something had shifted. He could feel it.

Something had gone terribly off-script.

***

10p.m. 3 hours after the Dinner. En Route to NYC.

The rain carved rivers down the windshield, the wipers ticking in rhythm, steady and slow. The hum of the engine was the only thing that tethered them to the present. Everything else—the storm, the road, the night—felt untouchable. Like it was unfolding for someone else.

Abigail was asleep in the backseat, her small form swallowed beneath Hannibal’s coat, hair damp from the sprint to the car. Her breathing was shallow but even. And her hands were curled beneath her chin like a child’s.

The man drove with quiet confidence. His grip on the wheel was precise. He didn’t glance back. Hannibal sat in the passenger seat, his posture erected despite the throb in his ribs and the sting blooming from the split above his brow. Blood dried stiffly beneath the collar of his shirt, crusted into his knuckles. He’d tended the worst of it at a gas station sink, working in silence beneath buzzing lights while the man waited without impatience by the car.

Now, with the road stretched long and dark ahead of them, and Abigail breathing softly behind, Hannibal stared out at the blur of trees along the highway. The bruises ached. The weight of everything that hadn’t happened—everything he had planned—gnawed at the edge of his consciousness.

The man reached over, resting a hand on Hannibal’s elbow. “It’ll pass,” he said, his voice low.

Hannibal didn’t respond. His jaw remained set; his eyes fixed on the landscape rushing past. But he didn’t move away.

“I’m not asking for forgiveness.” The man said, not turning his head. “You made a choice. This is mine.”

Hannibal inhaled slowly. The scent of rain clung to the car. To Abigail’s hair. To the man’s skin. It was a sharp, electric kind of silence that followed—one that tasted of regret, and memory, and the bitter edge of an unfinished sentence.

He closed his eyes for a moment and opened them again. The hand remained. Warm. Steady.

He thought of the table back home. The wine. The candles. The knife he hadn’t used.

And ahead, the lights of the city began to rise in the fog, distant and cold.

***

New York, Port Elizabeth Marine Terminal. Six hours after The Dinner.

The port was blanketed in fog, the kind that crawled low along the ground and clung to metal like breath on glass. Stacks of shipping containers rose on either side of the terminal road, silent giants in the dark.

The ground beneath Hannibal’s shoes was slick. He stood beneath the overhang of a service building, one hand tucked into his coat pocket, the other resting lightly at his side. The dull ache in his ribs had sharpened during the drive, but he refused to acknowledge it, standing straight despite the slow pull of torn muscle beneath bruised flesh. His coat was clean now—swapped in a restroom along the highway—but there was still dried blood beneath his fingernails.

He made no move to remove it.

A few yards ahead, dock workers moved like ghosts, murmuring among themselves in Spanish and Italian as they secured the last of the shipment. The cargo vessel was half-submerged in fog, hulking and impassive, its deck lights like eyes turned inward. It would depart before sunrise. No questions asked. That was the arrangement.

Hannibal had arranged everything.

Or so he had thought.

The man—not Will, not in name, not yet—stood a short distance away, speaking to the crew with quiet efficiency. His back was straight, his voice low, calm. There was a stillness in the way he moved, a practiced economy that made him appear even more composed than the officers around him. He didn’t look over at Hannibal. He hadn’t since they’d arrived.

It was a small thing.

But it stirred something dark beneath Hannibal’s ribs.

The man hadn’t asked for permission to speak to the crew. Hadn’t waited for direction. He had stepped in, filled the space, as if this had been his plan all along. As if he knew the script better than its author.

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed just slightly.

He wondered, briefly, what it would take to break that calm.

Behind him, Abigail shifted against the wall, drawing the edges of his coat tighter around her shoulders. She hadn’t said much since the car. She was watching the man too—carefully, but without the same caution that Hannibal felt pressing into his sternum.

He turned to her just as the man approached, a bundle of folded blankets in his arms. His expression was unreadable, but not unkind.

“You looked cold.” He said to her. His voice was gentle, even warm.

Abigail hesitated—only a moment—before taking the blanket. Her eyes stayed on him as she pulled it over her shoulders.

“Thanks.” She murmured.

The man nodded once and stepped back. Abigail watched him walk away, then glanced up at Hannibal. “That’s Will, isn’t it?”

Hannibal didn’t answer immediately. He kept his eyes fixed on the silhouette disappearing up the loading ramp. The man’s movements were familiar. Too familiar. It wasn't only in posture or stride, but in rhythm. In the unthinking confidence of someone who had already been here before.

It made Hannibal’s teeth ache. “Does he seem like Will to you?” He asked, his voice even.

She shrugged, pulling the blanket tighter. “Kind of. He looks like him. But... not like he used to.”

Hannibal let that hang in the air. He didn’t correct her. He didn’t agree, either.

“He’s different.” Abigail said, quieter now. “But I don’t think he’d hurt me.”

Hannibal looked at her then, just for a moment. Her face was pale in the lamplight, but her eyes were steady. She meant it.

She trusted him already.

That trust, unearned and so easily given, lodged like a stone in Hannibal’s chest. He turned away again, his gaze trailing back to the ship, where the man had vanished into shadow.

The choice had been taken from him. The pain, stolen.

And now the thief was walking ahead as if he'd been invited.

Hannibal folded his hands behind his back, spine held straight despite the protest in his muscles.

The ship would depart soon. He would board.

But the matter was far from settled.

***

Grimaldi RoRo Mediterranean—voyage 5170. Twelve hours after The Dinner.

The freighter swayed gently underfoot, the deep creak of its hull echoing through the long metal corridors. Outside, the sea stretched in all directions—gray, immense, and without end. The sky had begun to clear, though the light that filtered through the portholes remained diffuse, filtered through cloud and steel.

Hannibal sat at the narrow table in the officers’ mess, one leg crossed over the other, a book open in front of him. He hadn’t turned the page in fifteen minutes.

His gaze was fixed beyond the printed words, across the room, where Abigail and the man sat at the opposite end of the table, speaking in low voices. The room was quiet enough that Hannibal could hear the cadence of Abigail’s laughter, even if he couldn’t make out the words.

She was curled against the bench, knees drawn up beneath the blanket he’d given her at the docks, now worn soft by salt air. She looked comfortable. At ease.

The man sat beside her with one arm resting on the back of the booth, not quite touching her. His posture was relaxed but attentive. When Abigail spoke, he leaned in slightly, listening with the kind of focus Hannibal remembered—but in a body that no longer felt like memory. This man moved with a different rhythm. More deliberate. Less prone to hesitation.

And when he laughed—softly, briefly—it was not the sound Hannibal expected. It wasn’t Will Graham’s startled, uncertain laugh. It was quieter. Grounded. Certain.

Abigail smiled. she didn’t flinch.

Hannibal turned a page in his book, though he hadn’t read a word.

He had told her to rest. To stay in her cabin. Instead, she was here—with him. With the man who had stolen not only the end Hannibal had designed, but also the pain meant to define it.

She called him Will now, with ease. He had not earned it.

Hannibal's eyes settled on the curve of the man’s jaw, the way he turned slightly toward her as she spoke, fingers tracing the rim of the tea mug she’d handed him. There was no performative grace in his gestures, but they were smooth, deliberate, and too familiar.

As if he’d sat at that table with her a hundred times before.

As if he belonged there.

The muscles in Hannibal’s jaw shifted—not quite a clench. He adjusted the way his hand rested on the edge of the table, anchoring himself back into the present moment.

The man hadn’t looked at him once since entering the room. Not once.

I wasn't avoidance, but calculation. That infuriated him more than a challenge would have.

When Abigail rose to return her mug to the counter, the man stood too, without prompting. He stepped aside so she could pass, then returned to the table like Hannibal’s presence didn’t alter the temperature of the room.

It was a subtle performance. Too subtle.

Hannibal closed the book, setting it down with care. His fingers tapped once against the spine.

He thought of Florence, of silence, of what he might build there.

And of what he might unmake.

***

Grimaldi RoRo Mediterranean—voyage 5170. Sixteen hours after The Dinner

Later, Abigail found him alone on the upper deck.

The wind was colder up here, sharper with salt and rust. The sea stretched out into nothingness, pale and endless. Hannibal stood near the railing, gloved hands resting lightly on the metal, coat collar turned up against the chill.

She approached with careful steps, not wanting to interrupt his thoughts, and not willing to leave them alone, either.

“He told me about the ship.” She said softly, coming to stand beside him. “The crew. The route. You already arranged all this before—before the apartment.”

Hannibal didn’t look at her. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon, unblinking.

“Yes.” he said, after a moment. “Contingency.”

Abigail folded her arms across her chest as the wind tugged softly at her sleeves.

“He knew the details.” she added. “Even the codes.”

Hannibal nodded once. “He’s observant.”

She turned her head slightly, watching him.

“I keep calling him Will.” she said. “And you haven’t corrected me.”

His jaw shifted at that. Subtle. Barely.

“I’m not sure what else to call him.” She went on, voice quiet. “He looks like him. Sounds like him. But he’s… not afraid of you.”

She let that linger. Hannibal said nothing.

“He talks to me like we’ve done this before.” She said. “Like we’ve already lived it.”

Finally, Hannibal turned to her. His face was composed, but his eyes were shadowed with something deeper—something unreadable, coiled beneath the surface like smoke behind glass.

“That name.” He said, voice measured, “carries a weight he hasn’t earned.”

Abigail didn’t flinch. She held his gaze.

“You don’t believe that.” She said. “Not really.”

Hannibal studied her for a long moment, and in the way he blinked—slow, deliberate—she knew she had struck something true.

But when he spoke, all he said was, “You should go inside. It’s cold.”

She didn’t argue. She left him there, the sea at his back, and the wind curling against the tension in his spine.

Hannibal remained, alone with the cold salt air and the weight of what she had left unsaid.

That night passed quietly.

And the next. By the time Florence rose around them—its sun-bleached courtyards and shuttered windows welcoming as old pages turned too many times—Abigail was laughing again. The man moved through their borrowed rooms as though he had always belonged. And Hannibal, who had once imagined arrival as resolution, found only continuation.

***

Florence, Palazzo Capponi. Two days after The Dinner.

The apartment overlooked a narrow, sunlit street, the kind where footsteps echoed between stone walls and windows bloomed with potted herbs. The space itself held no particular sentiment—only discretion and grace worn smooth with age. Hannibal had stayed here once before, in another lifetime.

The ceilings were high, the windows tall. A faint breeze lifted the linen curtains, and the scent of lavender and baked dust drifted in from the square below.

He stood in the kitchen doorway, hands clean but empty, watching the table.

Abigail sat cross-legged in one of the chairs, hunched over a well-worn puzzle book she'd found in the desk drawer. Her brow furrowed with quiet concentration. Across from her, the man leaned slightly on one elbow, offering gentle commentary she didn’t seem to mind. Their voices were low, companionable, threaded with the easy rhythm of two people who had already accepted one another.

She laughed once—soft and genuine—and reached for her glass of water.

"Will, can you hand me the pencil?"

He passed it to her without hesitation.

Hannibal did not speak. The man didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge the name. He only resumed his place at her side, calm and unobtrusive, like he’d always been part of that domestic geometry: two figures at a table, sun-drenched and safe.

But Hannibal’s gaze fixed on the exchange, still and heavy. The sound of the name—Will—lingered in the air like smoke.

He did not move. He did not correct her.

Some part of him, unspoken and deep, was waiting to see if the name would fit.
If the man would grow into it—or collapse beneath its weight.

Something in the room shifted—the temperature of it. The light was the same. The voices the same. But the silence that followed grew colder.

He stepped away without a word, disappearing into the study and closing the door behind him.

Inside, the shutters were drawn. The room was dim, and the ticking of the old wall clock was louder here. Hannibal sat at the edge of the writing desk, fingers resting on the polished surface.

He thought of the night the man arrived. Blood drying on his collar. Words wrapped in familiarity.

“I gave you this instead.” He had said.

But it hadn’t been a gift.

Chapter Text

Florence. Four days after The Dinner.

The kitchen in the apartment was modest but well-equipped, a blend of old marble counters and modern copper cookware, all arranged with quiet elegance. And Hannibal moved through it with measured grace, every movement purposefully.

He had not asked for help. Still, the man lingered near the threshold, arms loosely crossed, his posture relaxed but alert. He hadn’t offered assistance, or asked what was being prepared.

He didn’t need to.

That was part of the test.

Hannibal placed a fillet of branzino on the board. The fish had been fresh this morning, chosen from the vendor near the Duomo. He had intended to prepare it simply—roasted with lemon and herbs, as he always had. But now he reached instead for the preserved bergamot.

The man said nothing. Not even a flicker of surprise.

Next, Hannibal grated pecorino into the sauce. Too much. Enough to overwhelm the citrus notes. A choice that made the pairing wrong. Not inedible—he would never offend the food itself—but unbalanced. He plated it with radicchio, bitter and bold. A palette he knew the man—Will—had never liked.

He poured the wine second.

Red. For fish.

He set the table in silence, gestures smooth, controlled. The man joined him a few moments later, pulling out a chair without hesitation.

Abigail was elsewhere—tucked into bed, or watching something behind closed doors.

The man sat, unfolded his napkin, and lifted the glass without comment. He sipped once, then set it down.

No remark about the wine. No question about the citrus. He ate with composure, each bite taken as if it were exactly what he expected.

That composure was what irked.

Hannibal watched him across the table. The light from the sconces warmed the space, made the silver gleam. Outside, the street murmured with the occasional footstep or echo of laughter, too far away to feel real.

“Is it to your taste?” Hannibal asked, folding his hands.

The man’s eyes flicked up to meet him. “It’s yours.” he said.

Not yes. Not no.

The man swallowed slowly, the muscles in his throat working harder than the bite should warrant. His face didn’t shift, but the pause between wine and food was too exact, too measured—like a man remembering how to breathe through pain. “You always said the meal reflected the guest.”

A flicker passed over Hannibal’s expression—too subtle to name. “And what does this say about you?” he asked, voice light, almost conversational.

“You don’t know who I am, but she’s already decided.” The man tilted his head slightly. “So what are you deciding, Dr. Lecter?”

Hannibal sat back. He lifted his own glass. He didn’t drink.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

And when the man smiled, it wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t smug.

It was patient. That was worse.

***

Florence. Five days after The Dinner.

The study was quiet, tucked at the back of the apartment, paneled in dark walnut and scented with old parchment, lemon oil, and woodsmoke. Hannibal stood by the open window, one hand resting on the frame. The shutters were half-drawn, casting thin bands of light across the carpet. Outside, the street had gone still—Florence in her late hours, velvet-dark and humming beneath the surface.

The wineglass in his other hand was untouched.

He stared into the street below but didn’t see it. His mind turned elsewhere.

The man had not taken the bait at dinner. Had not flinched at the pairing. Had not hesitated when handed a plate that was wrong by design, at the warning. That kind of grace could only be learned. Or remembered.

Either possibility was intolerable.

Across the room, the fire cast gentle shadows across the spines of books and the curve of the violin resting in its stand. Abigail’s voice drifted faintly from behind the bedroom door. She was laughing at something—the television, perhaps. Or a message from the man.

Will, she called him now. Without hesitation.

Hannibal’s fingers curled slightly around the stem of the glass. He had not corrected her.

He moved from the window to the writing desk, set the glass down with care. The decanter beside it caught the light like a knife’s edge. The study drawer opened with a soft pull.

Inside: a folded linen cloth, surgical steel, polished and precise.

He stood still, the soft sound of Abigail’s laughter distant now, muted by the walls. That laugh—so easily given to someone she barely knew. He had allowed that. He had watched it happen. If he had accepted the replacement—why had the silence turned cold? Why had the sound of her saying his name lodged like a blade between his ribs?

There was no answer. Only the tightening beneath his sternum. A coil that refused to be released.

He withdrew a scalpel, holding it delicately between his fingers. The blade gleamed.

It was not rage he felt.

It was clarity.

He would not speak of it to the man. Would not warn him. He would simply prepare the test, and offer it—beautiful, plated, wordless. No explanation. No label.

If the man was what he claimed—if he was truly of Will Graham—then he would know.

If he flinched, if he recoiled, even for a breath—then Hannibal would have his answer.

He had hunted the source already. Quietly. Alone. It took an afternoon. He would prepare the meal tomorrow, and serve it without comment. Only then, watching the man lift the first bite to his mouth, would Hannibal allow himself to look for betrayal.

Not in action. In instinct. 

He returned the scalpel to the cloth, folding it with practiced ease, then closed the drawer.

—

The market had been crowded that morning, as they often were in Florence—sharp-voiced vendors calling out in dialect, fresh herbs spilling from baskets, fruit piled high beneath striped awnings. Hannibal had moved through it like smoke, unhurried but precise, his presence disturbing the air without leaving a mark.

He purchased nothing from the stalls. The ingredients he needed were already waiting.

Back at the apartment, he laid the mise en place in silence. The kitchen, usually so open to rhythm—shared glances, casual assistance—felt colder now. It wasn't closed, exactly, but solitary. The man was not present, and Abigail was reading, perhaps.

Outside, the city had begun to quiet. The last footsteps along the stone streets echoed faintly below.

Hannibal stood behind the table, one hand resting on the back of the chair opposite the man’s. He had dressed with care—dark linen, sleeves rolled, apron pressed smooth against his chest. A slight bruise still darkened the edge of his jaw. The only outward sign of everything he had left undone.

He had plated the meal precisely, placing every element with a surgeon’s economy of motion. It was a beautiful dish—elegant in construction, restrained in flourish. Rich, wine-dark tones that didn’t quite settle.

He had made two servings, but only one place was set.

The man entered the room quietly, with no dramatic pause, no lingering step. He walked with that same measured certainty, the same confident grace that had been unsettling since the beginning. He said nothing as he took the offered chair, folding himself into the stage as though it had been waiting for him.

Hannibal didn’t look at him directly. He stood still, his fingertips resting on the back of the empty seat across from the man, his own plate untouched. He made no move to sit.

The man looked down at the food. His expression remained neutral, but something shifted in his posture—his shoulders stilled, his hand hovering just above the cutlery as if considering the weight of what had been laid before him.

He picked up the fork... He took the bite...

There was no hesitation in his fingers. Only in his eyes. He cut a piece of meat, delicate and small, carefully proportioned.

He lifted it toward his mouth. And there—just for a breath—he paused.

Hannibal watched that breath. Tracked it like a bloodhound.

The man’s face did not betray him. There was no horror. No flinch. Only stillness, sharpened to a blade's edge.

He took the bite. He closed his mouth. Chew slowly. Swallowed.

Then, almost absently, he reached for the wine, sipped, and returned the glass to the table without a sound.

Hannibal hadn’t moved. His own plate remained untouched. The food had begun to cool.

His eyes, when he raised them, settled not on the man’s mouth or hands—but on his eyes. He searched for the flicker of revulsion, the catch of the throat, the refusal. But there was none.

Only quiet understanding.

And when the man finally spoke, it wasn’t with reverence or smugness. It was soft. Plain.

“Thank you.”

It was the same thing Will Graham had often said, after their meal together. But that man had said it with a kind of uncertainty, still unsure of what he had been given.

This one spoke as if he already knew.

Hannibal sat, then. Slowly, with the grace of someone who had just received an answer he did not want to hear. He looked down at his own plate, and for the first time in years, the smell of the food turned faintly against him.

Across from him, the man continued eating. No ravenously. Not even with pleasure. Only steadily. Merely accepted the offering for what it was.

And Hannibal, who had once believed he would feel powerful at this moment, felt instead the weight of being seen. Truly seen. Not as a monster.

As something mournful, and irrevocably known.

When the man rose to leave, Hannibal reached for the plate to touch it. His fingers brushed the cooled rim, then the space where the knife had rested.

It was all still there. Still perfect. And yet it felt like he had offered something—then been gently, unmistakably refused.

***

Florence. Two hours after The Insincere Offering.

The door to the music room closed with a soft finality.

Hannibal stood in the center of the space; shoulders square despite the tension threaded deep into the muscles of his back. The light here was dimmer, filtered through the lace curtains that hung half-drawn over the tall windows. The room smelled of varnish, paper, and faint lavender from the pressed sachets tucked into the shelves.

A theremin rested in the corner, waited by the far wall, keys still pristine despite its age.

Hannibal did not sit. He paced slowly at first, from the need to inhabit space to feel the walls contained him. He moved past the shelves, past the silent metronome, the carefully preserved sheet music, and paused at the violin case resting on the mantel.

His reflection caught briefly in the glass of the framed lithograph above it.

He looked older in this light. More tired than he wanted to admit.

His fingers touched the edge of the violin case, then moved away. He stood still, his hands now clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on a silence he couldn’t yet decipher.

There had been no reaction. Not even a breath too long.

The man had taken what Hannibal offered—the darkest intimacy Hannibal could give—and met it with something far more terrible than judgment.

Understanding.

The sound of the apartment was distant now. A faint creak of floorboards in another room, the sigh of shifting wood. Then quiet again.

He expected solitude. But the door opened behind him.

He heard the footsteps enter the room—unhurried, deliberate—and then halt just past the threshold. For a moment, nothing passed between them but breath.

Then the man spoke. " You keep that habit when you’re thinking." His voice was gentle. It wasn't designed to be soft to soothe, but spoken with the kind of calm that knew it would be heard.

Hannibal said nothing. The man’s eyes remained on the far wall, on the warped sliver of his reflection, like he was remembering from memories. “When something was unresolved.” The man continued, “You’d come in just after dinner. Touch the instruments, but never play. You said music required honesty.”

There was a rustle of movement—the sound of someone stepping further in, slowly, carefully—as if approaching a wounded animal, out of reverence.

Hannibal’s hands tensed, the fingers of one curling subtly around the wrist of the other.

“You’re deciding whether to hate me.” The man said. “Or whether it’s already too late.”

The weight of those words hung heavily in the stillness that followed.

When Hannibal finally turned, it was slow, precise—like drawing a knife from its sheath, feeling the tension in the steel.

The man stood near the door, sleeves rolled, face unreadable. There was no victory in his expression. No softness, either. Only a quiet, unshakable presence. He wasn’t trying to close the distance with sympathy. He was simply there—exactly where Hannibal had imagined someone might stand, months ago, when imagining how it could have been.

That was what made it unbearable.

“You know nothing.” Hannibal said at last. His voice was low, almost even, but the edges were frayed—too quiet to be calm, too steady to be safe.

“I know enough.” The man replied.

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed. “You presume too much.”

“I remember what it’s like to be beneath your gaze.” The man said. “To be stripped, piece by piece, until only the truth remains. I remember the fear. The awe. The relief.”

He stepped forward, just once. It wasn't close enough to touch—but close enough to be felt.

“And I remember what it cost you to be seen.”

Hannibal didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

He simply stared at the man who wore his memories like a second skin, who stood in the music room as if it had always belonged to him too.

When the silence returned, it was no longer empty.

It was shared.

And that, Hannibal realized, again, was far worse.

***

Florence. Two days after The Insincere Offering.

The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of the apartment. The kitchen table had been laid with simple elegance: a small silver teapot, two cups, a plate of figs halved and glistening with honey, warm bread wrapped in a linen cloth. The scent of fresh coffee filled the room, bitter and grounding.

Hannibal sat at the head of the table, sleeves rolled to the elbow, one leg crossed over the other. His posture was immaculate, as always. In one hand he held his cup, fingers curled around the porcelain with practiced delicacy. He had not yet taken a sip.

The man sat across from him, quiet but alert. His presence filled the space gently, as though it belonged there. He made no attempt to dominate the silence. He let it live between them.

For a while, the only sounds were the rustle of paper—the local newspaper folded neatly beside Hannibal’s plate—and the clink of a spoon against a teacup.

Then, without preamble, Hannibal spoke.

“Tell me.” He said, eyes still on the morning spread. “Do you believe that forgiveness requires understanding?”

The question settled in the air like steam rising from the coffee. Not sudden. Not casual either.

The man met his gaze calmly. “I think understanding makes forgiveness irrelevant.” He said. “Once you understand, there’s nothing left to pardon.”

Hannibal tilted his head, considering.

“Even the unforgivable?”

“Especially that.”

The answer was swift. Certain. Hannibal’s lips parted slightly in contemplation. He lifted his cup, finally took a slow sip. The bitterness anchored something in him. He set the cup down.

“And what about betrayal?” He asked. “Does understanding erase the harm it causes, or merely justify it?”

The man leaned back slightly in his chair. Not withdrawing—settling. As though preparing to dig deeper. “Betrayal only exists where expectation does.”

Hannibal’s expression didn’t change, but the line of his jaw grew more pronounced.

“You suggest it’s a form of devotion?”

The man gave a slight nod. “Sometimes the only one left.”

A long silence followed.

The kind of silence that didn’t seek to be broken, but examined.

Hannibal reached for the figs, placing one delicately on his plate, then returned his gaze to the man.

“Devotion, in that form, is still a choice.” He said.

“It always is.”

Hannibal’s mouth curved then—just slightly. Not a smile, yet. A shadow of one. Cool and dry.

He broke a piece of bread, dipped it in the honey, and took a small bite.

When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “Some choices cannot be undone. Only accepted.”

The man met that with a slow breath.

“I know.”

Hannibal picked up his cup once more, his fingers graceful, slow. Then, as if dismissing a guest from a lecture he was not yet finished giving: “We’ll take a walk after breakfast.”

No explanation. No tone of invitation. Just a decision, spoken like ritual.

—

The city was awake now, full of its usual grace: clattering bicycle wheels, the soft rhythm of Italian rising and falling across plazas, the perfume of espresso and dust curling from alleyways. Florence was a city built on admiration and ruin, on beauty refined through cruelty. Hannibal had always loved her for that.

They walked without hurry, side by side but never quite touching. The man did not ask where they were going. Hannibal offered no itinerary. The route twisted past crumbling chapels and flower stalls, past bronze plaques and shuttered doorways too narrow for maps.

At a small bridge crossing the Arno, Hannibal paused to observe the water—narrow and green today, catching gold in its eddies. He inhaled slowly, letting the salt-and-iron scent root him.

He didn’t see the stranger approaching from the left until the shoulder struck.

There was no stumble, no glance. Just a clean, sharp jolt to his side as the passerby pushed through the crowd, talking into a phone, his expression careless.

The pain bloomed, subtle and immediate—an impact against Hannibal’s healing ribs.

He turned his head slightly, the shift elegant, deliberate. He did not react beyond that. Didn’t even slow his breath. But the cold behind his eyes said everything the stranger failed to notice.

The man beside him had stilled. It was only for a second.

Then he was gone. No words. Hannibal did not look after him. He continued across the bridge, steps measured, attention turning toward the shop windows lining the corner street—a bakery, an antique book merchant, a place selling overpriced leather gloves.

By the time he reached the stone arch leading into a small square, the man was waiting.

He stood near a flower stand, sleeves rolled, a single tulip in his left hand, red as a fresh incision.

In his right hand, a business card. He extended it without a word.

Hannibal took it. No name. No phone number. Only an embossed logo—an upmarket shoe boutique several blocks from where they’d been. Likely, the stranger’s place of employment.

The man didn’t offer explanation. His face was calm. Unassuming.

The tulip—that was for Abigail.

And the card—that was for Hannibal.

Hannibal studied him for a long breath. And for the first time that morning, a flicker of satisfaction curled faintly at the corner of his mouth. He slid the card into his coat pocket and said, as if nothing had occurred.

"We don't usually do that now." The man shrugged. "Eat the rude." He paused, looking at the small spot of blood soaked through Hannibal's bandage. "But sometimes there were exceptions."

He continued. "We should go back."

This time, Hannibal let him lead the way back.

***

Florence. Two weeks after they arrived here.

The apartment smelled of roasted quail and stone fruit, and the table had been set with rare care—nothing excessive, nothing gaudy. Just intention in every detail. Crystal glasses. Bone-white plates edged in gold. A candle lit, though the evening light hadn’t yet fully dimmed.

Abigail stood at the threshold of the kitchen, watching in silence.

Hannibal was plating the second course. His movements were slow but certain, every gesture smoothed by habit and control. He didn’t speak, but there was a subtle change in him tonight—something on the set of his shoulders, in the way he arranged the garnish just so on the final dish, told her this wasn’t just dinner.

It was a statement.

Will waited in the dining room, pouring the wine with care. Not the usual bottle. This one had been pulled from the cabinet above the bedroom fireplace. She had never seen Hannibal use it for anyone.

He had not spoken about what happened that morning. Neither had Hannibal.

But the card was gone. The tulip was gone too. And here they were, in candlelight.

Abigail stepped quietly into the room and sat in her usual chair, watching the two of them fall into rhythm—not as equals, exactly, but as something closer than they had been before.

Hannibal set the dish before Will. Seared quail breast. Juniper and blood orange. Braised chicory folded beneath.

This time, it wasn't a test or weapon.

Will murmured his thanks. He didn’t look surprised.

Abigail glanced between them—Hannibal, now seated across from him, not eating but watching with quiet curiosity. The man took his first bite, slow and composed. No commentary followed. He chewed thoughtfully, drank once from the glass, and nodded—more to himself than anyone else.

Abigail shifted slightly in her seat, stirring her lentils. Something was changing.

It wasn’t in words. It was in the silence between courses, in the look Hannibal gave as he reached for the wine. In the way he refilled Will’s glass before anyone else’s.

Not yet intimate. 

Approval.

And for the first time, Abigail wondered—no longer whether this man was Will. But whether Hannibal had begun to prefer him.

—

Later that evening, the apartment had fallen into its softer rhythms.

The dishes had been cleared without ceremony, the wine mostly untouched. Hannibal had retreated to the study with one of his rare volumes in hand, the door left ajar but the message clear: not to be disturbed.

Abigail found Will on the balcony. He was seated at the low stone ledge, one foot drawn up, the other planted against the cool tile. The sky above was deepening into blue-black; the church bells had rung half an hour ago. Now there was only the distant flutter of pigeons and the soft clinking of utensils from a restaurant two floors down.

She stepped outside without speaking.

He didn’t turn. She sat beside him anyway, her knees tucked to her chest.

For a while, they simply breathed in the city together. Then she said, not looking at him, “That was his way of saying thanks, you know.”

Will glanced sideways at her. “The meal?”

She nodded. “And the wine. He doesn’t give people things. Not unless he’s decided something.”

Will didn’t answer right away. His face was quiet, unreadable—but not closed. There was no tension in him tonight. Only stillness, worn like an old coat.

“I’m not sure if that makes me lucky.” He said eventually. “Or marked.”

She gave a faint huff—too wry to be a laugh, too warm to be a scoff.

“He marks the people he cares about.” She said. “Sometimes gently. Sometimes not.”

She looked down at her hands. “I’ve been both.”

Will’s expression softened slightly. “I know.”

That made her look at him. Her brows furrowed. “Do you?”

Their eyes met. And for a moment, she felt something unspoken pass between them. It wasn't recognition in the traditional sense, but something more primal. Like he had carried the shape of her pain in his bones long before she said a word.

He didn’t answer her question. But he reached forward, and carefully tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Abigail held his gaze a moment longer. Then leaned her shoulder lightly against him.

They shared the silence.

***

Wolf Trap, Virginia. Two weeks after The Dinner.

The apartment had gone still hours ago. The wreckage of it remained—blood dried on the floors, broken glass from the dining room glinting in the corners, dark smears tracing the path where Jack had fallen. But no bodies. No sirens. No trail.

Just emptiness.

Will stood in the center of what used to be Hannibal’s home, jaw tight, breath shallow. His injuries had clotted into stiffness. The back of his skull still throbbed from whatever had taken him out. It was too clean a hit to be Hannibal’s. He would’ve made it hurt.

The apartment said nothing. No notes. No blood left behind for him.

Abigail was there, he hasn’t see her. But he knew, and then she was gone. So was Hannibal.

He should’ve been relieved. That was the part that bothered him the most.

He had made his choice. Told Jack everything. Walked Hannibal to the edge of a life together and then pushed. And Hannibal had looked back at him, eyes burning—and spared him.

No punishment. No revenge. Just... silence.

It scratched at the edges of Will’s mind for days. He told himself it was over—that the clean break was proof he had won. That surviving Hannibal meant he didn’t have to understand him anymore.

But the silence Hannibal left behind wasn’t mercy. It wasn’t even an ending.
It was curated absence. Too careful. Too deliberate. Like a piece of music where every note missing still meant something.

He knew what a real escape looked like: the scent of blood turned cold, the careful arrangement of absence left behind like a signature.

This wasn’t it. Something was wrong.

He returned to Hannibal’s apartment. This time, not with a warrant, not with a gun.

Because the emptiness itself was a message he hadn’t deciphered yet. Because absence, too, could be an act of communication.

At first glance, there was nothing to find. No hidden notes. No passwords. No trail of bodies.

Just the faint indentations where books had been pulled from the shelves with care, the lingering smell of paper and leather and old dust. And in the library, the old globe had been left half-turned east—just off center. The atlas had a single page slightly more worn than the others: Eastern Europe.
A crease cutting through Lithuania, like an old scar reopened.

Will stood there for a long time. His hand hovered over the page without touching it.

Hannibal hadn’t vanished. He had withdrawn—to somewhere that still held his name.

***

Florence. Two weeks after The Insincerely Offering.

The kitchen had taken on its evening stillness—warm from the oven, faintly scented with sage and lemon rind. Rain tapped lightly against the high windows, soft enough to be mistaken for silence.

Hannibal worked in calm, measured gestures. He had just finished scoring the bread, knife drawn with clean, sure strokes across the surface. The rhythm was meditative, but not mindless. Nothing he did ever was.

Across the counter, the man—no longer a guest, not truly—stood with a bundle of herbs in hand. It had been like this for days now. No declarations. No masks. Just a slow immersion into routine.

He knew how Hannibal liked the pans cleaned. Which tools to place where. When to reach for wine and when not to ask. That kind of familiarity should have rankled. It should have felt like intrusion. But it didn’t. Not anymore.

The man stripped the leaves from the stems without being told, fingertips stained faintly green. His sleeves were pushed to the elbow, forearms bare. When the dough was ready for its final rise, he reached for the cloth and covered it gently.

The weight of that gesture was subtle. It wasn’t the act itself. It was the timing. The ease. The fact that Hannibal had turned to do it and found it already done.

He paused, eyes narrowing slightly—the cloth had been folded the way he preferred. Centered neatly. Smoothed at the edges.

He had not taught him that.

He had taught Will that.

Hannibal’s gaze settled on him—on the curve of his shoulder, the way he placed the bowl back on the counter, careful not to disturb the dough’s rise.

Something shifted behind Hannibal’s ribs. Recognition.

Not because he had decided it. Because it was already true.

He didn’t say the name. He didn’t even think it in full. But when he moved to wash his hands at the sink, and the man passed him the towel before the water was off, Hannibal accepted it without comment. Just this one time.

—

The evening had cooled.

The wind had shifted after dusk, carrying the scent of wet stone and old iron through the apartment. Somewhere beyond the windows, the city settled into its quiet lull—the chatter of café chairs being stacked, mopeds echoing across cobbled streets, the distant peel of a bell marking the hour.

Hannibal stood near the bookshelf in the study, glass in hand, watching Abigail over the rim.

She was curled into the armchair by the hearth, bare feet tucked beneath her, a book open in her lap but barely touched. The fire had burned low, more ember than flame, but she didn’t seem to mind. The warmth suited her.

They had said little since dinner. The clink of the glass as Hannibal set it down punctuated the silence gently. He moved toward her without hurry, pausing at the table to adjust the lamp, letting the glow fall more evenly over her page.

She looked up at him with that same careful ease she always had around him now. Something close to understanding, worn into familiarity.

“I think he fixed the violin string.” She said after a moment, nodding toward the case on the sideboard.

Hannibal followed her gaze.

The man had taken the instrument the day before, carried it to the far room. Hannibal had heard him tuning it, adjusting tension. Nothing had been said about it since.

“I used to watch you do it.” Abigail added. “You’d test the string three times.”

She smiled faintly. “So does he.”

Hannibal’s hands folded neatly in front of him. His mouth curved, almost—but didn’t quite complete the gesture. “He learns quickly.” He said. But even as he said it, Hannibal wasn’t sure if the man was learning—or if Hannibal had simply forgotten what he’d once taught.

Abigail tilted her head slightly.

“I don’t think he’s learning.”

Her voice wasn’t accusing. It was soft. Matter-of-fact. “I think he already knows.”

The silence between them lengthened—it wasn't uncomfortable, but thick with something unspoken. Hannibal crossed to the window, fingers brushing the sill, eyes focused on the lamplight flickering below.

“You trust him.” He said.

Abigail didn’t answer immediately.

“I trust how he looks at you.” she replied. “Like he already knows what you’re going to say. But still wants to hear it.”

Hannibal turned his head, just slightly. His face in profile, cast half in shadow.

He drew breath to speak—and for a moment, the name was there. Balanced on the tip of his tongue.

Will—

But it caught. In control.

He let the breath pass. Set the thought down before it became spoken. Instead, he folded his hands more tightly behind his back, the movement elegant, practiced.

—

Behind him, Abigail did not turn a page.

She sat very still, book resting in her lap, fingers tucked lightly around the worn spine.

She had heard the shift in his breathing, the pause that wasn’t quite natural. Her eyes remained on the fire, but her mind didn’t. She was listening the way children learn to listen when survival depends on silence.

Noticing had always been her survival.

She said nothing. She simply existed in the quiet with him, allowing the moment to remain unbroken. Because if Hannibal had wanted the name spoken, he would have spoken it.

And Abigail, more than anyone, knew what it meant when he chose not to.

—

Later that evening, the study light had gone dim. Only the faint tick of the clock broke the quiet, and the soft scratch of Hannibal turning a page somewhere just out of sight.

Abigail padded into the hallway, barefoot, a half-finished glass of water in her hand. She hadn’t meant to stay up, but sleep had turned elusive, restless. Maybe the quiet was too quiet.

She found him on the couch again.

Will was perched on the armrest this time, one knee drawn up, the other stretched long along the cushions. His shirt sleeves were rolled, his jaw shadowed in profile against the streetlamp’s spill of gold through the window.

She didn’t call out. Didn’t announce herself.

“I take it he still didn’t decide.” Will said without looking up, voice calm and dry.

Abigail smiled faintly, leaning against the doorway.

“No.” She said.

Will exhaled, short and soft. Not quite a sigh. More amused than disappointed.

“I was being generous.” He said. “Waited for the right moment, softened the edges. Even let him kill the rude man. And still—nothing.”

She huffed, walking a few steps into the room, enough for her toes to brush the edge of the rug.

Will tilted his head toward her, eyebrow raised. “Let me guess. He inhaled dramatically, looked about thirty degrees off-center, then stared into the middle distance like a tragic baritone?”

Abigail grinned despite herself. “Something like that.”

Will’s mouth quirked. “Classic.” His gaze drifted back out the window, but his expression was softer now, more thoughtful.

“I used to count how often he said my name.” He murmured, not exactly to her. “Like breadcrumbs. Marking where I’d gotten under his skin.”

Abigail said nothing. He glanced at her again. “He’s saving it.”

“For what?”

Will shrugged, but it wasn’t casual. “For the moment he wants it to hurt.” His hand hovered on the scar on his forehead. Her smile faded a little, but she didn’t argue. They were quiet for a while after that.

Abigail crossed the room and sat on the floor beside the couch, glass resting against her leg. Will didn’t reach for her, but the warmth between them filled the space where words had been.

And somewhere behind the study door, Hannibal turned another page.

***

Selvā, Lithuania—Lecter Castle. Three weeks after The Dinner.

Lithuania was a wound pressed into the earth.

Will felt it the moment he arrived—the heavy quiet in the stones of the old Lecter estate, the way the gardens had surrendered to the wild in soft, creeping waves.

There was no anger here. No fresh devastation. Only the kind of loss that took root and stayed.

The woman who tended the place, Chiyoh, regarded him with the stillness of someone who understood the cost of trespassing too deeply into another man’s history.

She didn’t trust him, not exactly, but something in him softened her stance. Maybe it was the way grief clung to him without ornament. Maybe it was the simple, exhausted way he asked his questions—just... worn.

Through her, Will pieced together what he had always known but never spoken aloud.

Mischa wasn’t just a lost sister. She was the break in Hannibal’s marrow. The line that had divided before and after.

Will didn’t need to press for details. The answers were everywhere: written into the dust-soft stairs, the cellar doors too heavy for a child’s hands, the empty kitchen where nothing had been cooked for a very long time.

They were stitched into the life Chiyoh had chosen to stay behind and guard. A life built around absence.

Standing in that apartment, Will realized something simple and inarguable:

Hannibal wouldn’t run to a place unknown.

He wouldn’t vanish into blankness. He would go somewhere that had already made a home for his contradictions—a place that could hold beauty and brutality in the same breath, without ever asking them to apologize for each other.

A place where culture and death lived side by side, woven into the same fabric.

Florence.

The answer wasn’t hidden. It was inevitable.

***

Florence. Three weeks after The Insincere Offering.

The apartment was quiet. Abigail and the man were in the garden.

Hannibal moved through the study, not searching for anything. His hands hovered, paused as he passed the shelf in the study. A sketchbook was slightly ajar. A slim volume of Rilke. Its spine had cracked near the end, and a folded page stuck out—creased, worn at the corner. He didn’t remember putting it here. He opened the book carefully, expecting poetry, some mark of his Will’s inner state.

Instead, tucked between the pages, was a small sheet of sketch paper. Thin. Fragile. Stained faintly along the edge with oil from fingers that had turned it often. A pencil sketch. Unfinished.

Of Will.

Not the man in the garden. Not the one who moved through this kitchen like he’d never left it. No—this was the Will who never arrived. Who Hannibal chose and refused to become.

His shoulders were drawn slightly hunched. His mouth parted—not with speech, only breath. His gaze was fixed outward, no longer stopped at Hannibal, but beyond him. As though seeing something only he could translate.

There was a shadow of longing in the drawing. It wasn't in Will’s expression—in his lines. The curve of his neck. The tremor in the shading of his hands.

It was dated. Months before Florence. Before blood on tile. Before the betrayal.

Hannibal ran a finger along the paper’s edge. Then lower, along the crease in the book where the page had protected it. It had been preserved— lovingly. As if someone couldn’t bear to throw it away, yet couldn’t bear to look at it either.

He didn’t remember hiding it. But he had. As a wound more than a keepsake.

Outside, laughter rose from the courtyard. The man’s and Abigail’s. It didn’t echo—but it remained.

Hannibal closed the book. Slipped the sketch back between the pages. And this time, he remembered putting it there.

***

Wolf Trap, Virginia. Three days after Lithuania.

The dogs circled his feet, noses pressed to the edges of his bag. Will packed lightly. He didn’t expect to stay. He left the key on the counter. Told Alana she could keep the apartment. Told her she didn’t have to ask questions.

She didn’t, just whispered, “I hope you find the answer you want.”

Will nodded. Shouldered his bag.
But what he really wanted to say was:
There was never more than one thing worth finding. And somehow, I think he’s still waiting for me.

He closed the door without looking back.

***

Florence. Three weeks one day after The Insincere Offering.

Hannibal moved through the apartment with the deliberate ease of someone who knew the shape of the day before it arrived. He had risen before the others. Prepared breakfast in silence. Set the table with care.

By the time the man entered the kitchen—barefoot, sleeves pushed high, hair still damp from the shower—everything had been arranged.

The light was soft this time of year, filtered gold through high windows, falling in bands across the tiles. It touched the linen napkins, the polished silver, the crystal carafe of chilled juice catching amber at its base.

The man paused in the doorway, just for a moment. Not out of surprise—he never seemed surprised, never—out of respect for the moment's design.

“You’ve planned something.” He said simply.

Hannibal did not look up from the grapefruit he was segmenting. “It’s Sunday.”

“That didn’t answer the question.”

Hannibal lifted a single segment from the bowl, placed it on the plate with surgical precision. Then another. Four in total.

He wiped the blade. Folded the cloth. Only then did he speak again. “There is a chapel near San Lorenzo.” he said. “Hidden behind a cloister, rarely visited. The frescoes have been untouched for over a century.”

The man waited.

“They are deteriorating slowly.” Hannibal continued. “Flaking pigment. Water damage. But what remains was still remarkable. Fragments of angels with broken hands.”

Now he looked up. There was nothing casual in his gaze.

“Will you join me?”

The man tilted his head slightly, the barest hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “You’re inviting me to witness decay.” He said.

Hannibal returned the smile—cool, precise. “I’m inviting you to see what remains.”

The man nodded once. “I’ll get my coat.”

—

The chapel was tucked behind a narrow garden, hidden between high walls and a row of skeletal olive trees. The gate had no lock, only an iron handle polished smooth by time. It opened without sound. Inside, the frescoes had once stretched floor to ceiling—scenes of angels, saints, divine sorrow—but now only fragments remained. A hand reaching out from a cracked sky. A mouth open in silent warning.

They walked in without speaking.

Hannibal let the quiet settle first. The kind that reshapes breath and makes the skin more aware of itself. Dust drifted in the beams of late morning light, turning every step into a procession.

Will moved beside him, slower now. As if he remembered this place before he’d ever seen it.

Hannibal didn’t look at him. Instead, he paused before the largest fresco—a crucifixion scene, now reduced to bones of pigment and bare stone. The Christ figure had nearly vanished. Only the curve of ribs remained. And one outstretched hand, still reaching.

He spoke without turning. "Do you think the body remembers pain even when the mind refuses?”

Behind him, the man stepped closer. “I would also said forgiveness is only useful to the living.”

Hannibal turned slightly at that—just enough to catch the curve of Will’s reflection in the faded glass panel near the altar. “You know more than you reveal.”

The man stepped to his side now, hands in his coat pockets, gaze lifted toward the arching ceiling. “You curated most of my memory. It’s only fair I carry some of yours.”

Hannibal’s expression didn’t change, but something in his posture shifted—shoulders straighter, gaze colder. “And yet you leave so much unsaid.”

The man's voice, when it came again, was soft. “I say what you’re not ready to hear.”

Hannibal looked at him fully now. Less like a question. Like a judgment.

They stood beneath the remains of a painted heaven, staring at each other with centuries of silence pressing in.

The man tilted his head slightly, as if echoing an old gesture—one Hannibal had seen countless times but never taught.

He stepped forward—not to touch, not to challenge. Simply to stand where Hannibal had already decided the moment would happen.

“This was our test.” The man said, quietly. “But you brought us here again because you haven’t passed it.”

Hannibal blinked once. Slow. Then, in a voice colder than the chapel’s air: “I do not take tests.”

Will smiled, not unkindly. “No. You design them.” He turned his gaze back to the ceiling.

And Hannibal, who had brought him here to control the game, realized he was being studied in return.

***

Florence, Biblioteca degli Innocenti. One month after The Dinner.

Will wasn’t chasing a fugitive anymore; he was following something older, slower—a pulse that seemed to echo in his blood, a pattern that had been set long before either of them had the language to name it.

Florence wasn’t a lead to uncover, nor a mystery to solve.

It was a certainty.

The city was a crucible of art, history, resurrection—the same elements Hannibal had always folded into his life, his crimes, his love—and Will knew him well enough now to understand: Hannibal spoke more fluently in symbols than in words, and to a man who saw violence and beauty as reflections of each other, there could only ever be one destination.

Florence was inevitable.

Will booked the ticket without announcing it to anyone, without explaining it even to himself.
There were no grand declarations, no fantasies of confrontation or finality.
He wasn’t coming to punish Hannibal. He wasn’t even coming to capture him.

He was coming because there were things between them that refused to stay buried, because the distance had not cleansed anything, because absence had only made the unfinished parts of them heavier.

None of it, anymore, was clean.

There would be no righteous standoffs, no guns raised in sterile triumph; whatever reckoning awaited them, it would be written not in violence, but in the inevitable gravity that pulled them toward each other—always had, always would.

And within that gravity, silence would not be forgiveness.

It would be a promise.

The promise of something still unfinished. The promise of something neither of them would turn away from again.

***

Florence. Three weeks, four days after The Insincere Offering.

The rain had passed sometime in the early afternoon. The balcony stones were still damp, the lavender pots collecting thin beads of water along their leaves. In the distance, a bell tolled once. A low sound. Measured.

Hannibal sat alone in the study, door shut, the air inside laced faintly with cedar and ink.

He had brought no wine tonight. No fire. Only the clean flat surface of the desk before him, and a single sheet of paper.

He had once drawn a blueprint for their life—months ago, years maybe, depending on which Will he counted. A kitchen was large enough for two. A garden for herbs and nothing else. A guest room Abigail might never leave.

He remembered the angle of that first sketch. How steady his hand had been.

Now, he did not draw.

He folded his hands and considered the space in front of him.

The man was asleep. Or pretending to be. The breathing was always even, too controlled. Hannibal could hear it through the thin walls, could sense it, like the heat of a flame behind closed eyes.

He had not yet spoken the name aloud. But in his mind, it was no longer the man. Not tonight.

It was Will.

And that was the problem. He could feel himself responding. Subtle shifts: in how he poured the wine, in how he lingered in doorways just a moment longer. In how he no long feel like correcting Abigail when she used the name.

He had begun to allow. And Hannibal did not allow without consequence.

He exhaled slowly, letting the thought settle in his chest. It wasn't grief or anger.

Correction.

A course, not a punishment. There was grace in erasure, when done well.

He would not rush it. That was not his way. The moment would need care. Preparation. A setting that mirrored their bond—quiet, refined, without spectacle. He imagined a rooftop garden. Or perhaps the cloisters near Santa Maria Novella. Somewhere sacred. Somewhere slow.

It wouldn’t be cold. He would look Will in the eye. Offer him a final truth—perhaps even affection.

He had once imagined growing old beside this man. But time, he was learning, was no longer linear. And the ending must be precise.

Because Hannibal would not let himself be undone.

Not again. Not by the same face.

—

The afternoon light was pale and reverent as it filtered through the windows of the cloister garden. High stone arches rose in silent symmetry, vines curling around their bases with the indifference of age. A fountain murmured at the center, long since dulled by centuries of touch.

Hannibal moved through the space with his hands clasped behind his back, slow but not idle. He wasn't here to reflect. He was here to compose.

The space was perfect.

Private. Secluded. Sacred without being religious.

He had discovered it years ago. A walled garden once belonging to a Carthusian monastery, now tended by a single archivist who understood that silence was its only price. Certosa del Galluzzo. The chapel beside it was no longer in use. The gates had long forgotten how to lock.

No tourists. No noise. Just the slow breath of old stone and memory.

He stood beneath the open arch nearest the fountain, imagining the angle of the light near sunset. It would strike the columns in gold, fall across the marble bench with soft edges. He could already see the table. The bottle. The single glass.

There would be no fire. But there would be warmth. This would not be cold. That was the trap, after all.

He would ask Will to join him here. With civility. With care. With just enough closeness to lower his guard. A gesture, not of forgiveness, but of intimacy remembered.

It will be dinner. Or a walk. Perhaps both.

He would not bring Abigail. No one else would be permitted to bear witness.

This would belong to the two of them.

He paused by the fountain, touched the rim of its stone basin, wet with morning condensation. Beneath the surface, leaves had settled like coins—offered by hands too old or too reverent to wish for anything more.

Hannibal dipped his fingers into the water. It was cold. Thought not biting enough. He could work with that.

—

Hannibal entered the room with the lightest tread, the hush of the apartment evening-worn and still. The man stood by the balcony doors, his silhouette sharp against the dusk-soaked sky.

Hannibal studied the back of him—the relaxed spine, the stillness of the arms, the exactness of his presence. He had always known when Will was bracing himself. But this stillness wasn’t bracing.

It was withdrawal.

He approached quietly. The man didn’t turn.

Then Hannibal, with that voice he reserved for only the most precise of offerings, said:

“There is a cloister garden I’d like to show you.” Hannibal said. His voice was even, warm in tone. “Unkempt, but private. I find it... restorative.”

The man remained still for a long moment. Then he turned—slowly, without the tension of surprise. His face betrayed nothing. But the eyes, they gave too much.

“You used to say that before you fed me things I didn’t ask for.” The man replied, dry.

The words weren’t cruel. They weren’t even sharp. But they were chosen.

Hannibal did not deny it. And the man only nodded slightly, as if in acknowledgment of something old and familiar. He stepped back, didn’t refuse the invitation. But he didn’t accept it either.

He turned and walked down the hallway with an easy gait Hannibal had known for years. It was only when he passed the kitchen counter—where the man’s hand brushed the edge in reflex—that Hannibal felt it:

This wasn’t rejection; it was retreat.

Hannibal didn’t follow. Instead, he moved to the window, fingers resting lightly on the sill. From here, he could see only the rooftops, but not the people beneath them and what was being chosen in other rooms.

He could only heard the softened tread of footsteps. Heard the weight shift on the old couch. Heard Abigail’s voice murmur something low and not quite happy.

He didn’t catch the words. He didn’t need to. The man had gone to her. For shelter.

—

The morning passed without disruption.

The kitchen had been cleaned before Hannibal entered it. The kettle had been boiled, poured, and left empty on the stove. There were two cups in the sink. One still faintly smelled of Abigail’s jasmine blend.

Hannibal touched it. The porcelain was still warm. He found her reading later, but not in the common room—not where they used to sit together. She had taken it to the smaller bedroom, the one with the heavier curtains and the narrow reading lamp. When he passed the door, it was shut. Not locked. Closed.

There had been a time, not long ago, when she kept it open.

Hannibal continued down the hall, slow but composed. He found the man sitting at the table in the front room. The same table they’d shared dinner at three nights ago, when he served quail and allowed wine to mean approval. The same table where Hannibal had once reached for a second glass—only to find it already poured.

The man was there now, a book in hand, posture relaxed.

But something was missing. Not the man himself. He hadn’t left. He hadn’t recoiled. He hadn’t done anything so obvious as to name what had changed.

But his presence had altered. He was in the room, but not with Hannibal.

When Hannibal entered, the man didn’t look up. Not to acknowledge, not to offer, not even to adjust the shape of his silence to accommodate a second.

Hannibal paused at the edge of the table. He studied the line of the man’s jaw, the softness in his shoulders. It wasn't resignation—removal. Like he was remembering something too large to speak aloud. Like he had already gone back to wherever he came from, and had only left the shape of himself behind.

And that should have been a comfort.

It was not.

“You read that once before.” Hannibal said.

The man blinked. “I remember. The ending is still the same." Then he turned a page. "But the progress is much different now. When we know things happen inevitably, maybe we will concentrate more on the present."

No smile. No cruelty. Just memory. As if the act of remembering were enough.

Hannibal stood a moment longer. Then turned away, measured, unhurried.

He moved to the kitchen. Took out a second glass.

Filled it. Didn’t drink.

And didn’t ask why it now sat untouched for hours.

***

Florence. Three weeks six days from The Insincere Offering.

The air had gone dry by late afternoon. The sunlight fell long across the windows, fractured by the iron lattice. Dust swirled in the beams like motes of ash—weightless, careless. The man stood by the record player, selecting something wordless and slow. Cello, perhaps. Something with the shape of grief but none of its sound.

Hannibal approached without warning. He said nothing at first. Simply waited until the man placed the needle and the music began to hum softly into the room.

The man didn’t turn. He stood with his back half-turned, one hand resting on the edge of the console, the other brushing against the cuff of his sleeve like a restless habit.

Hannibal spoke low. Controlled. “You’ve changed your proximity. But not your presence.”

The man’s shoulders shifted slightly. “You noticed.”

“I notice everything.” Hannibal replied.

Silence. The music filled the pause—not romantic, not tragic. Just steady. A spine holding the moment upright.

“I offered you closeness.” Hannibal said. “You turned away. Are you rejecting my gifts, now?”

At that, the man turned. Nothing abruptly or dramatically in his movement. Just enough to meet Hannibal’s gaze head-on.

His face was calm. “You offered a stage.” He said. “Not a seat.”

And Hannibal didn’t move. Not visibly, though something inside him drew back—tightened. “You presume too much.” He said, voice cool.

“No.” The man replied softly. “I remember too much.”

He stepped away from the console, past Hannibal—not evasive. More like moving on.

But as he passed, he said, with perfect clarity: “I made a choice, Hannibal. This… silence, this distance? That’s yours. You chose it when you planned to take it from me.”

“Ironic, how our roles become.” He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. “I gave you a rare gift. But now you don't want it.”

And then he left the room.

—

The apartment was still. Not silent, never silent—still. The kind of stillness that lives between breaths.

Hannibal stood in the narrow hall between the music room and the kitchen, one hand resting against the archway. His fingers traced the grain of the old stone absently, though his mind was elsewhere.

The man’s words echoed through him.

“I made a choice, Hannibal. This… silence, this distance? That’s yours.”

It had not been cruel. And that only made it worse.

He had expected protest. Resistance. Perhaps even a final plea, beneath all that composure. But what he received was acceptance. A line drawn—not in anger, no, it was in understanding.

Understanding.

The most dangerous intimacy of all.

Hannibal had once thought he wanted Will Graham to know him completely. And perhaps he still did. But this man… this version… he did not only know him. He had already survived him. And that made him untouchable.

Hannibal inhaled slowly. Measured. The kind of breath he took before entering a dining room, or before driving in the final stitch of a suture.

He walked into the study. The light was pale there—late-day sun filtering through the tall windowpanes, painting thin lines across the rug. He crossed to the desk, the soles of his shoes quiet against the floor.

There, he paused.

There was nothing wrong. The apartment was clean. Abigail was safe. The man was still here. Every element of the life he had curated remained in place.

And yet—

The balance had shifted.

Hannibal closed his eyes. In his mind, he revisited the frescoes of the cloister garden. The broken saints. The half-vanished hand reaching out of the painted sky. He had taken the man there to prove a point. To remind him what beauty looked like when it was eroding.

But the man had looked up—and seen something else. Not loss like Hannibal expected. Continuance.

Hannibal opened his eyes. He was not ready to name what he had lost.

But he could name what had changed. He straightened the edge of a stack of letters. Smoothed the surface of the desk with his palm. And then, slowly, turned toward the kitchen.

It was time to speak to Abigail. But not with sentiment.

***

Florence. Three weeks seven days after The Insincere Offering.

The kitchen glowed in the late afternoon light, peaceful on the surface but stretched thin beneath. Abigail stood at the sink, the faucet running slow as she rinsed the remains of her apple bowl. Her movements were careful, each piece placed gently on the drying rack.

Hannibal paused in the doorway, letting the hush settle around him. The air carried the faintest trace of lemon and steel.

He waited. He wasn't uncertain, he only needed to collect himself. Each second spent on breath, on posture, on stillness—each one a defense against what he did not wish to feel.

Abigail glanced over her shoulder. She turned off the tap, wiped her hands on the towel, and faced him.

“Did you need something?” She asked, her tone soft but not yielding.

Hannibal studied her for a moment longer than necessary. The kitchen felt smaller than usual, as if it were folding in on them both.

“You’ve been… quieter.” He said, choosing the words with care.

“I’m tired.” Abigail replied, her voice low. “It’s just a lot.”

She didn’t look away, but her arms crossed over her stomach in a motion that might have been protective.

Hannibal moved to the counter, placing his hand flat on the marble surface. He didn’t reach for her, didn’t try to close the distance. Instead, he focused on the bowl she’d just cleaned, turning it a fraction so the pattern faced outward. It was a gesture of habit, not needed.

“You’ve changed your pattern.” He observed. “You close your door more often.”

Abigail’s jaw tensed, but she didn’t flinch. “People need space.”

He inclined his head—graceful, accepting, but not convinced. “He,” Hannibal began, carefully not naming him, “has drawn you in.”

Abigail shook her head, almost imperceptibly. “He hasn’t drawn me anywhere. I just… I just trust what I feel.”

Hannibal’s fingers flexed on the countertop. He fought the urge to tighten his grip. “Trust is earned.” He said quietly. “Not inherited.”

Abigail’s eyes narrowed, searching his face for a flicker of something—remorse, affection, warning. She found only composure. “You can’t earn what you already had.” She said, just above a whisper. “You can only lose it.”

The silence that followed was thin, stretched between them like glass.

Hannibal let it hold, refusing to blink.

Finally, Abigail turned. She picked up the bowl, carried it to the cupboard, and set it in place. She left the kitchen without another word.

Hannibal remained, his hand still pressed to the marble, feeling the faint chill seep up through his skin—a coldness that settled deeper than the bone.

—

The kitchen was empty again.

Hannibal stood at the counter long after Abigail’s footsteps had faded down the hall. The bowl remained where she’d set it, gleaming faintly beneath the overhead light. The scent of apples still lingered in the air.

He reached for the faucet and turned it on. Let the water run without purpose. The sound filled the room, a soft, lifeless rhythm. After a moment, he turned it off again.

There was nothing left to clean.

He moved to the sink, fingers resting against the cool edge of the basin. For a while, he simply breathed. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Measured. Studied. Like a man bringing himself back from something unspoken.

Her words lingered, brittle and precise.
You can’t earn what you already had… You can only lose it.

He had always believed loss was something you noticed—felt. But this… this was softer. It had happened gradually, silently. Like light fading from a room.
And by the time he reached for it, it was already gone.

This wasn’t grief. Grief would have required loss.

What he felt now was removal. Of proximity. Of influence. Of gravity.

The man no longer moved in orbit around him. Abigail had stopped looking for his approval.

He had not been abandoned. He had been surpassed.

The thought settled into him like wine soaking into linen—slow, ruinous, impossible to wash clean.

He turned from the sink.

The kitchen light flickered briefly as he passed beneath it, a subtle hum of electric fatigue. He crossed to the bookshelf near the hearth and opened the second drawer. Beneath the maps and pressed sketches, he drew out a leather-bound notebook. His hand lingered on the cover for a moment before opening it.

Inside were names. Places. Flavors. Memories.

He turned a page. Then another.

And finally stopped at a sketch—an unfinished drawing of a narrow room, windowless, domed above with a fresco half-erased by time.

He stared at it, long and quiet. It was his sketch, but it was not.

Something intimate. Something he hasn’t seen before.

Somewhere he cannot prepare for.

His hand moved slowly, pen curling letters into the space beneath the drawing.

The plan didn’t have to be elegant. But it would be final.

***

Florence. One month two weeks since they arrived in Florence.

The sun had dipped behind the buildings, casting the apartment in amber and shadow. The hallways were quiet. The kind of quiet that didn’t soothe. The kind that pressed against the skin. Abigail sat curled in the armchair near the hearth, book closed in her lap, unread. She hadn't turned a page in nearly half an hour.

Something had shifted.

She felt it in Hannibal’s footfalls—still measured, but quieter. More precise. In the way the glasses had been arranged on the counter earlier. Not for three.

For two.

She had known this was coming. From the moment she saw the man walk through the door carrying the same face as someone she thought she had buried in her own memory. From the moment she watched Hannibal serve him with reverence instead of control.

From the dinner. From the first time Hannibal offered her safety and called it family.

She had always known. The only surprise was that it had taken this long.

The man entered quietly. She didn’t look up at first. She didn’t need to. She could feel the weight in his movements. The gentleness was real. But it was also grief. Or maybe resignation.

He stopped near the couch. Not too close, near enough that she could feel it.

“He’s chosen something.” She said. It wasn’t a question.

Will exhaled softly, the sound brittle in the space between them. “Yes.”

A long pause. Then Abigail looked at him. “How long do you think I have?” She asked, not afraid.

Will didn’t answer. Because the truth was: She’d never had any.

He moved to kneel in front of her, slowly, one hand braced on the cushion beside her knee.

Their eyes met, and his—always so steady—were rimmed with something unspoken.

“I’m sorry.” He said. “I failed you again.”

Her throat tightened. She didn’t cry. She reached up and touched his face, less with affection, and more with clarity.

“It wasn’t your job.”

But they both knew he’d made it his.

They stayed like that for a moment, wrapped in silence. Then he stood. The invitation from Hannibal had already been extended. And he would go. Because that was the choice he had made.

***

Florence, Galluzzo—Certosa del Galluzzo.  One month after The Insincere Offering.

The cloister garden held the hush of old stone and older silence. Vines curled along the weathered columns, their leaves fluttering gently in the evening breeze. A small table sat near the center, clothed in white, wine already poured.

Hannibal waited alone. His posture was impeccable. His hands still. He had arranged every detail of the setting. The cutlery gleamed. The food—simple, elegant, final—sat untouched before him.

He was prepared. He heard the footsteps long before the man appeared, but he didn’t rise. Only lifted his eyes when the shape finally moved into view—calm, familiar, inevitable.

The man walked into the space like he belonged there. He wore no mask, no defense. His hands were empty. His mouth set with something soft.

Hannibal had built the garden like a tomb—every candle placed, every step rehearsed. The architecture of finality. But as the man entered—steady, untouched by ceremony—something shifted.

This didn’t feel like death. It felt like memory refusing to stay buried. Like something unfinished returning, not for closure, for continuation. Hannibal did not rise. But for the first time, he was not sure this was the end he had written.

The man stopped beside the chair across from Hannibal. “I see you’ve decided to orchestrate the same ending.” He said. “As expected, unfortunately. Have you decided the meaning of my ending yet, Dr. Lecter?”

Nothing bitter about this, merely observation. Hannibal said nothing at first. He gestured, elegant as always, to the chair.

“Naturally. You took the ending I had in mind, so I gave it back to you in kind. Quite fitting, don’t you think?”

“Right. Even Steven.”

The man sat. He didn’t reach for the wine. “Maybe both of us weren’t ready for this life at that time.” His eyes unreadable. “But this is ends faster than I thought. Tell me, what fuel you to complete this ending?”

“You drew to Will Graham because he has potential, and his ability to understand killer.” He leaned forward; eyes fixed on Hannibal. “Not gonna lie, but I am confident I could read you better. Isn’t that what you want? To be understand.”

Hannibal didn’t answer him, his shoulders were cold. He reached for the wine, swirling it, took one slip.

“You just want to shape Will Graham into what you want. I wonder, if he keeps giving pieces of himself to you… what’s left? Is it still him, or just a vessel of your will?” The man continued. “While I understand you, I’d already molded by someone else. And things that not under your control unsettled you. ”

Hannibal didn’t deny, but his lips curved a little, barely.

At that, the man didn’t continue. He sipped his wine, calming like what waiting for him wasn’t an ending. They ate in quiet. Forks touched porcelain. Bread broke clean. There were no toasts. No arguments. Just two men finishing the meal that had started years ago.

When the plates were cleared and the wine low in their glasses, Hannibal stood. He took the knife from the table—not large, not crude, never that. A clean, sharp edge. Elegant. He held it with the same care he once held violins.

The man rose too. He stepped forward, slowly. They stood a breath apart. “I’m sorry I took that choice from you, Hannibal."

The blade remained between them, gripped steady in Hannibal’s hand, gleaming faintly in the half-light. He didn't raised, didn't drawn back. Simply held, suspended in the silence like a question waiting for its subject.

Will’s gaze didn’t waver. He looked at Hannibal as one might look at an old painting—knowing it by heart, even as the cracks began to show. His expression wasn’t sorrowful. It was quiet, threaded with something older than grief, something that had long outgrown fear.

He stepped forward. Hannibal didn’t stop him.

The distance closed gently, like hands folding over a flame. And when Will’s mouth touched his, it was not in urgency, nor pain, instead, it was something unexpected—reverence. A kiss without possession. A kiss like a farewell prayer.

Hannibal froze beneath it. Not from confusion. From knowing—down to the pulse in his fingertips—what this was.

Will’s breath was warm against his lips, steady even now. His hands had come up—not to push the blade, not yet—to hold Hannibal's face, thumbs resting just beneath his cheekbones as if to memorize their shape one final time.

And then, with pressure so gentle—He leaned in.

Hannibal felt it. Not the puncture itself. The shift. The slight resistance of muscle giving way. The tremble of Will’s breath catching for the first time. The warm bloom between them—thick, metallic, unmistakable.

His fingers tightened around the hilt, but he did not push. He had not made this choice.

Will had taken it from him. Will was taking everything from him. Even his ending. Two times, now.

He tried to pull back. To see. To say something, but Will held him fast, kissed him deeper, with a tenderness that ached. As if he could keep the pain at bay just a little longer by staying close.

And Hannibal—who had planned this moment to be precise, to be final—found himself unraveling within it.

Because Will was crying.

He didn’t sob. Didn’t tremble. Yet, the tears traced hot down his cheeks, catching between their mouths, and Hannibal tasted them. Salt and copper. Regret and peace. He didn’t acknowledge his own tears until he saw the reflection in Will’s eyes.

They stood like that for a long moment—neither releasing, nor finishing. Just breathing together in that narrow space between violence and love.

Then Will’s strength began to falter. His knees gave first, and Hannibal caught him—automatically, silently—as if to deny gravity the satisfaction of taking him.

He knelt with him, lowering them to the ground with care. The knife was still in place, buried no deeper than his script. Hannibal’s hand hovered over it, unsure whether to bring him home or leave him there.

After a moment, he applied pressure to the wound. A silver tray lay nearby—used to hold wine, now empty. In its surface, warped by candlelight, Hannibal saw them both. His own hands red, Will’s face pale against his shoulder.

It was a mirror, but not the kind that reflected. The man looking back at him was no longer the one who had planned this ending.

Will’s head tipped against his shoulder, breath thinner now, but his eyes remained open.

There was no plea in them. Only forgiveness Hannibal hadn’t asked for.

And he knew he couldn’t finish this ending. Not anymore. Not when he was seen clearly. Not when this man was an echo of his Will.

Chapter Text

Florence. Two hours after The Not-Quite Death.

The apartment was dim when Hannibal returned. He carried Will carefully—blood soaked through the layers, but no longer fresh. The wound had missed anything vital. Just deep enough to mark. Not deep enough to claim.

Hannibal had tended to worse.

He laid Will on the bed they didn’t share, in the room that still smelled faintly of rosemary and ink. He pressed the edge of a cloth against the line of a healing wound, fingers steady, eyes focused. Yet, what he saw wasn't blood, or the pain. It was the warmth beneath the skin. Proof of life.

Will stirred beneath his touch. Not with a wince. With words.

“You were supposed...” His voice was raw with sleep, but there was a fracture beneath it. “You were supposed to leave.”

Hannibal stilled. The words were the same. But the voice was different.

The cloth in his hand hovered in the air between them.

“I did.” Will added after a moment, breathless. “I did leave. Another time.”

The room held stillness, too heavy to feel like peace. Hannibal sat back, slowly lowering the cloth. His hands folded in his lap. His gaze fell, not in shame—no, it was something quieter. Older.

He reached for the glass of water, passed it to Will without speaking. Will took it. Drank. Then lowered it, eyes fixed on Hannibal now. Clear. Unforgiving.

“I wasn’t meant to come back.” Will said. “Not like this. Not... to you like this.”

He shifted, pressing the glass to his forehead, letting it cool the heat that had bloomed behind his eyes.

“I was supposed to be the punishment.” He whispered.

“And instead,” Hannibal said, with something approaching reverence. “You were the proof.”

“I came back to keep you from losing everything.” Will murmured. “Like I did.”

Hannibal tilted his head, catching the shadow of grief in his voice, but said nothing. They sat in silence after that. Hannibal resumed tending the wound, but slower now. With hands that trembled just slightly—not from fear, never. But from being known too well.

Later, he made soup. Chicken, fresh stock, rice, the simplest thing he could offer. He brought the bowl in with both hands and sat at the edge of the bed.

Will opened his eyes. He didn’t look angry. Just tired. Alive.

“Will.” Hannibal said, gently, the name spoken like a confession.

Will’s lips curved faintly, dry and cracked. “You finally said it.” He murmured, half a laugh caught in the corner of his mouth.

“Did you doubt I would?”

“No.” Will’s breath brushed warm against Hannibal’s neck. “I just wondered how long you’d wait.”

Hannibal turned slowly, letting the proximity linger between them. Will’s eyes held no challenge, only an openness that quietly unnerved him. 

Will smiled faintly, the expression carrying years of unspoken conversation. “You never did anything without purpose.”

In silent agreement, Hannibal resumed tending Will, returned to the cloister table. He looks down at the knife. Then—without conscious intent—he sets the hilt gently back where Will had placed it. A gesture of control, reclaimed. But the weight in his chest didn’t lift.

***

Florence. The next morning after The Not-Quite Death.

That first morning after the dinner, Hannibal could not make the coffee. Because his hands shook in the stillness—the domesticity too clean, too close to the life he had once dared to imagine. He had drawn a life around someone who had not yet loved him. And now here it was—waiting, breathing, brushing against his shoulder at the sink. It should’ve felt like grace. Yet, it felt like trespassing.

The kitchen smelled faintly of thyme and ash, the remnants of last night’s wine still clinging to the glass on the counter. The window was open a crack. Just enough to remind him that the world outside kept moving.

Behind him, he could hear Will moving through the apartment. Quiet steps. Familiar, but not rehearsed. No clatter, no questions. Just presence, just there. And that was the problem.

Hannibal had once imagined this quiet. He had crafted it carefully, folded it between the pages of a life that never came to pass. And now—it was here, something inside him recoiled from it. The ritual had returned—but it no longer felt like ritual. It felt like a memory being acted out by strangers.

But something in it felt unearned.

The knife he had set down was too clean. Too clean. He hadn’t needed to use it this morning. The ingredients remained untouched. The eggs sat whole in their bowl.

There had been a ritual here, once. A pattern. Now it moved around him instead of through him. The music wasn’t playing. Hannibal hadn’t put it on. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to.

A mug appeared beside him. Empty. Porcelain thin. He hadn’t heard Will come in. Will didn’t speak. He leaned against the counter, fingers curled loosely around the lip of the sink, looking somewhere past Hannibal’s shoulder.

“I thought you liked quiet mornings, Dr. Lecter.” He said eventually.

Hannibal’s gaze flicked toward him, but not fully. “I do.”

Hannibal’s hands stayed still. It was not the first time Will had used the title. But it had been some time since he last did.

The tone was different now. The voice familiar, but not the same. And it caught Hannibal off guard. He stood very still. Will didn’t linger. He straightened and walked away without another word. No tension in his step. No final glance.

But Hannibal remained. The cup stayed empty. The apple left on the counter. He poured hot water anyway, watched the tea begin to steep, slowly blooming outwards like ink in clean water.

He didn’t drink it. Only stood there. In the life he had once longed for, now inhabited by a man he did not know how to love—not yet—not without unraveling something in himself first.

***

Florence. Two days after The Not-Quite Death.

The morning unfolded like it had been practiced.

The windows were cracked open just enough to let the breeze stir the curtains, carrying with it the faint scent of rosemary and stone. The street below murmured softly—vendors setting up their stalls, a bicycle bell ringing twice, distant, like a memory already fading.

Hannibal stood at the counter, slicing figs. He worked without urgency, each cut even, deliberate, performed with the same care he gave to much larger things. He paused at the sink to rinse the fruit knife, and in the polished steel of the faucet, he caught the faintest reflection—not Will behind him, it was his own face, distorted, lined in shadow. Blood had dried beneath one nail. His hands looked familiar. But the man holding them did not.

Beside him, the coffee had already been brewed—its warmth infused the air, grounding it. Behind him, he could hear Will moving through the rooms. A robe brushing fabric, the pad of bare feet on tile, a faint cough that didn’t sound troubling but still lingered too long in Hannibal’s mind.

He arranged the fruit on the plate in a slow curve. Will appeared in the doorway a moment later, hair still wet, collarbones marked faintly with sleep and bandages. He didn’t speak at first—he simply watched Hannibal work.

Hannibal did not turn. “You’ve changed the coffee.” Will said finally, voice hoarse but dry with amusement. “You used to prefer darker roasts.”

“Tastes evolve.” Hannibal replied, placing the final slice. “Or revert.”

Will made a small sound—something between agreement and remembering. He crossed the kitchen, took the offered cup without needing to be told which was his. They stood together like that for a while, sharing silence. 

And yet—As Hannibal sipped from his own cup, his eyes drifted over the counter. To the place Will had set his spoon. A different angle than before. Slightly to the left. And it was.. unfamiliar.

It was a small thing. It meant nothing. But it sat in his chest like a splinter of glass.

This was not his Will. Not the one who had betrayed him. Not the one who had shared his table, his kills, his grief. This man moved with knowledge that had never been given. He touched things with hands that had already learned about him—without his consent.

But he made the coffee just right. He folded the linen just so.

And when he passed behind Hannibal to fetch a second plate, he didn’t brush against him—but came close enough that Hannibal could feel the warmth of him, steady and unworried.

He didn’t belong here. Not truly. But he was here.

***

Florence. Three days after The Not-Quite Death.

By late afternoon, the sun had pulled long shadows across the floor, casting thin lines through the shutters. The apartment was quiet, but not dormant. There was movement—soft, infrequent, deliberate.

Hannibal sat in the music room, a small volume open on his lap, though his eyes had long since stopped moving across the page. The record spun behind him, an old cello piece humming low through the speakers—Britten, if he remembered correctly. Will had chosen it.

The scent of the apartment had shifted subtly over the past few days. Less clove, more linen. The soap had changed. His razors had been moved—not improperly, not carelessly. Just… differently. Will had taken to rinsing the teapot before Hannibal reached for it. He was in rhythm, and that, made it harder to fault.

A faint cough echoed from down the hall. Hannibal didn’t move. It had been coming and going—more a reminder than a warning. He had offered broth the day before. Will had accepted it without comment.

That had unsettled Hannibal more than he cared to admit. The book in his hands slipped slightly; he adjusted it. No pages turned. He wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting there. The apartment no longer held tension. It held something worse.

Familiarity. Not the kind that demanded adjustment or performance. The kind that arrived before permission.

And Will—this version of him, worn with time, steady in his silences—had stopped looking at Hannibal the way he once had. Not with fear, or uncertainty. Not with hope. Not even with disappointment.

Recognition, the quiet kind. It was the look one gave a painting long studied. Still beautiful. No longer surprising.

That, Hannibal realized, was the shift he couldn’t name. Will was no longer surprised by him.

And Hannibal, for the uncountable time in days, reminded himself the thought: He is not mine.

—

Florence. Five days since Will accepted Hannibal's Invitation.

The apartment was quiet again, but in a different register—less restful, more... suspended. As though the walls themselves were holding their breath.

Abigail stood in the threshold of the study, arms folded loosely, the collar of her sweater stretched by thumb and forefinger. She hadn’t knocked. Hannibal hadn’t looked up from his chair.

“He’s walking more.” She said, not unkindly.

Hannibal scrolled a page in the iPad that had been there for nearly an hour.

“Yes.”

Abigail stepped into the room, slow, familiar. She paused beside the armchair, no longer looking at Hannibal, but out the tall window. The rooftops glowed dull orange in the late sun.

“It’s strange, isn’t it.” She murmured, “To be given something you wanted. But in the wrong shape.”

That earned her a glance. A quiet pause.

“You’re speaking in riddles.”

“You taught me to.” She smiled faintly.

Hannibal said nothing for a long moment. His fingers only traced the margin of the page, just for remembering.

Finally, he said: “He kissed me.”

Abigail’s breath caught just slightly. She wasn't surprise, it was more like recognition. She knew what between them was inevitable. “And?”

“He cried.”

Oh.

Abigail sat on the edge of the harpsichord bench, facing slightly away from him. She waited.

“He knew exactly how much to give. And how much to take.”

“That’s love.” She said, gently.

“It was design.”

She looked at him then. Really looked. “It’s always both to you.” She replied.

The silence stretched between them, thin and loaded. The shadows on the wall deepened. Hannibal exhaled softly through his nose. Not quite a laugh.

And she stood, crossed behind his chair, and rested a hand briefly on his shoulder. Just once. Just long enough to remind him that she’d heard everything he hadn’t said.

***

Florence. One week after The Not-Quite Dead.

The living room was warm with steam from the stockpot, the scent of broth and thyme curling gently around the edges of the room. Hannibal sat on the coach, reading the newspaper.

Will entered quietly, as he often did now, bare feet padding softly over the tile. But something in the way he moved was different—not restless. No. he looked like he had done waiting. Will leaned against the frame of the doorway, arms crossed.

“You’ve been folding your grief into rituals again.” He said.

Hannibal didn’t turn. “Broth is not grief.”

“No.” Will said, his voice quieter now. “But the way you serve it is.”

Hannibal put the newspaper down. “You’ve been watching me.” He said.

"Hard to avoid." Will stepped into the room now, closer, slow. “That’s all you let me do.”

He continued. His voice didn’t rise. But there was a tremor in it—exhaustion. “You won’t ask me to stay. You won’t ask me to leave. You won’t say my name unless I bleed for it.”

“You wanted me here.” Will continued. “You brought me into this half-life you call peace. And now you’ve decided it’s safer to treat me like an echo.”

Hannibal finally turned. He faced Will fully, hands clean, expression controlled.

“You aren’t the man I lost.” He said, "And I hadn't brought you here."

“No.” Will said. “I’m the one you could’ve had, if you’d stopped trying to shape me into something that only lives in your mind.”

The air between them grew heavy—hot with steam, heavy with silence.

“So say it, Hannibal. Say what you want. Or don’t. But if you keep treating this like it’s temporary, it will be.”

Will turned before Hannibal could speak again.

The broth continued to simmer, its soft bubbling now the only sound left in the kitchen. Hannibal stood perfectly still, one hand resting on the counter, the other hanging by his side, loose for once.

The doorframe where he had stood moments ago was empty now, but it still held the outline of him—like the burn of an afterimage in Hannibal’s vision.

The words had landed deeper than Hannibal expected. They weren't wrong, no, they were true, said plainly, without cruelty. Will had offered no performance. No manipulation. He had only named what Hannibal would not.

His gaze dropped to the pot. The scent had changed—less inviting now, too salty, like it had cooked too long.

Overworked. Overheld. 

He reached to lower the flame, fingers grazing the knob, and paused.

Will had seen it. All of it. The way Hannibal softened things he could not speak of. The way he curated connection instead of claiming it. The way he held Will at arm’s length—it wasn't because to punish him, but to preserve the illusion that he still had a choice.

Because the truth was: If Hannibal admitted that he wanted this version of Will—the man who had kissed him and cried—was to want something non-malleable.

And wanting that was dangerous. Wanting that meant giving up his control. Again.

He turned off the stove. The silence rushed in quickly—almost too quickly. The kind that demanded a decision. He stood in the center of the kitchen, surrounded by warmth, food, memory. Alone.

But for the first time in days, he realized: If he did nothing, Will may leave.

And he would deserve it, this time.

—

Later, alone in the study, Hannibal went to the bookshelf where he kept the sketchbook. He hadn’t touched it since he remembered putting it here.

He touched it now, fingers brushing the charcoal. For a moment, his breath caught. It was like the first time, all over again.

Hannibal didn’t open the book out of longing. He opened it because Will had looked at him—and seen the way he curated instead of claimed. He had once drawn Will’s face to preserve it, before the betrayal happened. Now, the man in the other room waited to see if Hannibal could love something unpreserved.

He knows he didn’t deserve this version of Will. Not yet. Hannibal closed the book. Slowly. As though the act itself required apology.

***

Florence. One week, two days after The Not-Quite Death.

The carrots were firm beneath the blade—too clean, too orange, as if they hadn’t grown in real soil. Hannibal sliced them slowly anyway. The sound of the knife against the board was quiet, but not silent. The kitchen was always filled with soft noises—boiling water, the exhale of the gas flame, the brush of his breath when he focused too long.

He hadn’t chosen a complex dish today. No layered reductions. No seared foie gras. Just root vegetables, lentils, a broth already steeping with cumin and thyme. Something ordinary. Something humbling.

He told himself it was for the weather.

But when he reached for the paring knife, another hand was already there.

Will didn’t speak as he passed the smaller blade to him—just met his eyes briefly, like checking the temperature of the room. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow. The soft navy of his sweater made him look thinner, somehow. Younger, in certain angles. He moved to the other end of the counter, close enough to observe, yet too far to touch. He picked up the garlic and began peeling. Slowly. Cleanly.

They worked like that for a time. Not together, not separate either. Each absorbed in their task, though Hannibal found himself watching Will’s knuckles more than his own reflection in the blade. Will didn’t look up.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. 

It was the silence of trial. Of gauging boundaries.

The scent of garlic bloomed sharply in the air. Hannibal didn’t mask it with lemon or wine. He let it linger.

He kept his eyes low, but his attention never strayed far from the man across the counter. Will’s movements were steady—neither hesitant nor overly precise. Just calm. Which made them harder to read.

He had studied Will Graham long enough to know what stillness could mean. But this version—this Will—wasn’t masking rage. Or fear. Or longing.

And Hannibal didn’t know what to do with that.

Will didn’t glance up when he finally spoke. “This is where we always ended up.”

His voice was soft. But it was neutral, like he stating a fact. Still, Hannibal knew, those words carried more weight than it sounded.

“The kitchen.”

Hannibal let his fingers still on the knife. “It is where control becomes conversation.” He said.

A beat passed. The water bubbled low behind him. The light shifted on the tiles. Then—Will looked at him. Just for a second.

“Only if you let it be.”

He set down the peeled cloves on the board. Turned. And left. No door slam. No pointed silence. Just a step away, like air being let from a room.

Hannibal stood, alone with steam and spice and the lingering scent of garlic on his hands. The carrots were half-finished; the knife rested neatly beside the cutting board.

He didn’t move to finish the dish.

—

Hannibal didn’t finish the soup. He tasted it once, found it passable, and left the spoon in the pot.

The kitchen had cooled. The garlic scent dulled. Somewhere outside, a bell rang for vespers—early, perhaps. Or late. He had stopped keeping track of time in the usual way.

He stood by the sink for a while, fingers resting lightly on the counter, then moved to the sitting room, quietly. He passed the room where Will had gone. The door was cracked, no sound came through. Hannibal didn’t look in.

He returned to the kitchen. Wiped the counter again. Sat briefly at the table, then stood once more.

The chair across from him still held the faint dent of where Will had been. He didn’t reach to smooth it. Instead, Hannibal walked to the shelves near the window. The light was blue now, seeping in with that late hour softness that made everything look more forgiving than it was.

He ran his hand along the edge of the frame where Will’s coat had hung earlier that day. 

It wasn’t there now. He didn’t know if that meant something.

He only knew that in the quiet aftermath of their earlier moment, in the not-quite-conversation over carrots and garlic, something had been given. Or at least offered.

And now it was his turn.

He moved from the shelves. Past the dining room. Past the faint echo of unplayed music. Toward the door left ajar. Hannibal paused there, watching.

Will sat curled in the armchair, legs drawn up, a blanket tucked haphazardly around him. A book rested on his chest, long abandoned, his eyes closed but not in sleep. Just stillness. The kind that guarded against disappointment.

Hannibal entered without a word.

The floor didn’t creak beneath him—he moved like he always did, soundless and precise. But this time, when he stopped beside the armchair, he didn’t carry anything.

No wine. No plates. No justifications.

Just his presence.

Will’s eyes opened slowly. He didn’t sit up. Didn’t speak. But he looked at Hannibal—long enough for a question to rise between them.

Hannibal reached for the blanket’s edge, smoothing it slightly with a quiet motion. Then he crouched, slowly, beside the armchair. Just close, nothing dramatic. At eye level. His hand hovered near Will’s, resting on the armrest. He didn’t reach for it. Not yet. Will watched him for a moment longer—his gaze softer now, but still guarded. He looked like a stray, feeling warmth for the first time from the very human who had once hurt him — and yet, he still yearned for it. And it some ways, it was true.

Hannibal’s fingers shifted closer, brushing lightly against the back of Will’s hand. A touch like breath. He didn’t grip. He didn’t take.

He offered. Will’s fingers moved—he didn't pull away, but curl around his, slowly. Deliberately.

There was no ceremony. Just contact. Warm, unspoken. The first shared space that wasn’t dictated by pain.

When he drew back, Will didn’t release his hand. He didn’t smile, but his eyes softened—tired, not tired of this. Maybe tired of waiting too long.

They stayed like that, unmoving. Neither of them needed to speak. The unsaid apology had been made. And—for now—it had been accepted.

***

Florence, Sant’Ambrogio Market. One month, three weeks after The Dinner.

Will had been in the city for two weeks. He hadn’t spoken to anyone.

He moved through Florence like a man quietly unraveling—quietly, carefully. A scarf pulled high, his steps soft, his eyes always searching. 

Every morning, he’d gone to a different place.

The Duomo di Firenze. Santa Croce. A crumbling archive near Ponte Vecchio. Places he remembered from a photograph in an old file, or an overheard whisper in the FBI’s colder years.

No sign of Hannibal.

But yesterday, he’d sat too long in a dusty reading room with a stack of case files he shouldn’t have had access to. Italian, mostly. Poorly translated. Faded. But the name had been there.

Il Mostro di Firenze.

And the signature—different, but familiar. The same flair. The same hunger.

Will had closed the file slowly. He hadn’t needed to read further.

Today, he followed that name. And it brought him here.

—

The office was tucked behind a narrow courtyard, wedged between two abandoned shops. No plaque on the door. No receptionist. Just the faint scent of stale paper and old cologne.

Pazzi was older now. Greying at the temples, hands stained with ink. He didn’t rise when Will entered—just looked up with a weariness that came from too many years of knowing no one would believe him.

“You’re not the first to ask about Il Mostro.” He said. “But you are the first to look like you’ve already met him.”

Will stayed silent.

Pazzi didn’t need confirmation. “He didn’t kill as Il Mostro anymore.” The man continued, tapping his fingers once against a folder. “But he’s still here. I’ve always known. I saw him once, you know. Years ago. In a gallery. He smiled at me like a man who’d been watching me longer than I’d been watching him.”

Will’s throat tightened. “You’re still looking for him.” He said.

Pazzi nodded. “And you’re still haunted by him.” A pause. “But the question is… why are you only looking now?”

Will didn’t answer. He wasn’t ready to say it aloud—not yet. Not that he was looking for a man he’d already betrayed. Not that he was afraid he wouldn’t recognize him if he found him.

Or worse—that he would.

***

Florence. That night after The Unsaid Forgiven.

The apartment was dim, lit only by the low amber glow of a single lamp. The curtains breathed faintly in the open window’s draft. Hannibal sat alone in the study, a small velvet box resting on the desk before him—shut, untouched.

He had taken it down from the upper shelf an hour ago.

Had dusted it with the hem of his sleeve. Hadn’t opened it.

Inside was a watch. Antique. Slim-banded. Gold where it wasn’t leather. He had planned to give it to Will once, when they ran together to Florence, long before anything had broken between them. He had chosen it carefully, like all his offerings. No, it wasn't rare., not really. But because it kept time without ever needing to be wound. Something quiet. Relentless. Faithful.

He didn’t open the box now. Just stared at it.

In the other room, he could hear the soft clink of silverware being put away. The man—his Will, not his Will—was clearing the kitchen without being asked. No words, no footsteps, just that same echo of familiarity worn like a coat.

But it was the wrong season. The wrong weight.

Hannibal stood, crossed the room slowly, and turned the lock on the drawer. The box slid inside with barely a sound. He pressed his palm flat to the wood. Held it there. Then removed his hand and left the room.

The hallway stretched quiet, dimly lit. He passed the closed guest room door, the empty music room, and moved into the bedroom he still did not fully sleep in. He undressed with care. Folded his clothes too neatly. Didn't lay down on the bed, but on the edge of it, with his back to the door.

Sleep did not come easily that night.

—

In the dream, it was always the garden.

Sunlight filtered through olive branches, dappling the stone walk with soft shadow. Hannibal stood at the far end, pruning shears in one hand, the scent of rosemary crushed between his fingers. A breeze curled past him, warm and foreign. From the archway, someone approached—footsteps slow, familiar.

Will.

The one who had walked away. Not the man who now stood at his stove or brushed his shoulder when reaching for a knife. This Will—his shirt wrinkled from sleep, his eyes too tired to hide anything—looked at Hannibal as if nothing needed to be said. As if everything had already been forgiven. As if the world had never come apart.

And then—behind him, in the garden’s shadows—

The man watched. He wasn't moving, wasn't intruding. Just there, simply there. Fixed as a statue carved of silence and ache.

Hannibal turned, dream-heavy, unable to look at both at once. And when he faced the garden again—

Only the shadow remained.

He woke to find the bedroom washed in pale dawn. Cool light. No warmth yet.

Will—the one who stayed—gave him a glass of water.

Their eyes met. No one spoke.

And yet Hannibal felt something sharp twist inside him. He had dreamed of someone who was no longer his. And awakened beside someone who had never left.

He looked at the clock. Four in the morning. He rose without a word, dressed quietly, and made the coffee by hand—too careful, too precise. The cup he placed before Will trembled just slightly in the saucer.

He said nothing about it. Will didn’t ask. His fingers only lingered a beat longer when he took the cup from Hannibal’s hands.

***

Florence. Two next mornings after The Dream.

The apartment smelled faintly of toasted bread and butter.

Will stood at the stove—he wasn't cooking, just watching. The kettle hadn’t yet whistled. The knife lay untouched beside the loaf. There was no performance in the air today. Just the quiet hum of something unfinished, yet no longer bleeding.

Hannibal entered the kitchen barefoot, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He didn’t speak at first. Only glanced once at Will’s hands—steadier now than they used to be. The kind of steadiness earned, no longer inherited.

“Still deciding if I’ll share.” Will said, tilting his head toward the half-wrapped bread. His voice wasn’t sharp. Just wry.

Hannibal stepped beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. “I can be patient.”

Will gave a soft exhale that might have been a laugh. “I know.”

It was the first morning in weeks that neither of them wore armor.

No veiled philosophy. No deflection disguised as civility. Just two men standing in a kitchen waiting for water to boil.

Will moved first. He handed Hannibal the knife.

And Hannibal—who once would’ve dressed an entire table before inviting Will in—took it without a word. He sliced the bread slowly, carefully, fingers adjusting as Will fetched two mismatched plates from the drying rack. No napkins. No wine. Just bread and a smear of salted butter, softening between their palms.

They sat on opposite sides of the table. Will didn’t look at him constantly—but when he did, it lingered.

His stare was knowing. The same way you might look at someone whose story you’ve almost memorized—but want to hear again.

They ate slowly. Nothing needed to be said. But when Hannibal rose to refill the water, Will reached across the table—just briefly—to adjust the edge of the napkin by Hannibal’s place.

***

Florence. Two days after The Shared Breakfast.

The light in the apartment was pale and gold, the kind that softened everything it touched. It streamed through the tall windows and spilled across the table where Hannibal sat, a cup of black tea cooling slowly between his hands.

Will moved quietly in the kitchen, bare feet on tile, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He didn’t ask what Hannibal wanted for breakfast. He already knew.

There was no tension—at least, not the kind that begged to be broken. But there was a stillness between them. A kind of holding pattern. Like they had reached the edge of something that had not yet asked to be named.

Will placed a small plate in front of Hannibal—figs, thin slices of ricotta, the toast just barely golden at the edges. Hannibal’s gaze flicked up briefly to meet his. It held longer than it used to.

“You remember how I take everything.” Hannibal said, voice low.

Will sat across from him. “I remember you liked things done deliberately.” He said. “That hasn’t changed.”

They ate in quiet rhythm. Tea passed without request. Knives set down soundlessly. There was something domestic about it, yes—but also suspended. Unspoken.

Hannibal studied Will over the rim of his cup. He still didn’t know when he had stopped refer him as ‘not-his-Will’

It had happened without announcement. Somewhere between the soup, the glass of water and the hand he’d held the night before. Somewhere in the space between refusal and reluctant acceptance.

This was not the Will he had built dreams around.

And yet—he was beginning to let the dreams fade, their sharp edges dulling with time.

Will caught him staring and gave the smallest tilt of his head, amused. “What?” He asked.

Hannibal shook his head slightly. He set down his cup. “Nothing.” He said. “Only realize that I’ve stopped waiting for you to leave.”

That silenced the air between them. Will didn’t smile. But his eyes softened. “I wasn’t waiting for permission to stay.” He said. “Just a reason.”

Hannibal reached across the table, fingers brushing lightly over the back of Will’s hand.

For once, he allowed himself to have this.

***

Florence. Three weeks after they came back together.

The apartment had grown quieter in a different way lately. Gentler. Like the rooms had learned how to breathe in time with the two men who moved through them. Abigail sat curled on the couch, pretending to read while her eyes tracked the kitchen doorway without turning her head.

Will stood at the stove, sleeves pushed to his elbows, wrist flexed just enough as he stirred the sauce. Hannibal moved behind him, reaching for something on the shelf—and Will’s hand found the small of his back, steadying him without even looking.

Hannibal didn’t flinch. Didn’t comment. He simply continued the motion, as if that touch had always been part of it.

This was the third time this week.

Abigail turned a page without reading it.

Later, when Will leaned forward to hand Hannibal the tasting spoon, their hands brushed deliberately—too long to be accidental. Hannibal’s fingers caught his wrist, briefly. A silent conversation passed between them. No words.

They both acted like she wasn’t there.

This had been going on for days.

Touches that lingered. And the kind of glances that might as well be wedding vows.

She wasn’t mad. She wasn’t jealous. She wasn’t even particularly impressed.

She was just… done.

At dinner, Hannibal poured Will's wine without asking. Will stole a bite from Hannibal's plate without looking at him.

It was pathetic. Not because it was false. No, worse, because it was so real it hurt to look at it.

And yet neither of them would say it aloud.

Abigail closed her book, placed it face down on her lap, and looked toward the kitchen where Hannibal was now fussing with the table settings, while Will wiped his hands and tried not to smile.

“Jesus Christ.” She muttered.

Neither of them heard her. Or pretended not to. She shook her head and picked up the book again.

***

Florence. Three weeks after the first morning they didn’t wear amours.

It began with a name in the papers. A man recently released, too quietly, after a string of cases collapsed under technicalities. Florence knew him. The city turned its face away.

The details were there in the file Hannibal left on the desk, not directly addressed to Will—but he’d seen it. Read every word. The language was clinical. Cold. But the facts were undeniable.

Children. Two girls. One boy. All under the age of twelve. All silent now.

Will said nothing when he put the file down. He didn’t ask if Hannibal expected anything. He simply dressed with care.

The man they found was walking home from a bar. Alone. Arrogant. A little drunk, but not enough to dull the kind of attention that makes skin crawl. He looked at people the way others looked at windows. To see inside. To test the lock.

They waited.

And when the time came, Hannibal didn’t speak. He stood near the far end of the alley—silent, polished, composed. This was not his kill.

It was Will’s. Another test.

The man made a sound when Will stepped into view, but it didn’t last long. The blade was quick. Nothing savage and indulgent about this. There was no speech, no declaration. Just movement—controlled, direct, merciless.

Hannibal watched. And hoped.

Not for the blood. Not for the final stillness. 
He watched for what would happen after. For the moment guilt would catch Will by the throat. For the flinch. For the regret. The way he once watched on the other Will.

But this Will only breathed—steady, shallow—and cleaned the blade against the man’s coat like the most natural thing.

There was blood, yes. It soaked into the man’s coat, pooled at the hem of Will’s trousers. His hand shook once after the final blow, but not from uncertainty. Just from relief.

It was over. An easy kill.

When Will looked up, their eyes met across the space.

No horror. No questions. Not at all, only certainty.

Hannibal felt it then, dangerous and immediate—a sharp, reckless hope he had spent too long trying to extinguish.

Will had understood, seen him. And, more important, Will had not fled.

And the world, in that instant, tipped closer toward something Hannibal had almost let himself believe he would never find again.

Hannibal approached as Will stood over the body, breath coming heavy now, damp at the collar. Their eyes met—briefly, quietly—and something unspoken passed between them. Hannibal kissed him first. Near the edge of his jaw. Quick. Warm. Real. Nothing dramatic.

A permission fulfilled.

Hannibal lifted a hand, and Will stepped into it. Their mouths met—heated. Full of something older than desire, and far more dangerous. The kiss was slow, deliberate. Tasting of copper and salt, and also trust.

Will pressed closer, mouth dragging across Hannibal’s jaw, hands gripping the lapel of his coat as if he might anchor himself there. Hannibal let him. Held him steady. Kept himself from unraveling too fast.

Hannibal would not rush this.

They did not go further. Not here. Not now. When they do it, Hannibal preferred in his own bedroom.

The man’s body lay where it fell. They didn’t take anything.

It wasn’t worthy. The table was for those they honored. This wasn’t nourishment.

It was justice.

As they left the alley, their footsteps even, Will reached for Hannibal’s hand. And Hannibal—after the briefest flicker of hesitation, after the faintest catch of breath—reached back.

Met him partway.

***

Florence, back alleys near Piazza della Passera. One week after the meeting with the Detective.

The scene was already cordoned off by the time Will arrived.

He kept his distance—shoulders hunched beneath the weight of his coat, collar upturned, eyes half-hidden beneath the brim of a hat he hadn’t worn in years. Pazzi stood beside him, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the tape.

“Another.” He said.

Will didn’t answer. He ducked beneath the barrier.

The body was still in place, not yet touched by the coroner’s hands. A man in his fifties, known offender, name already printed in court files and police reports. Will recognized him. Everyone did. Florence had whispered about him for years.

Will crouched beside the body.

The kill was clean—yet, not refined. The neck had been opened, but the cut wasn’t graceful. Not artful. More like a single decisive motion, without performance. There were no incisions. No organs taken. No punishment. No display.

It didn’t feel like Hannibal.

Will rose slowly, eyes scanning the alley. The walls were low. The cobblestone slick. No drag marks. No second trail. No elegance.

"He didn’t do this.” Will murmured. “It’s too... abrupt. No message. No vanity. Hannibal likes meaning. This—” He gestured to the scene. “—this is just death.”

Pazzi nodded slowly, thoughtful. “Then someone else is hunting monsters.”

Will didn’t respond.

He turned back toward the body. His eyes caught the faintest arc of blood across the far wall. It wasn’t chaotic. But it wasn’t careful either. There was something familiar about it. Not in style, in feeling. Like the echo of a dream.

A fragment of breath behind a closed door.

His chest tightened. Something was wrong. 

This should relieve me, he thought. But it didn’t. Not at all.

Because the kill wasn’t cold enough to be Hannibal’s. But it wasn’t angry enough to be anyone else’s.

And that, disturbed him more.

***

Florence. Nine hours after their Late-Night Date.

Abigail woke before either of them. Not from restless—but because the apartment felt different. Heavier, warmer, like the heat of a stove left on too long. She padded out of her room barefoot, sweater thrown over her shoulders, hair still mussed from sleep.

The kitchen was already half-lit by the morning sun, light spilling in across the counter in soft gold. The pot on the stove hadn’t been turned on yet. There was no smell of breakfast. Just quiet.

Then she saw them. They hadn’t noticed her.

Will stood at the sink, back to her, shoulders relaxed in a way they hadn’t been before. One hand braced on the edge of the counter. Hannibal stood beside him, he was drying a cup, slowly. She didn't thought the cup need that. Hannibal just did that for something to do with his hands.

They were talking. Soft. Low enough that Abigail couldn’t hear the words. But the tone… that was clear.

No longer caution. No longer tension. Something else.

She watched Will’s hand drift—slowly, unconsciously—to rest against Hannibal’s back. Like he’d done it thousand times before. No, like he’d be allowed to do it again.

Hannibal didn’t move away. In fact, he leaned into it. Just barely. But Abigail caught it.

She stepped back, quiet as breath, just enough to stay out of view. She watched as Hannibal set the cup down, then turned slightly—his hand brushing Will’s as he passed him something. A spoon. A dish towel. It didn’t matter. What mattered was how they moved around each other now. Like there was no question anymore.

A minute later, Will bent down to check the burner—and Hannibal pressed a kiss to the curve of his shoulder. Quick. Familiar.

Abigail exhaled through her nose and leaned her head against the wall. “For fuck’s sake.” She muttered.

When she stepped into the room a moment later, Will straightened, and Hannibal turned with that polite, neutral smile that always meant we’re pretending this never happened.

Abigail didn’t say a word. But she raised an eyebrow so high it could’ve cut glass.

Will had the decency to look slightly sheepish and shy. Hannibal, as always, was composed.

Abigail grabbed a cup, poured herself black coffee, and said nothing as she sat.

But she didn’t open her book. She just sipped, and watched the way Hannibal handed Will the knife without needing to ask.

She smiled into her cup anyway.

—

It started slowly.

At first, she thought she was imagining it—the way their footsteps synced up in the hall. The way Hannibal handed Will the towel before he reached for it. The way Will’s coffee was poured, cooled exactly two minutes before Hannibal slid it across the table.

She thought, maybe they’re just polite.

By the end of the second week, Abigail had to face the truth.

The changes gathered like slow tide. At first, it was small things. A toothbrush set out without comment. An extra cup of tea poured without asking. A coat hung neatly alongside another. But by the end of the third week, Abigail knew—
They weren't visiting each other anymore. They were living each other.

They were sleeping together.

Not loudly. Not messily. Not the kind of sleeping together that left bruises or broken dishes.

No. The kind where Will walked out of Hannibal’s bedroom barefoot every morning, pulling his hair into something vaguely respectable, and Hannibal handed him a cup of water before he even asked.

The kind where Hannibal cooked for him. Cleaned the apartment. Take care Abigail. Did the damn groceries.

And Will?

Will got up at an hour that offended Abigail’s soul, washed his own dishes, then left for work like some stupid blue-collar fantasy. Boat mechanic.

And the worst part—there was just… tension.

Enough tension to drown a small country.

Hannibal touched Will like he wanted to devour him, and Will looked at Hannibal like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss him or punch a wall. It was unbearable.

They did everything else. Shared laundry. Grocery lists. Morning tea. Whispered arguments about dish towels. The same arguments married couples had when they’d already chosen to stay together.

They were married in every way but the one that would finally make it someone else’s problem.

Abigail watched them one evening from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, while Hannibal plated duck and Will peeled an orange over the sink like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They weren’t talking. But Hannibal reached out—without looking—and wiped juice from Will’s wrist with his thumb.

And Will leaned into it.

And Abigail died. A little.

***

Florence. Two weeks after the Late-Night Date.

The sun had long since dropped behind the rooftops, leaving the apartment washed in blue-grey shadows. The evening was unusually quiet. No music. No kitchen sounds. Hannibal had gone out, something about wine and butcher’s hours.

Abigail found Will on the balcony.

He was seated on the stone bench near the edge, legs stretched out, sleeves rolled up, a half-read book resting on his thigh. He looked up when she approached, but didn’t smile—just nodded, like he’d known she’d come eventually.

She sat beside him, knees drawn up, arms wrapped loosely around her legs.

For a while, they just sat.

The breeze moved gently through the olive trees across the courtyard. A dog barked faintly from a neighboring apartment. Will closed his book.

“You watch us.” He said, without turning. “All the time.”

Abigail shrugged. “You’re hard to miss.”

He gave a small huff of breath. Not quite a laugh. She let the quiet stretch before speaking again.

“Are you staying?”

Will glanced at her. His eyes, always full of weight, didn’t flicker.

“For now.”

“No.” She said, “I mean... really. For good. With us.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he looked out over the railing, eyes tracking something she couldn’t see.

“I’ll stay.” He said at last, “As long as the one Hannibal waits for isn’t here.” The words landed softly. But they stayed.

Abigail didn’t move. She didn’t argue. She didn’t tell him he was wrong—though part of her wanted to.

She just watched him.

“You think he’s still waiting.” She said.

Will didn’t nod. Didn’t speak.

But she saw the way his fingers curled slightly against the book’s spine. The way his shoulders had gone just a little too still.

Abigail looked back toward the apartment. The light from the kitchen window cast a soft glow across the floor. Familiar. Warm.

Will sat beside her, breathing steady, body loose with calm. But his eyes—

His eyes were full of exit wounds.

“He had to. He did, in the past.”

Instead, Abigail reached for his hand and squeezed it once—firm and brief—before letting go.

Then she stood and left him there, with the stars beginning to bloom overhead, and a man who didn’t know he’d already been chosen.

***

Florence. After more than one month Will gave him the business card.

The business card hadn’t moved from the bowl near the door. Hannibal had left it there deliberately. The card was cream-colored, thick stock, its corners only slightly curled. The name was forgettable, the gesture was not.

Will had handed it to him after following the rude stranger who shoved Hannibal. Will said ‘We don’t usually do this.’ And that was what made it unmistakable. Intimate. An exception. He had thought about this ever since.

Now, in the hush of the apartment, Hannibal stood before the bowl. The card looked smaller in the evening light. Less like paper. More like a kept secret. He took the card from the bowl.

Behind him, the apartment was quiet. Will’s coat hung on the hook. Abigail’s book lay folded on the sofa, spine cracked but not broken. The scent of citrus still clung to the air.

He folded the card, once, with careful fingers, and tucked it into his jacket. He already chose the place.

Hannibal’d walked it three times himself—once in daylight, twice in rain. The sightlines were clear. One security camera, already redirected by a timed outage. The bin he’d moved twenty centimeters to obscure the approach. The wall where the shadow fell longest. 
Even now, the weight of the blade sat quiet in his inner pocket.  It felt certain.

This wasn’t Florence’s work. It wouldn’t happen here. For safety. For peace. 

When the time comes, he would go. Alone.

And he would return, untouched by blood. At least—on the outside.

***

Florence, Borgo Santi Apostoli alleys. One month, two weeks since Will handed him the business card.

The alley was quiet—narrow and enclosed, boxed in by weatherworn walls that carried the scent of rust and brine. Light flickered from a distant window, distorted by age-stained glass. Hannibal moved with careful precision, each step echoing slightly on the wet stone.

The man was careless. Every night, the same path from the tram stop to the side streets. Slouched shoulders, attention buried in his phone, arrogance thick enough to dull instinct. Hannibal waited at the mouth of the alley—half-shadowed, patient. The handle of the scalpel pressed cool against his palm. He adjusted it the way a conductor might lift his baton before the first note—not for the man’s sake, but for his own.

Footsteps echoed unevenly across the pavement. The man’s laughter spilled wet and sharp into the night. He didn’t see Hannibal until they were a breath apart.

“Scusi—” he started, voice too loud in the narrow street.

That was all he managed.

Hannibal moved—not striking, but seizing—one hand braced flat against the man's chest, forcing the air from his lungs in a stunned grunt. His balance broke easily. Before the man could shout, twist, pull free—

The needle was already in. A soft pressure against the side of his neck. The sedative worked fast—measured to body weight, adrenaline, margin of error no greater than one heartbeat.

The man sagged against him, half-conscious. Hannibal caught him carefully. No spectacle. No struggle. As if escorting a drunk friend home.

He moved quickly—through a side street, down a narrow drive, into the waiting car. By the time the man stirred again, hours later, he would find himself not in Florence—but far beyond it.
In a place where the night had teeth and the ground remembered old rituals.

The hunt would begin properly then.

Because death—real death—deserved more than a slip of a blade in an alley. It deserved acknowledgment. It deserved intimacy.

***

Trapani. Ruins of Poggioreale. Fifteen hours later.

He had chosen this place carefully. Trapani, the farthest city from Florence, Palazzo Capponi.

Not Florence. Never Florence. That was sacred now—preserved for a life he refused to endanger. This kill wasn't for the table, or for the art.

It was for the promise Will had made—when he placed the card in Hannibal’s hand and said nothing at all. 

Tonight, he would follow through. He had waited—shorter than he usually did, but slower than he wanted.

At the expected time, the man woke with a gasp—sharp, shallow, confused. His hands scrabbled against the rough dirt beneath him, palms finding no weapon, no footing. Only darkness. Only the heavy thrum of his own blood pounding through his skull.

And Hannibal—
Standing a few meters away. Still. Patient. Watching.

The man stumbled upright. Legs too weak, shoes slipping in the damp undergrowth. He looked wildly around—forest, stone, black sky—and realized too late: There was nowhere to run.

Hannibal did not move. Not yet.

He let the fear bloom properly. Let it sharpen the man’s movements into something clumsy and frantic, a creature aware of his own end but refusing to accept it.

When the man bolted—blind, stumbling toward the skeletal trees—then Hannibal moved.

With measured. The scalpel hung loose in his grip, a glint of light along its edge.

The first cut was deliberate, low, deep across the abdomen, just beneath the ribcage. A disabling wound. Not fatal. Not yet.

The man howled, staggering forward, blood slicking his hands as he tried to hold himself together. His knees buckled. But fear was a powerful engine. He lurched upright, scrambled for footing.

Hannibal circled him. When the man twisted back—elbow swinging wild in panic—it caught Hannibal’s shoulder, a jolt of white-hot pain sparking down his arm. He staggered half a step. The man tried again—pushing off the wall, half-crawling, gasping like a wounded animal. His hands slapped uselessly at the slick stone.

Enough.

Hannibal moved in—swift, clean. The knife found its place beneath the jaw, sliding upward into the soft cavity. A short, brutal motion.

No flourish. Only silence.

The man crumpled. The dirt drank his blood eagerly. Hannibal stood over the body, the copper tang of iron and sweat thick in the air. His shoulder throbbed, sharp and angry, but he paid it no mind.

Above him, hidden in the folds of shadow near the rusted fire escape—
Will watched.

He had been there the whole time, but didn't interfered. Only witnessed.

The moment stretched between them, full of things neither was willing to say, suspended in the quiet acknowledgment of what they had both become.

The blood cooled at Hannibal’s feet. The night breathed around them, vast and salt-stung.

Neither moved.

Hannibal’s breath had evened. Barely. He stood over the corpse, his should was aching, and the scalpel still warm in his hand. The night was thick around him, the sea-salt air heavier now, mingled with iron and sweat.

Will’s footsteps echoed, measured and unhurried, until he was at Hannibal’s side. He looked down at the body. Then at his shoulder. Then at Hannibal.

“Turning old, huh?” His tone was light. Dry.

Hannibal didn’t answer. He reached up, unfastening the collar of his plastic coat with the careful disdain of someone who had just been insulted in front of a guest. He didn’t look at Will.

Will smirked faintly, then crouched by the corpse, tilting his head. “Shoulder’s a mess.”

Hannibal made a small sound in his throat—an acknowledgment. Nothing more. He kneeled beside the body, angled the blade, pressed it deep just below the clavicle, and began to remove a cut of meat from the man’s upper shoulder. Slow. Clean. No performance. Just enough.

Will watched in silence. Then said, casually—

“Take the whole arm.”

He didn’t explain. And Hannibal understood right away. He paused, and then he smiled. A slow, private, curved with understanding. The kind of smile that came when someone read his mind—and outdid him.

He turned to Will and kissed him. It was unhurried. Warm from within. Their mouths slid together with ease, with purpose. It was no longer in hunger.

In claiming.

Will’s hands moved to Hannibal’s shoulder, his tone was teasing. "Not sulking anymore, then?" Hannibal answered by pulling him close. The kiss deepened. Hands roamed beneath coats, wanting to close all the distance between them.

Hannibal leaned into him, his body hot where it pressed into Will’s. Will’s palm traced gently up his back, then down to his belt—fingers tightening, holding. They moved together in silence, hips aligned, breath catching between kisses.

It was not sex. But it was the beginning of it.

The kind of intimacy that promised more. That let them taste the edge of something inevitable.

Will’s hand drifted lower, slow at first, palm settling over Hannibal’s arousal. He stroked him with the kind of practiced confidence that didn’t need to ask permission—familiar, as if this body had always been his to map. Like he understood this body more than Hannibal. And maybe, it was. The blood still slick on his fingers eased the movement, making each pass smooth, unhurried. Hannibal’s breath caught—but when he reached out, instinctive and aching—

Will caught his wrist. Gently. Firmly.

"No." Will said, low against Hannibal’s jaw. "This is my offering. Let me finish it."

He didn’t wait for approval. His hand returned, coaxing Hannibal open, the other pressing lower—fingers slick and sure from blood as they pushed inside, moving slow, then deeper. Hannibal’s head tipped back against the wall, lips parting soundlessly.

“Good?” Will murmured—half-smile in his voice, but his eyes sharp with intent. He asked, though he already knew the answer better than anyone.

Hannibal didn’t answer. He only nodded, once. Twice. Then thrust up into his hand, restless and quiet, letting Will complete his offering.

When they finally broke apart, Will rested his forehead against Hannibal’s. Their breathing slowed together.

But beneath the calm, the ache remained—sharp, promising. They had crossed a threshold neither intended to retreat from.

***

Trapani. Ruins of Poggioreale. Three weeks after the last unsettled crime scene.

The alley was clean. Too clean.

No crime scene tape, no lingering echoes of police radio. Just the faint tang of disinfectants and the sharp sting of sea air, carrying brine and something older.

Will stepped through slowly.

He hadn’t told Pazzi where he was going. Hadn’t needed to. The file had been too thin, too quiet. The victim—local, known, forgettable. Will followed the silence the same way he followed blood. Instinct.

Now, he crouched where the stones dipped slightly near the drain.

The blood was mostly gone—washed or taken by the rain—but the trace of it clung to the edges of the wall like smoke. A smear, not spray. Clean. Precise. Not impulsive. 

Will crouched beside the drain, his fingers barely grazing the damp stone. The scent of salt and rust lingered, beneath it something older. He closed his eyes.

And let it happen.

This was where I came in. I’ve watched him for days. Long enough to know the rhythm of his stride, the weakness in his left shoulder, the way his laughter sticks in his throat when he lies. He thinks no one sees it. But I see everything.

He was rude.

I sedated him, brought him here from Florence. The knife in my hand was familiar—balanced, elegant. When he woke up, my first incision was deep enough to silence, but not to kill. That’s not a mistake.

That’s intention.

He turned. He fought. He raised his hand against me. Again.

So I took his arm.

He didn’t deserve this kill. Didn’t deserve to decorate the table, to nourish anything. He isn’t a delicacy. He’s waste.

I left him in the dark—unadorned, undeserving. This is my design.

Will’s eyes opened. The air around him hadn’t changed—but the cold inside him had settled.

He exhaled, quiet, careful. He’d felt it. Not just Hannibal.

Someone else had been there—witnessed, and not been cast out.

Someone Hannibal had allowed close enough to see this. To understand.

Will stood slowly, one hand braced against the wall, jaw set tight.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t name the thing that stirred in his chest. But it was there, all the same.

***

Florence. One day after their Second Night-Date.

It had changed. Abigail didn’t know what exactly. No one had said anything. Nothing was out of place. No schedule disrupted. No bruises or clothes torn. But something had shifted.

She first noticed it at breakfast.

Will, back from the yard, still smelled like must and soil and sun-warmed grease. His hair was damp from the basin, shirt rumpled. He was eating without grace—rude in Hannibal's definition, as usual—knife scraping slightly too loud against the plate, thumb pressed against the corner of his lip.

And Hannibal was watching him. Not really idly nor fondly.

With focus. 

His eyes tracked every movement Will made. From the slow chew of toast to the way his tongue slid over his teeth before speaking. Hannibal didn’t blink when Will spoke. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t correct.

His gaze rested on Will’s mouth like it was a cathedral.

Or a meal.

Abigail stirred her tea once. Then again. Then set the spoon down with more force than necessary.

—

At dinner, it was worse. Will came in still dressed from the boatyard, sleeves pushed up to show the biceps, fingers stained with oil that had bled into the lines of his palms and nails. Hannibal had cooked duck—something fragrant and citrus-touched—and when Will reached for the wine, his hand grazed Hannibal’s wrist.

It wasn’t deliberate. But Hannibal’s breath hitched.

Abigail caught it.

He looked down at Will’s hand the way most men looked at silk lingerie or the hilt of a knife. Slowly. Appreciatively. Hungrily. With want.

And then, later, after dinner, when Will stepped out onto the balcony to smoke, Hannibal lifted Will’s wine glass to his own lips.

Drank from it. Savored it. The gesture was small. Almost imperceptible. But the way he closed his eyes afterward—like he could taste something on the rim no one else could—it made Abigail’s stomach twist.

She didn’t say anything. She just watched. She watched Hannibal’s eyes flick to the door, making sure no one had seen. She watched the way he licked his lips.

And she watched the way Will returned moments later, catching Hannibal’s eye with a look that was not surprising or shy. As if he already knew. She wondered what did Hannibal had done to give him that impression.

Eventually, Abigail stood, gathered her plate, and left the room. She didn’t need a lecture in emotional intimacy.

And she didn’t need to be around the next time one of them snapped and bit the other open like a piece of fruit.

They weren’t in love, she thought. They were starving. For each other.

***

Florence, Libreria Gonnelli. Two days after he saw Hannibal’s kill.

Will leaned against the railing outside the museum, eyes half-closed against the late morning sun. The steps were still damp from the night before. A few pigeons paced nearby, restless.

He wasn’t looking at the art. He wasn’t looking at the tourists. He was watching the door across the street—the one no one else paid attention to. The one with the old brass handle, polished smooth by age.

He hadn’t gone inside yet. He’d been tracing this route for three days now. Following old pathways. Bookstores. Galleries. Markets. The butcher shop tucked behind a faded green awning. A place that once made perfect pâté.

He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. But he knew when he got close—because his chest tightened.

Because the air changed.

He had followed him to Florence. Tracked it like a myth. But what he’d found here wasn’t a killer wanted to be understand.

It was a man who had already been seen. Already been welcomed.

The last murder had confirmed it. Hannibal wasn’t alone. The signs were subtle, but Will had read them like scripture. What was worse, it wasn’t bait for him. This was done in Trapani—the farthest city from Florence, Hannibal wouldn't do that if he wanted to bait Will.

This felt like—

Will didn't want to admit this yet. But this was.. protection. Hannibal didn’t want to disrupt the life in Florence. The small adjustments in ritual. The shared silence. The allowance of witness. 

He hadn’t told Pazzi. He hadn’t told himself. But someone had been with Hannibal during that kill. Not a stranger. Not a victim.

Someone Hannibal let in.

Will rubbed his thumb along the scar at his palm. A useless gesture.

The worst part wasn’t that Hannibal replaced him. The worst part was that it hadn’t been a random cheap copy.

Whoever this was—they were precise. Trusted. Close enough to share breath, maybe even a knife.

He didn’t want to name it. Didn’t want to give the thought shape.

But every time he blinked, he saw it: Hannibal turning his head toward someone else at the table. Not him. Not anymore.

Will pushed off the railing, heart too loud in his ears. He moved down the street, aimless but quick, his coat tugging behind him like a thing trying to hold him back.

He didn’t know where he was going. But he had to keep moving.

Because if he stopped—if he paused even a moment—he’d have to admit what he already knew.

Chapter Text

Florence. One week after Will's Offering.

It was late.

The apartment had settled into silence, broken only by the occasional creak of wood contracting in the cool night. Abigail had long since gone to bed, leaving only the muted echo of her laughter tucked into the corners of the room.

Hannibal sat by the open window, barefoot, a glass of red wine untouched beside him. The breeze stirred the sheer curtain, curling it like smoke. Below, the city murmured in half-sleep—faint footsteps, a Vespa growling in the distance, the distant bark of a dog.

He didn’t turn when Will entered.

The sound of him was familiar now. Like something that had always been there, only waiting to be acknowledged.

“You left the light on.” Will said.

“I intended to.” Hannibal's voice was low.

Will crossed the room without asking, barefoot too. He didn’t sit. Just stood beside the window, his shoulder nearly brushing Hannibal’s. Their reflections wavered faintly in the glass, superimposed over the rooftops and stars.

They stood like that for a while. They didn't speak, they didn't need to.

Eventually, Hannibal said, “I thought I had lost the sound of your footsteps. But they followed me here.”

Will looked at him then—really looked. His eyes weren’t soft. They were clear. 

“You never lost me.” He said. "We just haven't reach that."

Hannibal turned slightly in his chair, the movement deliberate. His eyes traced Will’s face—not searching, but committing. The curve of his jaw. The faint silver in his beard. The scar just visible above the collarbone, old but unforgotten.

“I have tried.” Hannibal said quietly, “Not to want this.”

Will’s lips parted, but he didn’t speak. The words hovered there, like breath.

Tonight, they didn't speak in riddles anymore. They were seen, and they let themselves being seen.

“I know.” Will said, reaching for his hand. “I'd been there. Many times.”

Then Will stepped forward. He didn’t ask. He didn’t wait. They both wanted this.

He cupped Hannibal’s face with one hand, thumb brushing just beneath his eye, and kissed him—for anchoring. The way you kiss someone you’ve missed every day of a life you haven’t yet lived.

Hannibal didn’t resist. He breathed in like it hurt, like the absence was still lodged in his lungs. And then his hand closed over Will’s wrist—to feel the weight of it. To prove it was real.

The kiss lingered. It wasn't frantic or rehearsed.

It tasted like wine left out too long. Like grief and absolution and something warm blooming where nothing should have survived.

When they parted, their breath was shaky.

Will leaned in, resting his forehead lightly against Hannibal’s.

“I’m not going anywhere.” He whispered. And Hannibal, did not answer.

Because he wanted—just for this moment—not to be the one who knew everything first.

—

The kiss didn’t end.

It only shifted—deepening, slowing, losing its edges. Hannibal rose into it like something drawn upward by tide, inevitable, his mouth opening under Will’s, his hands finding anchor at the sides of Will’s waist, then curling there—uncertain, reverent.

Will didn’t push. He didn’t coax. He simply stayed.

Steady. Warm. Certain in the way only someone who has already lost everything can be.

When Hannibal pulled back, Will exhaled like something had been knocked loose inside his ribs.

Will rested his forehead against Hannibal again, their noses brushing, breath shared. “Come with me.” He said.

Hannibal hesitated. Not from doubt—but from the weight of how long he had wanted this. From knowing that the moment he said yes, nothing could remain untouched.

He didn’t speak. Only nodded once. And let himself be led.

—

The bedroom was dark but not cold. The fire had burned low, casting the walls in amber. Will let Hannibal sit first, let him settle—then stood before him, silently asking without asking.

Hannibal’s fingers moved to the buttons of Will’s shirt. Slow. Ritualistic. Like uncovering an icon. His hands were steady but his breath betrayed him, shallow and sharp in his throat. Will closed his eyes as Hannibal undressed him, one layer at a time, never rushing. When it was done, he stepped forward and unbuttoned Hannibal in return—careful, precise, but not distant. Every movement said: I know you. I know this body. I have kissed these scars in another time.

When they were bare, they lay down together, close. Lined chest to chest, knee to knee, heart to heart. Like two things meant to fit. Meant to know one another in ways outside of language.

Will ran his fingers down Hannibal’s spine, gentle but firm, grounding him. Hannibal’s eyes fluttered closed.

“I dreamed of this.” He whispered.

Will’s hand paused. “So did I.”

When Will kissed him again, it was slower this time—his mouth at Hannibal’s throat, the hollow of his collarbone, the center of his chest. As though tasting the places where sorrow lived.

And Hannibal—Hannibal did not resist. For once, he allowed himself to be touched, not as a manipulation, not as a performance, but as a man.

As something cherished.

Hannibal’s breath caught as Will kissed his chest, lower, fingers trailing. He let himself be opened with care, with practice. Will moved without pause, slicked and slow, entering him with a control that came not from holding back—but from knowing exactly what was needed.

Their eyes met when Will pushed in. They didn’t look away.

Hannibal didn’t close his eyes. He wanted to see this. He wanted it witnessed, craved in his brain. Will’s face above his, tense with focus, jaw tight, lips parted. One hand flat to Hannibal’s chest, anchoring him, the other braced against the mattress.

They moved together slowly, with deliberation. With the weight of time folded between their bodies. The sound of skin meeting skin was softened by the sheets, by breath, by the way Hannibal clutched at Will’s shoulder now, like he would break apart if left untethered.

When Hannibal gasped, Will didn’t press harder.

He stilled. Let him feel it.

Hannibal’s eyes darkened, then cleared. Will moved again.

Their rhythm built, something that had been written before either of them had spoken it. And when Hannibal came, he—finally—whispered his name.

“My Will.”

Will followed—quiet, shuddering, face pressed to Hannibal’s neck.

After, they didn’t move. Will’s hand rested over Hannibal’s heart. Hannibal covered it with his own.

Hannibal stroked a hand through his hair. He said nothing either. They didn’t need to.

They were already one thing now. Whatever came next would not undo that.

***

Florence. One week after their Second Night-Date.

Abigail noticed first in the quiet. The unbroken morning, long after sunrise, when the floorboards didn’t creak with Hannibal’s usual steps. The kettle hadn’t boiled. No sharp scent of orange peel, no faint scrape of a knife against bread.

The apartment felt full, but not busy.

She moved carefully down the hall, her socks soft against the tile. Paused at the edge of the study. The door was open. Light slanted through the curtains.

She didn’t step inside. She saw the discarded book on the armrest. The wineglass still half-full. A trail of folded clothing that hadn’t been folded by Hannibal’s hands.

And when she turned toward the bedroom, she didn’t look long.

The door wasn’t shut all the way. Enough to see the shape of them in the low light. Will on his side, one hand curved at Hannibal’s belly. Hannibal on his back, still, eyes open. Awake. His hand rested over Will’s.

No movement. No guardedness. 

Just—open. Like a wound that no longer ached. Like a apartment with the door left unlocked not by mistake, but on purpose.

Abigail stepped back. She didn’t watch longer than she needed to. Just enough to know what had changed.

Whatever that thing was between them, it wasn’t tension anymore. It wasn’t promise. It had already happened. And the world hadn’t ended.

She returned to the kitchen, put the kettle on. When the water boiled, she poured three cups. She didn’t say anything when they finally came out—Will in his undershirt, Hannibal still buttoning his sleeves with the absent grace of a man whose hands no longer needed a performance.

They didn’t touch. They didn’t glance. They just took their cups.

And sat. Abigail didn’t ask.

About time.

—

They didn’t rush through breakfast.

Abigail lingered longer than usual at the table, legs folded up beneath her, toast cooling beside her elbow. She didn’t speak much—just watched them with the kind of pointed boredom that disguised knowing. Every now and then, she’d glance at Hannibal, then Will, then back to her plate with a sigh that said everything without saying anything.

Hannibal poured her more tea. Will buttered her toast without asking. It was ordinary.

And that was the most surreal part.

No one tiptoed around what had happened. No one filled the room with unnecessary words. Hannibal moved through the kitchen with his usual economy of motion, but not with his usual armor. He didn’t correct posture. Didn’t comment on Will’s mismatched socks or the slight clatter of Abigail’s fork. His hands were steady, but his eyes were… quiet.

Like they had finally stopped searching.

Will was even quieter.

But his silence wasn’t distant. He stayed close to Hannibal, close in that invisible tethered way—elbows brushing at the counter, standing too near at the sink. Nothing possessive from that touch, it felted...settled.

Hannibal let it happen.

There was no new mask. No new game.

Only small things. The way he passed Will the salt before he asked. The way Will leaned in to murmur something about the eggs. The way they looked at each other sometimes and then just... didn’t look away.

Abigail watched all of it. Watched Will step behind Hannibal and rest a hand on his shoulder—a touch for anchor. Watched Hannibal turn his face just enough to press his mouth against Will’s knuckles for a heartbeat.

Nothing performative. Just real. And maybe that was the strangest part of all. They were disarmed. Profoundly so.

Finally let themselves being seen.

***

Florence. One day after Will Became His.

The light entered the apartment without apology—soft but full, the way it always was on Sundays. Hannibal had stopped drawing on any other day. Sunday had been chosen deliberately, for its stillness. For its ritual. A kind of weekly devotion not to God, but to the shape of what he’d built here.

The chair by the window had worn just enough to hold his spine comfortably. The sketchbook rested across his thigh, paper curled faintly at the corners. His coffee sat untouched on the windowsill. 

Across the room, Will lay stretched on the floor, elbow braced, head resting in his palm. He wasn’t reading. He hadn’t picked up a book. He was simply there—watching.

Hannibal’s charcoal moved in measured strokes. He didn’t glance up. He didn’t need to. He had traced Will’s outline so many times, in so many memories, that capturing him on paper had become less an act of observation and more an act of remembrance.

“You always look like you’re sketching something you’ve already lost.” Will said, knowing.

Hannibal pressed the charcoal gently to the page, finishing the arc of a shoulder.

“Only because I know I won’t have it forever.”

The words left his mouth before he could shape them into something more flowery, safer. But he did not correct them.

Will didn’t reply immediately. He turned his head slightly, gaze slipping toward the window, then back to Hannibal. “You have it now.”

It. Not me. Not us. It. The moment. The peace.

Hannibal set the charcoal down, fingers resting briefly on the sketch’s edge. Then, with quiet deliberation, he turned the book outward.

Will’s eyes flicked to the page. He didn’t reach for it. He didn’t speak. But he looked.

The lines were suggestive, unfinished in places—shadows rather than likeness. Hannibal hadn’t drawn Will’s eyes. Only the posture. The curve of his spine when at ease. The softness in his hands when they weren’t clenched into decision.

Will’s fingers touched the corner of the sketch. He didn't take it, only to feel its edge.

“You draw me like you’re afraid the moment will leave before you do.”

Hannibal finally looked at him, and the weight of it was quiet but vast. “It’s not fear.” He said. “It’s reverence.”

A slow smile curved at the edge of Will’s mouth. “You’re sentimental.”

Hannibal arched one brow, slowly. “Are you complained now?”

Will rose then, quiet and deliberate, folding his legs beneath him as he sat closer. He rested his forehead lightly against Hannibal’s. The contact was brief. No tension. No demand.

“No, just stating a fact, darlin’.”

The word had been a slip, knowing by the way Will’s face deepened in red shade.

“Now who is the one sentimental?” Hannibal closed their distance now, their lips met each other halfway.

The charcoal smudged beneath Hannibal’s knuckle as he reached to close the sketchbook. The image of Will—half-finished—faced no one now.

Later, he would pretend that moment had been whole.

But for now, he had Sunday. And his Will in his arm.

***

Florence. Two days after Will Became His.

The morning passed without orchestration.

No menu had been planned. No knife laid out as metaphor. Hannibal woke to the scent of warmth that did not originate from the kitchen, but from the quiet movement of another body occupying the same space as if it belonged there.

Will was folding laundry. Not crisply enough like Hannibal would—edges left uneven, sleeves turned half out. But the cloth was warm from the sunlit chair, and Will handled it with the kind of focus one reserves for small, survivable acts of care. A domestic offering without declaration.

Hannibal stood for a moment in the doorway, watching. His own hands loose at his sides, too still.

He didn’t interrupt.

When he entered the kitchen, the kettle was already filled. The bread had been pulled from the bag but not sliced. Will knew better than to presume—but the gesture hung there anyway. Half-open. Waiting.

He set about preparing breakfast, and this time, it wasn’t a performance. No garnish. No plate arrangement. Just eggs—soft, herbed—and toast, buttered generously without the precision of a palette knife.

They ate at the small table by the window. No music. No opera.

Will didn’t compliment the food. He didn’t need to.

Instead, halfway through, he picked up the salt Hannibal hadn’t yet reached for and passed it across the table—without comment, without pause.

Hannibal took it. And for a long moment, his fingers remained curled around the ceramic, though he no longer needed it. A quiet echo moved in his chest, low and strange.

It wasn’t seduction. It was attention.

He realized that attention—not power—was the one thing he had never learned to accept without consequence.

Afterward, Will rinsed the plates but left them stacked by the sink. Hannibal almost moved to finish the job. Almost.

Instead, he dried his hands and followed Will into the next room, where a book lay half-read beside Abigail dozed in the afternoon light.

And though he sat a little apart, Hannibal watched Will settle into the cushions with contentment so practiced it could only come from having been denied for too long.

There was no need to reach out. He had already been touched.

***

Florence. Three days after Will Became His.

The mirror near the hallway was old—gilded poorly by someone who had cared more for appearance than craftsmanship. Hannibal had never replaced it. It had a flaw in the glass, a faint ripple across the lower left, like a ripple in time that wouldn’t settle.

He caught sight of himself in it that morning. A flash of reflection as he stepped into the room.

But what he saw caught him. It wasn't the softness of his shirt or the faint line of tiredness under his eyes—but the shape of Will behind him. Sitting in the chair where Abigail used to perch. Leg spread.

Hannibal did not move, because the shape of it—the man behind him, familiar in posture, unfamiliar in presence—looked, for one aching second, looked like both of them. He had to remind himself it was not Will Graham’s—the one he built this dream with. This one was patient, almost unhurried. Like someone speaking not to convince, but to witness.

Not the man who had once asked questions through clenched fists, it was the man who had survived him.

He turned from the mirror. Will didn’t look up. He just kept reading. A warm, domestic scene. The kind Hannibal had imagined once, in the dark. Something worth running toward.

But all at once, it felt as though he was borrowing it. Just passing through someone else's dream. 

He stepped back into the hallway, into the quiet kitchen, where nothing spoke but the soft clicking of the stovetop, not yet lit.

For the first time in days, he whispered something into the quiet.

A name.

Not Will—the man who was here.

Only mouthed. As if afraid that speaking the past too clearly would call it back.

***

Florence, Olive groves around Impruneta. Four days after Will Became His.

The woods here held a different kind of silence. Wilder. Untamed. Hannibal waited beneath the angled branches of an olive tree, the scent of moss and loam and old stones seeping through the air like memory.

He had not followed Will. He had offered no instructions.

The morning had passed in ritual—coffee, a glance shared over bread, a map spread between them and left unmarked. Hannibal had looked at Will only once before he departed, and it had been enough. There had been no performance in Will’s departure. No clipped commands. Only a quiet, practiced readiness. Something in his posture had settled.

Now, Hannibal stood alone.

Until the leaves shifted, a movement.

Then Will. Emerging from the tree line with no triumph in his gait. No adrenaline-fueled swagger. Just blood across his forearms, some of it dried, some still warm. His knife—still clutched in one hand—had not been cleaned.

Hannibal’s breath caught from the terrible, wondrous sight of it. The kill had not been perfect. The cuts were swift but not elegant. The body—left behind—was not arranged. No meaning. No monologue. Just the reality of it. Violence committed, but not ritualized.

This wasn’t Hannibal’s kill. It was Will’s.

And Will didn’t apologize for it.

He stepped close, the scent of iron mingling with citrus and pine. His fingers were red up to the knuckles. His eyes were steady. Lit from within. Alive.

“I didn’t take anything.” Will said.

The implication floated there between them: I didn’t take it for you. I didn’t make it for you.

“I know.” Hannibal replied.

He didn’t reach for the knife. He didn’t touch Will’s arm. But Will stepped closer anyway.

Their mouths met before their hands did—an unspoken collision of breath and heat. There was no prelude, no seduction. Only inevitability. Will’s lips were warm, salt-brushed from sweat. Hannibal could taste copper and wind and want.

When Will’s hand touched his chest, it left a smear. When Hannibal pressed his palm to Will’s shoulder to anchor them.

They kissed again, harder this time. The violence had not yet left Will’s body. It curled in his spine, pulsed at his throat. But Hannibal didn’t flinch from it. He welcomed it. Trusted it.

Will's hand slid lower, over Hannibal’s waist. Hannibal smiled at the honesty of it. The urgency. There was no manipulation here. No choreography. Only hunger and want.

Will ground into him, hips aligned. The press of him bold, undeniable. His bloodied fingers slid beneath Hannibal’s coat, curling into fabric, holding him there.

It was ruinous.

Will’s breath hitched. Hannibal tilted his head back, letting the pressure rise between them like a tide. Their bodies said what their mouths wouldn’t. I want you. I trust you. I would do this again.

When they could breathe again, Will’s hand—sticky, warm—rested at his lower back. They didn’t speak. They didn’t move. Somewhere behind them, the body was cooling.

Will leaned in, mouth brushing the edge of Hannibal’s jaw. He didn't kiss him again, only to feel the weight of his presence.

“I won’t always do it your way.” Will whispered.

“I know, Will.” Hannibal said.

And still, he stayed.

***

Florence. Almost one week after they slept, physically.

Abigail stood in the kitchen, peeling an orange with the slow precision she’d learned from watching Hannibal. The air smelled like basil and something iron-rich—faint but unmistakable. The scent had followed them home. Not on their clothes or in their hair. On them. Under their skin.

She didn’t need to ask where they went.

The orange rind curled under her fingers like ribbon, falling in one long, continuous spiral onto the counter. She picked it up, set it neatly beside the sink, and only then allowed herself a breath.

They were in the other room. Not speaking or laughing. Quiet. Too quiet.

She had thought—honestly, foolishly—that once they finally gave in, things would calm. That the fire would burn itself down once they touched each other in that way. Once they let it happen, and let it pass.

But it hadn’t worked like that. It had made it worse.

Not loud worse, not knives-on-the-table worse. It was in the way they looked at each other now—like something had broken open between them, and neither was ready to name it.

There were too many silences now.
Too many glances that lasted a breath longer than before.
And too much reverence in the way Will’s hand hovered at Hannibal’s back, in Hannibal’s arm rested at Will’s elbow.

She stepped out into the hall. Heard the faint sound of the faucet turning off. Heard Hannibal murmur something too low to catch. Heard Will laugh—warm, soft, content.

And there it was again. That thing between them.

Not tension—not yet peace. Something worse. Something better.

A hunger with nowhere else to go.

Abigail leaned her head back against the cool plaster of the wall and closed her eyes. If this was what they were like after sleeping together, she thought—God help them when they finally learned how to love without needing to bleed for it. At least not bleed each other, anyways.

She pushed off the wall, flicked the light off in the kitchen, and went to her room.

Whatever they were now, they weren’t going to stop. And she wasn’t going to be the one to tell them how close they already were to setting the whole apartment on fire.

***

Florence. Five days after Will Became His.

The study was not meant to be shared.

Hannibal had designed it for silence. For solitude. A space shaped around deliberation and retreat. It had been curated to hold only what he allowed inside—ink and paper, volumes arranged by language and age, a chair that creaked just faintly when he leaned forward to think.

But now, disorder had crept in, and it wore Will Graham’s shape.

A sweater draped over the back of the chair—sleeves stretched, worn soft at the elbows. A pair of socks left half-tucked beneath the low table, as though forgotten mid-thought. A book abandoned on its spine, pages parted with trust that they would be found again.

Hannibal used to tidy these things away each evening, almost automatically. He had prided himself on maintaining the room’s intended sterility.

Lately, though, he found himself leaving them. Letting the fibers of Will's passing remain tangled with his own.

There was something scared in not erasing him.

The light was low when they began cleaning together, though "cleaning" was generous. Will moved with unhurried purpose, gathering stray books, adjusting stacked papers, pausing now and then to turn a page or inspect a faded spine. Hannibal let him. He watched as Will made himself at home in a space that had never been offered—only taken, quietly, piece by piece, until there was no need to ask.

It was when Will opened one of the desk drawers to slip his journal inside that everything shifted. He frowned faintly at the sight of its contents—scattered, uncharacteristically untidy. Old letters, graphite worn down to useless nubs, a stray cufflink he had never missed. Another Will's traces.

And sketches.

When Will drew them out, they fell like leaves in late winter. Silent, delicate, already brittle at the edges.

Hannibal knew what they were before Will turned them. He had drawn them in dark hours — nights stretched thin across oceanic distances. Not the Will standing beside him now. Another one. Tighter in the shoulders. Eyes sharpened by suspicion rather than softened by hunger. The Will who had once asked him terrible questions without ever staying long enough for the answers.

Will studied the drawings without speaking. His thumb brushed over one corner, smudging the faint outline of a jaw.

"I don't look like him anymore." He said, finally. It wasn’t defensive. Simply honest.

Hannibal stepped closer, he didn't loom, didn't claim. Simply standing near enough to witness.

"No," Hannibal said, quietly. His voice threaded low, nearly private. "He wouldn’t let himself be seen. Not fully. Not for what he could become."

Will didn’t glance up, but his lips quirked faintly—something between amusement and resignation.

"Yet you still keep this," he murmured, his tone free of accusation. The edges of the sketches shifted in his hand, fragile as pressed flowers. "Of him."

Hannibal did not look away, did not hide the weight of the truth.

"I drew him in absence," he said, softly. "He did not stay. But he was mine, for a time. Or at least, as much as anyone ever allows themselves to be."

A pause. Will’s fingers stilled atop the paper.

"You should keep it," Will said after a moment, the words emerging slow, but certain. His gaze remained on the sketches as if speaking to them, not to Hannibal. "Maybe you'll need it soon."

Hannibal felt the words settle between them—inevitable. Like the quiet recognition of winter, already folded deep beneath the turning leaves of autumn.

He didn’t argue. He didn’t promise otherwise. Will placed the sketches gently back into the drawer and closed it, letting that version of himself rest undisturbed.

Then, without preamble or ceremony, he moved past Hannibal — close enough that their shoulders brushed. The warmth of him lingered. Domestic. Whole. Present.

Hannibal remained still, eyes on the closed drawer. When he finally followed Will from the study, he left the sweater on the chair, the socks beneath the table, and the drawer closed, untouched.

Some ghosts did not need revisiting. Some he would hold, quietly, until absence asked him to.

And for now, Will's steps still sounded down the hall—weighty, human, his.

For now, Hannibal followed.

***

Florence. Six days after Will Became His.

The market smelled of ripe stone fruit and fresh basil. 

Hannibal moved with practiced ease—shoulders relaxed beneath the weight of his linen coat, woven bag looped over one arm, a small tin of anchovies tucked beside a jar of imported honey. He paused by the olives. Green, black, oil-lacquered. His fingers hovered over the scoop.

And then—something shifted. A scent. Citrus. Sea salt. Clean.

But too clean. No motor oil. No lingered breakfast. No sleep-warmed linen. Familiar—but wrong.

He turned his head just enough to catch the edge of movement across the square. A figure passing between two vendors. Shoulders tight. Jacket heavy. Moving like someone pretending not to look.

Across the square, past the flow of bodies and fluttering scarves, stood a figure he had not seen in months.

Or rather, a figure he had seen too often in memory. Younger. Less certain. The posture tighter. The shoulders still hunched inward, always expecting to be wounded.

Will.

But not his Will. The other one.

Not the man who had been in his arm through the night. This was the one who had looked into his soul—and chosen to turn away.

Will didn’t notice him. He was facing away, head turned toward the river, eyes scanning the alleyways like a ghost retracing old paths. Hannibal could see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers flexed at his sides. He looked unsettled, even from here.

Hannibal’s breath remained steady. But inside—beneath the layers he had so carefully rebuilt—something recoiled. Something ancient. Something he had worked hard to put to rest.

Hannibal looked down briefly at his own hands. The skin still bore faint lines from where Will had clutched him the night before, fingers tight with purpose, not hesitation. There had been no doubt in that touch. Only the kind of certainty that makes surrender feel like salvation.

And now…Now the younger version of that same soul wandered back into the city—the life—Hannibal had rebuilt. This life wasn’t meant to be observed by the one who chose to abandon it. The one he had once waited for like a season, with his whole chest open, ribs cracked like a doorframe.

Now, Hannibal watched him from a distance.

Just a slight shift in his breath, the muscles in his jaw tightening. There was no anticipation in him now. No thread of hope to clutch. He no longer wanted to be seen—not by that version of Will. Not here. Not like this.

He turned back to the olives. Scooped a portion. Nodded once to the merchant. Took the small paper-wrapped parcel and placed it carefully into his bag beside the tomatoes.

He took the bruised parcel.

—

As he walked home, the sun pressed low against the buildings, and the stone beneath his feet felt harder than usual. His shoes made no sound. His breath stayed shallow. When he reached the door, he stood for a long moment without touching the handle. The life inside that apartment had not been built for witnesses. It had been shaped in silence. Carved carefully around another man’s hands. Another man’s scent. Another man’s life.

And now it had been seen.

He stared at the closed door for a beat longer, the shape of Will’s shoulders still imprinted behind his eyes. Then opened it. He said nothing when he stepped inside. Didn’t mention the market. The smell. The figure in the crowd.

But Will—his Will was already at the counter, slicing apples into thin crescents. He didn’t look up.

"You meet me." He said. Not a question, not even a trace of uncertainty.

Hannibal’s hands were still on the doorknob.

“I know.” Will said again.

And Hannibal, who had not flinched from a thousand truths in blood and flesh and flame—stood there. Exposed.

He stayed by the door. When Will finished slicing the apples, slow and steady, he set the knife down and walked over.

He didn’t touch him. Just stands beside him, close enough for their arms to brush. No pressure. No invitation.

And when Hannibal finally—finally—leaned into him, Will lifted an arm and pressed their bodies together. No space between them.

***

Florence. Seven days after Will Became His.

The light in the apartment had softened by the time Hannibal turned from the stove.

Will sat at the table, a cup of tea cooling at his elbow. He wasn’t reading. Just watching. Simply there—his arms folded loosely, the collar of his shirt rumpled, one sock pushed halfway down his ankle like he hadn’t noticed.

Abigail had already gone to bed. They’d each said goodnight. She hadn’t asked questions, but her eyes had lingered a little too long when she looked at Hannibal. Just… knowing. 

Hannibal served the meal—roasted vegetables and halibut with fennel—and sat across from Will.

Will took a bite, nodded once. Ate in slow, quiet intervals. Hannibal followed. They ate like men who had learned to savor what they didn’t deserve.

Halfway through the meal, Will said, not quite a question: “This is borrowed time.”

Hannibal didn’t look up from his plate. His knife moved through a potato with surgical ease. “Yes.” He said.

Will didn’t respond. He finished his wine, wiped his mouth, and reached across the table. He took Hannibal's plate, brought it to the sink.

Hannibal watched his back as he rinsed it, shoulders relaxed, sleeves pushed up. It was such a small thing. But it ached anyway.

The kitchen was quiet again when Will turned around. Will stepped closer. Placed his palm on Hannibal’s shoulder. “I’m still yours.” He said.

Then, after a beat—

“For now.”

That last part didn’t sting. Because it was true. He had always known this, just shoving this knowledge into a hidden room and throwing away the key. Now, the key has reappeared to his hand.

Hannibal reached up, rested his hand over Will’s palm without looking. Let his eyes fall shut.

They stayed like that. One touch. One promise. Neither of them said how long “now” would last.

***

Florence, Via de' Bardi. Three weeks after Hannibal's kill.

The courtyard was veiled in the shade of ancient fig trees and heavy ivy, their roots threading through cracked stone. The building itself, with its weathered charm, bore tall arched windows and fading, once-elegant shutters. A modest wrought-iron gate stood ajar, suggesting an invitation rather than neglect. The exterior offered no theatrical display—only a quiet, dignified decay that concealed the opulence within.

Will recognized the patterns. He recognized the control.

He'd been following Hannibal’s traces for days now—quietly, carefully, a shadow with no name. But this was the first time he’d stopped long enough to watch.

And there they were. Not just Hannibal.

Will. But not him.

At first, he thought he was hallucinating. That his encephalitis hadn’t been cured.

This man was bent over the railing of the balcony, wiping soil from his fingers with a rag. Sunlit, slightly hunched, talking to someone inside the room. He was smiling. It was easy. Will’s breath caught.

And then—Abigail stepped into view.

She handed him something—a cup, maybe. Said something that made the man laugh, head tilted back, mouth open.

Will leaned against the wall across the street, heart thudding in his throat.

She was alive. They were alive.

All of them. And he was watching it like a stranger.

That Will on that balcony—his other half—moved like someone who belonged. Like someone who had already chosen, and had been chosen in return. His body didn’t carry guilt the same way. His shoulders weren’t braced for disappointment.

When Will looked back, Hannibal had joined them at the balcony. He wasn’t smiling. But his eyes were soft. His hand brushed against the man's arm. The man leaned into it, unthinking.

The three of them stood in a triangle of sunlight. Familiar. Whole.

Will stood in the shadow of the wall, watching. For a moment, the ache came quick and sharp, cutting under his ribs before he could stop it.

What could have been his, Will thought—then discarded the thought right away. No,  he wasn’t ready to love Hannibal that way. To live that way. To become that version of himself who could slip into the warmth and terror alike, and not flinch.

Now, watching them—he wasn’t angry. He had been replaced, with another version of himself who had been ready.

Will stayed until the light faded. He said nothing. Did nothing. And then he left, slowly, quietly, taking the ghost of a life with him.

***

Florence. Unknowable Time until The Goodbye.

The shadows stretched long across the apartment, the last of the light sliding gold over the floorboards.

Abigail sat curled at one end of the couch, knees tucked to her chest, the book in her lap unopened. Her gaze wandere with the stillness of someone watching something end before it had been named. 

Hannibal was in the kitchen, folding cloth napkins. The movements were automatic. Quiet. The scent of roasted tomatoes lingered in the air. Bread cooling on the rack. The table had been set, but not lit. The candles—always lit at dinner, always—remained untouched.

He noticed that. And he noticed the absence of footsteps. Will hadn’t come to the kitchen. He hadn’t returned with the basil Hannibal had sent him for. The window had been open since dusk, the breeze cool now, curling through the rooms like a whisper.

Hannibal turned toward the hallway. No sound.

He walked to the balcony doors and paused. There—beyond the threshold—stood Will. Fully dressed. Shoulders slightly hunched, but with thought.

He was leaning against the stone balustrade, one hand resting flat on its surface, the other tucked into the pocket of his coat. His eyes were on the river, but they didn’t track movement. They were too still.

The breeze lifted a lock of his hair. He didn’t move to fix it.

For a moment, Hannibal didn’t speak. Just stood behind him, watching.

Then—“You forgot the candles.” He said, gently.

Will didn’t look back. “I know.”

In the other room, Abigail closed her book without reading a single word. She stood slowly, almost reluctantly, and moved toward the hallway, pausing just outside the frame of the kitchen. She watched them in silent. When she turned to leave, she didn’t say goodnight. She just looked at them like someone memorizing a painting before the museum closed.

Will sighed—soft, shallow. “Do you think she knows?”

Hannibal stepped forward, until they stood shoulder to shoulder. “She always knows.”

Will’s mouth twitched. Not really a smile, just the hint of one. He turned his head slightly, eyes still on the river.

“It’s beautiful here.” He said.

Hannibal looked at him—truly looked—and for the first time since Will had come back, he felt the distance.

It wasn't avoidance, or coldness. 

It was something else… departure.

Will wasn’t pulling away. He was letting go. Gently. Like releasing the stem of a dying flower. No, he was already part gone. 

Hannibal’s throat tightened. He reached out anyway. His fingers brushed Will’s coat sleeve. Slipped down until they found his wrist, light but insistent. Not holding him back—he knew he couldn't. But to anchor, to remember.

For however long they had left.

"Have you got any plans yet?" Will asked softly, eyes still lost to the dark river below.

"After this?" Hannibal’s voice was quiet, careful. He didn’t say after you’re gone, but it was there, suspended between them.

"If you plan to end this, again..." He murmured, voice roughened with quiet fatigue, "This time, I wouldn’t—couldn’t stop you."

The admission fell between them, clean and honest. No challenge. No accusation. Just something known.

Hannibal hesitated. The impulse to argue, to promise, flickered and died before it could reach his mouth.

Instead, he asked softly, "Then why, Will? Why would come here at all, knowing how it ends?"

Will’s eyes drifted shut for a second, lashes heavy. When he opened them, they gleamed faintly, like he’d been laughing with his eyes alone.

“Didn’t I tell you, when we met the first time?” he said, a faint smirk pulling at his mouth. “You’re getting old.”

Hannibal blinked at him—unamused, but fond beneath it. Will huffed a soft, rueful laugh. The sound was light, but it didn’t lift. It only hung in the air, fragile.

“I wanted you to see it,” He said, quieter now. His voice thinned, more raw in the hush. “What you wanted for us. Florence. The way it could have been. I wanted us to have it.”

"Even if it’s only a dream." Hannibal murmured, the weight of that landing heavy between his ribs.

“Yes. Unfortunately.” Will whispered. His smile was crooked now, breaking at the edges.

He turned then—finally—to face Hannibal fully. His face was open in a way that was rare and devastating. He reached out, threading their fingers together, and for a moment neither spoke.

Will’s grip was warm. Steady. But not desperate.

"This isn’t about leaving you, Hannibal." He said softly. "It’s about giving this—" He squeezed their joined hands, "—its place. Where it belongs."

Hannibal swallowed thickly. His fingers tightened, fierce for a moment. His other hand came up, cupping Will’s jaw, thumb brushing beneath his eye like he could hold every remaining second there.

Will leaned into it, eyes fluttering closed briefly. When Will opened his eyes again, they were steady, dark and deep.

“I’ll stay a little longer.” He said, as though promising both mercy and cruelty. "Not forever. But long enough."

Hannibal nodded, and in that silence that followed, it was the only thing that mattered.

Long enough. 

Will pressed forward, resting his forehead lightly against Hannibal’s. The touch was soft, fragile, unbearably tender.

It wasn't a goodbye, not yet.

But close.

***

Florence. Unknowable Time until the Goodbye. Closer.

The apartment had gone still.

Hannibal was in the kitchen, tidying the remains of dinner with deliberate slowness—stacking plates like pages in a book he didn’t want to finish. The fire in the sitting room had burned low, casting long orange fingers across the floor. 

Abigail stood by the balcony doors, arms folded against the chill. She didn’t startle when Will stepped beside her.

“You’re quieter than usual.” She said.

Will didn’t answer immediately. He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, watching the darkness gather over the rooftops.

“Are you going tonight?” She asked.

“No.” Will said. “Not tonight.”

He turned to her then. Her face had changed, though neither in shape nor in youth—but in steadiness. She no longer waited for people to explain themselves. She already knew.

Abigail held his gaze, jaw tight. “So this is it.”

Will gave a slight nod. “I wanted to tell you first.”

She blinked, just once. Then looked away. “You don’t have to say anything.” She said.

“I know.” Will said softly. “But I want to.” He shifted closer, his voice low.

“You made this feel real. Even for me. And that… that’s not something I get very often.” Abigail’s mouth twitched, hovering somewhere between a smile and a frown.

“You’re still you, you know. Different, maybe. But still him.”

Will’s eyes flickered—not with pain, but with something gentler. “I don’t know if he’ll forgive me.”

“He already has.” She said, firm.

They stood there for a moment, shadows across their faces. Then Abigail stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek to his chest. Will closed his eyes. He held her carefully—like something small and sharp, and beloved all the same. His hand found the back of her head, resting there.

“Thank you.” He whispered.

She didn’t say you’re welcome. She just held on a little longer.

When she finally let go, they didn’t say goodbye. Will looked at her one last time, something quiet settling behind his eyes.

“Take care of yourself.” He said. A pause, then. “Take care of him, too. When the time comes.”

Abigail didn’t ask what he meant. She only nodded once, serious and small and strong.

“I will.”

He just touched her cheek with his fingertips, gently, and turned away.

And Abigail—strong, steady Abigail—stood alone by the window, watching the night began again.

***

Florence. Unknowable Time until The Goodbye. Closer than ever.

The sky had turned a soft, impossible blue—the kind that only came before rain. The windows were open, letting in a breeze that stirred the edges of the curtains, lifted the smell of rosemary from the garden.

Hannibal had cooked, though he hadn’t needed to. Will had come home hours earlier from the dock, clothes folded and clean now, his hair damp and curling at the ends. The air was quiet, but not strained. Abigail had gone to bed early. She hadn’t said much that evening, only hugged Will a little longer than usual before retreating down the hall. Hannibal had watched it happen without comment.

He’d known.

The table was still set, though only their wine glasses remained. Will leaned against the balcony doorframe, barefoot, one arm hooked over his chest as he sipped slowly. He didn’t look out over the city.

He looked back, at Hannibal.

The moment held. And Hannibal understood. This wasn’t hesitation. It wasn’t a warning. It was Will’s mercy, giving him space to prepare for something that could not be avoided.

He rose from the table with a grace that almost broke his own composure and crossed the room, pouring the last of the wine. He didn’t offer Will any. Will had stopped drinking.

Their eyes met again. There was no tension in it. Just a shared, inevitable truth.

It’s time. Neither of them said it aloud.

Instead, Hannibal set the glass down beside the untouched candles. He reached for the switch near the doorway, dimming the room until the walls glowed amber, shadows moving gently across the floorboards.

Will watched every motion. He followed Hannibal without being led, barefoot on warm tile, the silence folding around them like silk. Their bedroom door had been left slightly open. It had not felt like an invitation earlier.

Now, it did.

Inside, the sheets were freshly turned. The scent of cedar and bergamot hung faint in the corners. No fire. No music. Just the hush of two men who knew that what came next had nothing to do with lust.

And everything to do with grief.

Hannibal didn’t speak. His hand hovered for a long time at the base of Will’s throat before drifting lower, curling against his ribs.

Will leaned forward, kissed him—soft, slow. A kiss without teeth or hunger. Just knowing, like a page being turned.

And Hannibal—Hannibal didn’t stop him.

The kiss ended slowly, softened by breath. Will drew back just enough to look at him, his eyes dark and unreadable, but his touch impossibly gentle. One hand lifted to Hannibal’s hair, smoothing it back from his forehead with a patience Hannibal hadn’t realized he needed. Fingers carded through each strand, less to tame than to memorize.

“You look tired.” Will murmured.

Hannibal didn’t speak. He simply let Will guide him back, until the backs of his knees met the edge of the bed. Will’s hands moved to the buttons of his shirt—quiet, slow, each one undone like a kept secret. The linen parted across Hannibal’s chest, exposing skin to the cooler air. He didn’t shiver.

He only watched Will’s face. And Will watched him right back.

When the shirt was open, Will pushed it off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. His palms ran down Hannibal’s arms, sure and steady.

Then came the pants. No haste. Will dropped to his knees. Like soldier tending to another in silence. Fingers at the button. The zip. The slide of fabric down bone and skin.

Will stood again. Then, without a word, began to undress himself. Hannibal reached to help—but Will stopped him, gently. “Let me.”

So Hannibal stilled. Will finished the work himself—shirt over his head, undershirt peeled back, jeans slid low across his hips. All while Hannibal sat motionless, barefoot now, hands resting lightly on his thighs.

When Will was bare, he stepped close and reached for Hannibal again. He didn't pull him into bed, only hold him upright, forehead against his own, breath shared. No rush. No agenda.

A farewell dressed in disguised of patience.

And when Hannibal exhaled, his hand rose to cup the side of Will’s face, his thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone as though it might be the last time he dared. 

Because it might be. Because some part of him knew—it was.

This won't be the same.

Their mouths met again. Slower this time. Lips parted like they were asking a question neither of them would dare to speak aloud. Hannibal’s hands came to Will’s waist, fingertips pressing into the familiar shape of him. But they didn’t move. They stayed there. Holding on.

Will kissed his jaw. His neck. The hollow beneath his collarbone.

Hannibal laid back, and Will followed, one hand braced beside his head, the other drifting down his ribs, the curve of his hip. Their bodies aligned with the ease of something practiced—recognition. And when Will entered him, Hannibal exhaled like he was releasing a weight he had carried since before time had split them. There was no tension in him. Only surrender.

Hannibal’s body opened around him like it had been waiting—ready, but without ache or desperation. Just ready. He gasped once, low in his throat, eyes fluttering shut—but he didn’t look away for long.

Because Will was watching him. Still. Always.

Their rhythm was slow, free of hesitation or restraint—deliberate. As though trying to memorize the shape of each other’s soul.

No cries. No moans. Just breath. Just the press of hands, the lock of eyes, the trembling closeness of two men who had already survived each other.

The air around them held everything that hadn’t been said: grief, devotion, and the understanding that no future could contain them both. Only this moment. Only now.

And Hannibal—who had orchestrated his entire life like a symphony—let himself be undone without direction. His legs around Will’s waist, fingers curled tight into his shoulder blades. His mouth open, it wasn't the moan, but breathless disbelief that he could feel so held while coming apart.

A small sound escaped him—not pain. Not even pleasure.

Sorrow.

He hadn't known his tears were falling. Until he found his image in Will's red-rimmed eyes. Until a pair of familiar hands caressed his cheeks.

“Don’t cry, darlin’.” He murmured. “I’ll wait for you. Another time.”

Hannibal arched, hand on the back of Will’s neck, and came silently, his whole body trembling.

Will followed—his forehead pressed to Hannibal’s, his breath stuttering, fingers tightening at his side. 

“I stayed longer than I was meant to.” Will said, he didn’t cry. “But not longer than I wanted.”

But Hannibal knew—it broke something in him, too.

When it ended, they stayed as they were—bodies tangled, hearts thudding quietly in the dark. Will’s hand on Hannibal’s chest. Hannibal’s fingers still curled against his back. Neither of them moved for a long time.

Then Will shifted. Just enough to look down at him.

“Please.” He said. “Promise me something.”

It was not a plea. He had never begged for anything. But this one very close.

Hannibal blinked slowly, his breath still uneven.

“Anything.” He said.

Will traced a line along his cheek with his knuckles. His voice steady. “Protect Abigail. Keep our child safe.” He waited for Hannibal to look him in the eye.

“He’s not ready yet.” 

Will rested his palm against Hannibal’s throat, voice softer. "Be patient with him. Like I was with you."

A pause. A breath. Hannibal inhaled—but said nothing. He couldn’t. He closed his eyes.

“And I’m sorry.” Will whispered. “For taking this choice from you. Again.”

The choice to end it. The choice to grieve in fire and blood.

Hannibal nodded. He had no desire to punish Will—his Will—for leaving. And for Will Graham—the one who left, what had once burned sharp in him—pride, anger—had cooled into something quieter. The urge to destroy had long since turned to ash.

Will leaned in once more. Kissed him softly. Slow. Final.

“I wanted to give you something." He said. "A gift. You'll find it when I’m gone.”

Hannibal opened his eyes, and there—just beneath the surface—was a glimmer of tears. Not falling yet. Though close.

Will leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth. Then his brow. Then his throat.

“I love you.” He said.

And Hannibal found himself couldn’t say it back.

It wasn't because he didn’t feel it.

But because saying it would mean accepting it was the last time.

***

Florence. Unknown time after a part of him was Gone.

The first thing he noticed was the light.

It spilled through the window in soft, unbothered lines—warm, drowsy gold stretching across the sheets. The scent of fennel lingered faintly in the air. Outside, birdsong drifted from the rooftop tiles.

The second thing he noticed was the absence. The sheets beside him were still warm. Barely.

Hannibal didn’t move at first. His hand rested across the dip in the mattress, fingers brushing a hollow that had held Will’s ribs only hours earlier. The imprint was still there. Deep enough to carry weight. But not deep enough to stay.

He lay like that for a long time. Eyes open. Face turned toward what had already left.

When he rose, it wasn’t with haste. His robe was folded neatly at the end of the bed. The glass on the nightstand still held the last of the water he hadn’t drunk. The room was unchanged.

Everything was in its place.

Except Will.

In the kitchen, the light was brighter. The kettle had been filled. The bread sliced.

One plate remained on the counter, washed and turned upside-down to dry. It wasn't a farewell gesture. Nothing dramatic. Just normal, tidy, like every other days.

Abigail sat at the table. She didn’t say good morning. Didn’t smile. Just looked at him with the kind of stillness he used to consider precocious. Now, it felt like a mercy.

“He’s gone.” She said. Just stating fact.

Hannibal nodded once. He crossed to the stove, lit the flame, poured water into a pan. She didn’t offer comfort. Didn’t ask questions.

She simply said: “He left it for you.”

Hannibal’s hand paused.

He didn’t ask what. She didn’t explain.

—

It was late afternoon when he found it.

He hadn’t rushed. He’d gone through the motions of the day with clockwork grace—boiling water for coffee he never drank, straightening the corners of the tablecloth, folding the robe Will had left behind without a single lingering touch.

Florence breathed with stone and silence. The heat pressed low against the skin as Hannibal walked through the old quarter, footsteps light beneath the weight of something far older than regret. He wore dark linen, sleeves rolled precisely. The walk hadn’t been far, and Hannibal had not spoken a word since stepping off the apartment. Not to the neighborhood, not to the familiar vendors. He traced Will’s step, his movements.

He didn’t need directions.

He was here for confirmation. He already knew where he was going.

Ponte Santa Trinita waited for him as though it always had. The bridge wore beauty as easily as it wore ruin. Once shattered, now whole again—its Renaissance stones laid quietly back into place, as though time itself had apologized and mended them.

Above, the statues of the Four Seasons kept their silent vigil, guardians of a city that understood how to endure without weeping.

Hannibal paused as he crossed. The hour was gentle. Golden light spilled along the balustrades, softening even the sharpest carvings. Lovers lingered near the center, hushed between arrival and departure, as though unwilling to disturb the bridge’s quiet vow.

Will had chosen well. 

Here, time did not press forward. It circled. Love met death. Loss met beauty. And what broke was rebuilt.

A place where endings did not howl—they circled quietly, waiting to begin again.

But even beauty had its underside. 

Hannibal’s steps resumed, soft against the worn stone. Near the far end of the bridge, where foot traffic thinned and shadows gathered, he turned. Toward the lesser-known path that slipped beneath the arches, where the city’s polish gave way to something quieter.

He descended carefully, his shoes striking the old steps that led to the Arno’s hidden edge. The path here was narrow, intimate. Water lapped softly against the stone, carrying the hush of the river in gentle pulses. Above, the bridge’s elegant curve loomed—eternal, indifferent.

This was a place the city forgot after nightfall. Where the world dimmed and eyes did not wander.
Where messages could be left, and only the right ones would see.

And there, in the hush—He found it.

It was flesh. Two bodies—posed with impossible precision.

One male figure draped across the other, their arms wound around one another, a tableau of grief and intimacy. Achilles and Patroclus.

Or—no. Not really.

It was them. But what bound them wasn’t likeness, but essence.

One reclined, clearly dead, eyes closed, head tilted gently toward the other.

The other bent over him, not in agony—in surrender. In love. One hand cradled the dead man’s head. The other pressed a pomegranate to his lips, split and spilling. Red like blood. Red like hunger. Red like remembrance. The pomegranate smelled faintly of citrus and something darker. Oil. Smoke. A trace of leather. Like Will’s hands after a day at the docks.

At their feet: lotus blossoms. White. Subtle. Eternal.

A cracked hourglass lay to the side, shattered in its base, ivy curling through the break, winding upward as if reclaiming time itself.

And there—subtly—threading between the two figures:

A single strand of red silk, impossibly fine.

It ran from the wrist of the living figure, around his hand, down through the pomegranate, and vanished into the dead man’s mouth.

Not binding. Not even tight. Just connected. Inescapable.

Above them, and everything else—every edge, every wall—melted away like dream.

‘Not the kind you wake up from.’

The kind that stays with you long after morning. A dream that lingered. A dream that chose to stay.

It had felt like dream. But this—this was real. Real enough to be left behind.

Hannibal stood before it for a long time. His eyes did not blur. But they burned, as if they'd stared too long into something too sacred to look away from.

He only pressed a hand to his chest, over the place that had once carried Will’s weight in sleep, and breathed in the silence.

I see you.

This was never about escape.

And in giving you this end, I gave you back what I once stole—your beginning.

Chapter Text

Florence, Ponte Santa Trinita. Almost a week since he saw himself.

Will had followed the note left on his threshold this morning.

He had followed whispers through Duomo, rumors in San Lorenzo, a name scribbled in the margins of a stolen ledger. There were bodies, of course—subtle, sparse. Nothing that screamed Hannibal Lecter.

But to Will, they rang like church bells.

The bridge was colder than expected. Even in Florence’s warmth, the wind over the Arno carried a quiet bite. Shadows pooled beneath the elegant arches, soft where the sunlight failed to reach. The statues of the Four Seasons stood above, expressionless, as if they’d seen this before.

Will stepped lightly across the worn stone.

He hadn’t followed Hannibal here. Not precisely, but he’d known, somehow—just known—that this was where it would lead.

The ache in his chest wasn’t sharp. It was steady. Familiar. Like old scar tissue stretched too tight. He passed beneath the arches, past the glittering saints and silent angels, until he reached the side chapel.

And then he saw him, not in his usual stillness—but something far worse.

Softness. Grief.

His shoulders weren’t squared. His hands weren’t folded. He stood slightly hunched, as though some part of him had finally given in to weight. His back rose and fell in shallow breaths.

And before him—the tableau. Will stopped short, frozen.

Two bodies. Intimately entwined. Pomegranate, red thread, the hourglass broken and overgrown.

And he understood. Immediately. Too clearly. That wasn’t myth. That wasn’t metaphor. It was them.

Hannibal and… not him. The other one. The one who had become this—a holy memory.

Will took a step forward. The air felt heavier here. The kind of quiet that had weight, that pressed against the bones. He had never meant to see this. Not like this. And certainly not now.

Will stepped forward, footsteps nearly silent. He stopped just at the edge of the chapel’s threshold, as though stepping any further would violate something sacred.

“Hannibal.”

Hannibal didn’t turn. For a long moment, Will thought he might not speak at all. 

And then his voice—quiet, hollow: “You were supposed to leave.”

Will didn’t move. His throat felt dry, but he swallowed once. “I know.”

They stood in silence. The mosaic light caught on the back of Hannibal’s neck, warm against his skin. His hands hung loose at his sides.

Will took in the scene again—every detail. The red thread. The pomegranate. The ivy.

It was a tomb. And a love letter. And Will wasn’t in it.

He shifted, just barely. “You've been here for a long time already.”

Still not looking at him, Hannibal said, “To say goodbye.”

Will’s chest tightened. “You loved him.”

“Yes.” There was no shame in the answer—no cruelty, no challenge. Only a quiet certainty, a truth too solid to be denied.

And Will—Will didn’t ask if it had been better.

The man who had been in Hannibal’s bed, who had placed the pomegranate, who had entwined fingers with red thread as though fate itself were something to be stitched—he had chosen Hannibal.

And Will had not.

He stepped back, the movement so slight it might have been mistaken for a breath, his voice low and frayed at the edges. “I thought you might wait.”

Hannibal turned then, slowly, as though pulled by something reluctant. His eyes were dark, shadowed with sleeplessness, his face unreadable. But in that stillness, Will saw it—the pause, the flicker of something that wasn’t rage, or joy, or even recognition. Something quieter. Something worse.

Absence.

For a moment, Will thought he might speak—might say his name like he used to, that soft invocation, the way a shadow is drawn to flame. But he didn’t.

He only looked at him. Like a painting hung in the wrong room: familiar, yes—but out of place. Unwanted.

Will opened his mouth, then closed it again.

He just looked at him. Like a painting hung in the wrong room. Familiar. But not wanted.

Will opened his mouth. Closed it again. He said nothing.

Because grief had already come and gone. And he was standing in its ruins. Like a bystander in his own life.

—

The museum was nearly empty by late afternoon.

Will hadn’t spoken since the bridge. Hannibal hadn’t offered more than a glance as they walked together down narrow streets lined with citrus trees and worn stone.

There had been no discussion. No plan. And yet they found themselves here. In a quiet gallery tucked between halls of frescoes and forgotten saints.

The room was dim. High ceilings. Marble underfoot. A single wooden bench beneath a modest painting—a domestic interior rendered in oil and soft light. A man in a kitchen. His back turned. A basin of water. A loaf of bread. One child in the background, blurred like memory. The color palette was unremarkable. Muted blues. Ochres. The kind of thing most people passed by without stopping.

But Hannibal sat. And Will, after a pause, joined him. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was measured. Like two men watching a storm already passed. 

They didn’t look at each other. They looked at the painting.

“He isn’t cooking.” Hannibal said, after a while. His voice was quiet. Even. “He’s remembering how.”

Will tilted his head, only slightly. “How can you tell?”

Hannibal’s mouth quirked—merely a flicker of thought. “The posture. His hands aren’t wet. The bread hasn’t been sliced. He’s holding the knife as if… he hasn’t decided whether he’s ready to be needed again.”

Will’s breath caught. Soft. Almost imperceptible. But Hannibal noticed.

A long pause followed. The kind where every unspoken question sits just behind the teeth. Then Hannibal said, not turning: “Tell me. What did you see?”

Will blinked. Slowly. “You mean after I walked away?”

“No. I mean… after you survived me.”

Will exhaled through his nose. He looked forward again. Not at the painting. Not at Hannibal. Only through the space between them.

“I saw the edge of the world.” He said. “And then I walked past it.”

“And?” Hannibal asked.

Will’s fingers curled lightly against his thigh. “And I kept going. Learned how to hold a job. Pay taxes. Be sane. It was easier than I thought it’d be. And lonelier than I admitted.”

Hannibal nodded once, another breath passed.

“Did you ever stop hunting me?” Hannibal asked.

Will didn’t answer right away. Then:

“Yes.” He paused. “And then I started again.”

Hannibal looked at him now. Slowly. The weight of it soft, but unflinching. “And now that you’ve found me?”

Will didn’t meet his gaze.

“I don’t know yet.” He said, "I haven't decided."

—

They walked in silence after the gallery. 

The late light filtered between buildings like it, too, had nowhere else to go. Hannibal led them to a narrow courtyard café. Unassuming. Tucked between a bookstore and a shuttered tailor’s shop. The stone was warm underfoot, the chairs iron-wrought and uncomfortable. A table for two, already set.

Hannibal didn’t sit. He nodded to the waiter, exchanged a few words in low Italian. Will didn’t listen, he watched the light glint off Hannibal’s wrist instead.

When the waiter returned, he placed two small plates on the table—modest portions. Sliced sardines dressed with lemon and vinegar. A wedge of cheese, delicate. Warm bread. Chilled white wine, sweating at the bottle’s neck.

Hannibal gestured toward the table. “It’s not much.”

Generous, but Will knew better. This was only an offering of necessity. 

He sat, picked up the fork. Didn’t eat, bot at first. He waited when Hannibal sat across from him, folding his napkin neatly into his lap, Will finally brought a bite to his mouth.

The silence between them wasn’t tense. This wasn’t home. But it wasn’t war, either.

“You haven’t asked about her.” Hannibal said, after a while.

Will’s fork paused. “No.” He replied. He didn’t ask now, either. And Hannibal didn’t press.

They ate. Slowly, without ceremony. When the bread was gone and the plates were empty. Will sat back, fingers wrapped loosely around his half-empty glass. The courtyard had grown quieter—just the clink of cutlery inside, the distant hum of a passing scooter, a fountain murmuring somewhere out of sight.

Hannibal leaned slightly back, eyes not on Will’s face, but on the glass catching the dying sun between them. “Have you made arrangements?”

Will looked up, his brow barely twitching. “For what?”

“Lodging. Staying in. I assume you don’t plan to sleep in chapels.”

Will didn’t answer right away. He took a slow sip of the wine, then set it down gently.

“I hadn’t decided.”

“How long do you plan to remain here?”

Will tilted his head, as if amused. “Do you want me gone, or just prepared?”

“Prepared.” Hannibal said, simply. There was no threat in it. And no invitation either.

Will’s gaze narrowed slightly. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know.” He paused, eyes unreadable. “You always have.”

That silence between them stretched a little too long. Then, Will said—quiet, almost thoughtful: “Is this the part where you start testing me again?”

Hannibal’s lips barely moved. But his voice came low, steady. “What would I be testing for, Will?”

Will’s jaw tightened. Just slightly. “That depends. Am I the test, or the punishment?”

And Hannibal… smiled. A small, tired thing. But not unkind. “You were never the punishment.”

Will didn’t answer. He just reached for the wine again.

—

The wine had mellowed between them. No second bottle was ordered. No dessert.

The sun had sunk behind the rooftops, leaving only the last skim of gold on the edge of Will’s jaw, the hollow of Hannibal’s throat. They didn’t speak much after that last exchange.

They didn’t need to. But just before the waiter returned with the check, Will glanced across the table. The air between them was different now—not cleared, not open. But less armed.

“Will you stay here, after this?” His voice was casual, but the question wasn’t.

Hannibal didn’t answer immediately. He turned the wine glass slowly by its stem. Watching how the last arc of light traced the rim. Then he said:

“Yes.” He paused. “I have responsibilities there.”

Will’s gaze didn’t shift. “Abigail.”

Hannibal looked at him now. Fully.

“Yes.”

Will nodded once, understood. And something in him shifted—a little tension unwound in the line of his shoulders. He reached for the small spoon beside his plate, fiddled with it idly. His voice came quieter. “I’ve got a cheap room near Arno River. It’s loud. Walls are thin.”

Hannibal said nothing, not at first. But his hand tightened around the wineglass. Just briefly, enough to make the rim whisper under his grip.

And when the waiter arrived with the bill, Hannibal reached for it. Paid without comment. When he stood to go, he set a small packet—wrapped in parchment, tied with twine—on the table beside Will’s empty glass.

Will looked down at it. Pressed olives. Imported from Trapani. Rich with salt and oil. The kind of thing Will would never buy for himself.

He didn’t ask. Hannibal didn’t explain. He only said, with the smallest tilt of his head: “Eat something decent before you sleep.”

And then, without looking back, he walked into the darkening street.

***

Florence, Palazzo Capponi. The third morning since Will was no longer here.

It was the second morning since Hannibal returned from the goodbye.

The apartment had not changed, not on the surface. The kitchen was as immaculate as ever, the furniture arranged with surgical precision, the scent of orange peel and faint leather still threading the air.

But something was wrong. Not the broken wrong. Softer.

She noticed it in the way Hannibal stood at the counter, polishing the inside of a glass he’d already dried. His eyes weren’t fixed on the task. They drifted—first to the window, then to the floor, then back again.

There was no purpose in his eyes—only a quiet drift, like someone moving through fog. Hannibal hadn’t touched his coffee. Abigail leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching him dry the same glass again. The movement was quiet, repetitive.

She also noted how he made extra coffee, in the white mug their Will usually used. Placed it in front of him for the last three days, spending half an hour looking at the mug before beginning eating breakfast.

“You’re back.” She said, after a long pause.

He didn’t look at her. “I am.”

“You’re not saying much.”

“I rarely do.”

“Not like this.”

That made him stop. Just for a second. He set the glass down. Smoothed the cloth. His hands remained on the counter.

“Did something happen?” She asked, finally. “That day?”

She tried to keep her voice light. But it came out too even, too intentional. Hannibal’s posture didn’t change. But the pause he left in place of an answer was heavy.

When he did speak, it was quiet, but the weight in it was unmistakable. “I went to say goodbye.”

Abigail frowned, stepping further into the kitchen.

“To who?”

He didn’t answer. He turned, slowly, his eyes meeting hers—not guarded, not sharp. Just tired in a way she hadn’t seen before. In a way that scared her more than anything else could.

“Someone who stayed.” He said. “And someone who didn't.”

Abigail’s throat tightened. Her voice was smaller than she expected when she asked, “Are you okay?”

Hannibal’s gaze didn’t waver. But something behind his eyes shifted. “I will be.”

She stood still for a long moment, then stepped closer. Reached out, hesitated—then set her hand lightly on his arm.

“You don’t have to do this alone.” She said. “Whatever it is.”

Hannibal looked down at her hand. There was no surprise in his expression, no visible reaction. Only a quiet recognition. He nodded once and went back to drying the glass. Only this time, he stopped after one pass.

***

Florence, Via de' Bardi. Two days after he meet the man who once haunted him.

Will sat on the low stone wall across from the bookstore. It was late enough for the street to be soft with shadows, the sun melted down into the rooftops behind him. The piazza was nearly empty, save for the occasional bicycle, the flick of a match from a smoker near the corner. He didn’t draw attention. No one gave him a second look. He preferred it that way.

The apartment was just beyond the shop. But he hadn’t gone closer. 

He knew which window was the kitchen. He’d seen the lights come on at dusk. Once, he’d glimpsed Abigail’s profile—her hair tied up, back to the glass. He didn’t know what she was saying, but she was talking to someone inside. He didn’t need to guess who. 

And he noted that Hannibal moved differently now. Will had watched him once—crossing the street with a canvas bag tucked neatly against his hip. His stride was slower. Like he just… settled.

They weren’t hiding. They were simply living here. And Will—Will was outside of it.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the small packet of olives. The paper was soft now, creased at the edges. He hadn’t opened them. He didn’t know why he’d kept them this long.

It wasn’t a gesture. It wasn’t a peace offering—Hannibal had said nothing sentimental when he left them behind.

“Eat something decent before you sleep.”

But it echoed now, more than it should have.

Will turned the packet in his hand, then set it beside him on the wall.

He wasn’t ready—couldn’t bring himself to climb the stairs, to meet Abigail’s gaze and see the ghost she thought she saw. To face Hannibal and say the answer he hadn’t yet been able to form.

He had come here to see if he could say yes—to answer the question Hannibal once posed between blood and surrender: “We could go.” Runaway. Together. Leave it all behind.

But standing here now—on the outside of the life Hannibal had once built for him, now filled without him—Will hesitated.

Can there still be anything left for him, after Hannibal lived the life he had once dreamed?

When the dog barked somewhere in the distance, when the church bell struck, Will stood. He didn’t move toward the apartment. He put the olive back in his bag. He left them there—like a promise he hadn’t decided to keep.

***

Florence. Four days after he said goodbye.

The apartment was hushed by the kind of stillness that comes only from knowing something won’t return. Morning light sifted through the curtains in ribbons, landing softly across the sketchbook, the floor, the corner of the table where Hannibal’s coffee sat untouched. The air smelled faintly of coffee and charcoal dust—simple things, honest things. He had not put music on. He had not spoken since Abigail left for the market with the list he’d written in careful script.

It was Sunday. And on Sundays, he sketched.

He sat in the chair by the window, back straight, legs crossed, a wool blanket tucked around his knees more out of habit than comfort. The sketchbook lay open in his lap, its spine worn, the edge of the page curled slightly from use.

He had drawn the same figure a dozen times. And this time, again—he did not start with the eyes.

The charcoal met the page with familiar weight. He began with the line of a shoulder. The suggestion of a collarbone. A curve of arm where it rested in peace. There was no dramatic posture. No staging. Only stillness. The kind born of trust.

He didn’t need to look at any reference. He had lived these lines. Held them beneath his hands. The figure on the page grew slowly. The softness of the chest, the relaxed tilt of the hips. One leg stretched forward. The other bent slightly, not in readiness, but rest. A curl of hair, drawn without precision, suggested presence more than detail—an impression rather than a replica.

But it wasn’t just a body. It was a moment. A Sunday morning where Will—his Will—lay stretched across the rug, elbow braced, head cocked just enough to watch him with a crooked smile.
“I thought you’d sketch me prettier.” He had once said.

And Hannibal—then—had replied with something like a smile.
“You’re already unfinished. I merely reflect it.”

He reached for his coffee but didn’t drink, he set it down again. The sketch was nearly complete now. Except for the eyes.

Eyes made a thing permanent. Finished. Alive. This one—this Will—could not remain alive. Not here. Not now.

His hand hovered above the page. And then—
He drew a thread. Red charcoal, faint but deliberate. A single line, from the figure’s open hand, down to the bottom edge of the page.

It wasn’t meant to bind or restrain. It was a mark of memory—an echo left behind.

He set the charcoal aside. Folded the sketchbook closed. It made a soft thump against his palm. He didn't file it with the others, didn’t put it away. He simply left it there, on the table by the window. Exposed. Breathing.

A ritual, yes. But not for worship. 
For grief. For choosing to remember, even when destroying would be easier.

***

Florence. One week after Will no longer here.

Abigail didn’t tell Hannibal. She just said she wanted a walk. That she needed fresh air. And he hadn’t stopped her. He rarely did.

But as the apartment door shut behind her, she felt something shift—like stepping out of a dream she hadn’t realized she was in. The street was quiet. A cat watched her from under a car, tail flicking once before it slunk away.

She knew where he was.

Will.

Not her Will. Not the man who had braided her hair on quiet evenings and taught her to cast a line without snagging the reel. But… the original. The source.

The one who left.

She found him sitting on a stone ledge by the corner of the piazza, just beneath a shuttered bookstore. A paper bag beside him. His elbows on his knees. Shoulders hunched slightly, like he was still trying to fold himself inward. He looked up before she spoke. And smiled. Soft. A little wary.

“Hey.” He said. “You found me.”

Abigail stopped a few feet away. She didn’t smile back.

“I wanted to see.” She said.

He nodded like he understood. But maybe he didn’t. She stepped closer. Slowly. Each footstep measured. 

He looked the same. The hair. The eyes. Even the way his hands moved—nervous, twitchy, always adjusting something that wasn’t there.

But something was missing. Not on the surface. Beneath. She didn’t know how to describe it. Only that the moment stretched too long. The silence between them used to feel shared. Now it just felt… empty.

“I’m glad you’re okay.” He said. “You look—older.”

She tilted her head. “So do you.”

He gestured to the spot next to him, voice quiet but even. “You can sit, if you want.”

She did. The stone was cold, and the bag between them crinkled faintly. Almost unconsciously, she asked. “What’s in there?”

“Olives.” Will said. “From Hannibal.”

She looked at him then. Really looked. And it struck her—the way he said Hannibal.

Like it was still a puzzle. Still a risk. Not like Will—their Will, used to say it. Not like the man who used to wait for Hannibal to come home, who watched him pour wine as if it was holy.

Abigail stared down at her hands. She rubbed her thumb along the scar on her wrist. It wasn’t fresh, but it never stopped itching when she was thinking too hard.

“I thought.” She said finally, “That I’d recognize you. That it’d feel the same.”

Will glanced over, his face softened when he looked at her. “I’m still me.”

But she shook her head, slowly. “Yes. You are.” she said—her voice steady, free of anger or malice. It was simply the truth. “You haven’t change.”

He flinched. Just a little, like the words landed somewhere he wasn’t ready for. Abigail turned toward him then, studied him up close.

Same jaw. Same lashes. Same eyes. But they didn’t look at her the same way. 

“I think…” She said, voice low, “The man who was here before—he loved me different. I think he forgave Hannibal, maybe. Not because he deserved it, but because he wanted to.”

Will looked down at his hand. He didn’t flinch this time.

“I’m not him.” He said.

Abigail nodded. “No. You’re not.”

They sat in silence again. And it wasn’t peace. It was distance.

After a while, she stood. He didn’t stop her. He didn’t reach for her hand, just looked up, eyes shadowed. “Tell Hannibal—”

But she cut him off with a small shake of her head. “You should tell him yourself.”

And then she walked away. When she rounded the corner, she didn’t look back.

—

It was already late when she came back.

The apartment was still, lit only by the low, flickering amber of the hallway lamp. The door clicked softly behind her. She slipped off her shoes without a sound and paused, expecting silence.

But Hannibal was there. Seated at the kitchen table, one hand resting lightly on a folded cloth napkin. A half-full glass of wine untouched beside him. A second full glass placed opposite him. He wasn’t reading. He wasn’t looking at anything. Just sitting. Waiting.

He looked up as she entered. His gaze didn’t ask—but it didn’t have to.

Abigail hesitated by the counter, then crossed to the table and sat down across from him. She didn’t speak right away. Neither did he. Finally, she said:

“I saw him.”

Hannibal nodded once. A slow, deliberate movement.

“I thought I’d recognize him.” She said, voice low. “But I didn’t.”

She looked up then, eyes meeting his fully. “It’s not him.”

Hannibal didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. But his fingers curled slightly against the edge of the napkin. A motion too small to name.

Another silence passed. Then Abigail asked, softly: “What are you going to do with him?”

And Hannibal—He didn’t look away. Didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quiet. Measured.

“I have a promise to keep.”

Abigail’s lips parted slightly. But she didn’t press.

Because the weight of those words filled the room: No flicker of longing, no trace of yearning—only the weight of commitment.

A love that had outlived the man who asked for it.

She nodded once. The motion barely perceptible.

***

Florence. One week three days after Will no longer here.

The apartment was quiet when Abigail woke. Not still—she could hear the faint clatter of china in the kitchen—but quiet in a way that meant Hannibal was already awake. And he didn't just moving. Thinking.

She pulled on her cardigan, padded barefoot across the hallway tiles, and paused just outside the kitchen arch.

Hannibal stood at the counter. The kettle had just finished boiling. Steam curled in pale ribbons through the morning light. He moved without sound, every gesture clean, practiced: the slow tilt of the teapot, the careful placement of a spoon, the smallest touch to align the handle of a cup.

She knew this routine. She had watched it a hundred times.

But today, something was different. 

There was a second cup. Not one of the old ones. Not Will’s. Not the one from the Florence mornings, or the delicate porcelain from the freighter.

A new one. Ivory. Thick-walled. Slightly imperfect at the lip—chosen. It was there not as a memory. Hannibal didn’t look up. He poured tea into both cups. Placed one gently on the far side of the table. Aligned the saucer.

He did not drink from either. 

Abigail stepped into the room then, quiet as breath. “You’re making extra.” She said softly.

Hannibal didn’t speak at first, just continued arranging the table—bread, butter, knife, fig jam.

“I was taught never to eat alone.” He said finally.

She leaned against the counter. Watched him. “Is he coming?”

“No.” He paused, then: “He won’t be here for a long time.”

“But you’re setting a place.”

Hannibal looked down at the cup. Just still. “I find,” he said, “That leaving room… changes the shape of silence.”

Abigail didn’t answer. There was nothing she could say. But as she moved toward her chair, she saw the faintest trace of something near the second cup.

A folded napkin. Pressed olives. From Trapani.

Untouched.

***

Florence, Via de' Bardi. Three days after he met Abigail.

The sun had dipped behind the rooftops. Will sat on the same low stone wall, coat pulled around him, collar turned up against the breeze. His bag was slung at his feet. A book tucked beneath his thigh, half-read. A half-smoked cigarette, burned out between his fingers.

The city moved quietly around him. And he didn’t feel haunted. He didn’t feel seen.

Beside him, wrapped in worn parchment and slightly creased, sat the same packet of olives Hannibal had left him days ago.

He’d carried it in his coat pocket. Touched it absentmindedly when walking. Used it like a worry stone—his fingers tracing the fold in the paper as if it might split open into meaning.

He hadn’t opened it. Not until now.

He set the cigarette aside, reached for the packet, and carefully peeled the twine free. The paper unfolded with a faint crackle. The scent was immediate—salt, brine, richness.

Hannibal had known.

Not just that Will would still be hungry. But that he would still resist feeding himself. Will picked up one olive between his fingers. Turned it. Studied it like something sacred and absurd. He ate it. The flavor was sharp. Bright. Almost sweet in its bitterness. He closed his eyes.

He ate another. And another. Slow. Quiet.

There was no music swelling. No voice in his ear. No dramatic shift in the wind.

Just the taste. And the fact that he was still here.

When he finished, he folded the paper carefully, smoothed the creases, and tucked it into the back of his notebook. Because something had passed between them—wordless, ritualized, unfinished.

And for long time, Will didn’t get up to leave.

***

Florence, Bardini Museum. The next morning he completed The Ritual.

The museum was nearly empty that morning. Will liked it that way. The hush between footsteps. The smell of stone and dust and varnish. The way old things stood still—waiting to be misunderstood, or maybe remembered.

He stood in front of a painting he hadn’t expected to care about, longer than he meant to.

A bowl of fruit. A linen cloth. A glass of wine tipped on its side—but not broken. The painting felt incomplete. As if someone had left in the middle of something and never came back.

It sat with him, quietly. Like it knew him.

And after a while, he walked away. This time, he didn’t stop to look back.

—

It was nearly dark by the time he rounded the alley behind the hotel. It was late enough that the streets had emptied out, but not late enough for the silence to feel safe.

Will walked the alleys behind his hotel like he had in a thousand towns before—head down, shoulders loose, not looking for anything but not avoiding it either. The kind of walk meant to remind you that your body’s still yours.

Then came a sound—soft, sharp, and sudden. Near the trash bins, a shape stirred: small, bone-thin, barely more than a shadow. Will stopped in his tracks and looked, eyes narrowing as he tried to make sense of it.

A dog. Half-curled in a torn crate someone had left behind. Patchy fur. One ear chewed, the other alert. Its ribs moved shallow under a layer of dirt and gray. One eye locked on his like it had been waiting.

Will didn’t call out, he crouched, slowly. The dog didn’t run, didn’t growl. It watched him, every muscle like wire. So he slipped off his bag. Pulled out what was left of his sandwich—mostly bread and oil, a bit of fish. He set it down on the pavement between them. 

The dog stared at him. It hadn’t decided yet. And Will—Will understood that. 

That tension. That almost.

He sat there, knees drawn up, arms looped loosely around them. He didn’t speak. This wasn’t the kind of thing you spoke to. This was the kind of thing you recognized.

A stray. Fed once. Then forgotten. Or replaced.

Still alive, but not sure why. The dog crept forward eventually. Ate like it didn’t trust the food to stay. Then backed up again. Didn’t leave. Below its dirty fur was a scar, on its tummy, already healed, but unmistakable.

Will leaned back against the wall. The bricks were warm from the day’s heat, fading slow into night. He closed his eyes. There was something in the air tonight that didn’t demand anything from him. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like someone waiting to be forgiven.

***

Florence, San Frediano. The next morning. Seven Days before Rebirth. The Fracture.

Will walked the city with no purpose. The sun had just begun to warm the stone when he stepped out of his room near the river—cheap, loud, the kind of place where walls were thin and silence was someone else’s business.

But today, he didn’t mind the noise. He needed the friction.

He let the streets carry him. Past flower stalls arranged with restless hands, past cafés with old men reading papers in pairs, past the river where pigeons dipped their wings into the water like they were testing the temperature of memory.

He didn’t search for Hannibal. Or Abigail.

He knew exactly where he was. He had traced the line of its days ago, felt it like a pulse beneath the stones. The places where the other him had walked were marked in absence. A museum docent who smiled too familiarly. A butcher who wrapped his cut with reverence, then hesitated—waiting for recognition that didn’t come.

Will thanked him and left. He passed a café he knew Hannibal used to frequent by feeling. The seat on the corner was still empty. Or maybe just reserved by the weight of habit.

He didn’t go inside. He turned instead toward the river. It was quieter there, where the city softened around the water’s edge. He sat on a bench across from a row of shuttered apartments, tilting his face into the light. Not to bask in it, but to feel something on his skin that didn’t ask for anything in return.

He saw a window open, three floors above, a shirt drying on the railing—navy linen, almost familiar. He didn’t let himself guess.

‘I wasn’t made for that kind of normal.’ He thought. ‘Not then. Maybe not now.’

And yet—something inside him wasn’t resisting anymore.

He wasn’t here to replace. He wasn’t here to reclaim. He was himself because he chose to be. Still watching. Still hurting, yes. But alive.

And he didn’t remember when, but the ache in his chest wasn’t grief anymore.

It was space. Space that might be his to fill. Not with what was taken. With what he could still choose.

—

Later that afternoon, Will wandered the back streets of Florence with the kind of slowness that come from deliberation.

He wasn’t lost—only in no hurry to arrive. The city felt changed from just days before. It hadn’t shrunk, and it hadn’t softened, but the air held fewer ghosts.

He didn’t walk past the river like he had that first week, tracking shadows. And he wasn’t avoiding it either. He just didn’t need to orbit it anymore. Eventually, his feet led him into a quiet bookshop near the edge of the square. Narrow. Dusty. The kind of place that didn’t care about selling anything, just holding things.

He browsed for longer than he meant to. And then, tucked beside a stack of yellowed poetry chapbooks, he found a notebook. Hand-stitched. Leather-wrapped. Old-fashioned.

He picked it up. Flipped through the pages. No lines. Just grainy, soft paper. Wide and forgiving. He thought about Hannibal’s study. How everything in it had been curated, intentional, designed for beauty.

This notebook wasn’t beautiful. It was unfinished.

It reminded him of himself. He held it in both hands. And remind himself, again: He's not here to reclaim or answer anything. Not a place. Not a person. Not a future someone else promised him.

He's here to decide what kind of man he is when no one is shaping him.

He didn’t smile, but something eased quietly in his chest. He bought the notebook and walked out without hesitation, the sun on the cobblestones no longer a memory—simply weather.

That night, he didn’t open it. He only placed it beside the bed, not in anticipation of tomorrow. But for a version of himself he was beginning to believe might one day arrive.

***

Florence, Sant'Ambrogio Market. Three weeks after he met Will’s young self.

It was a Sunday. Hannibal remembered only because it used to be his ritual. But today—or more precisely, now—he didn’t sketch, not anymore.

The market stalls outside Santa Croce always crowded more on that day—baskets of sourdough, olive oil tins glinting under thin awnings, vendors hawking bottles of limoncello that no one local ever drank. He wasn’t there to shop with any particular intention. His basket already held what he needed: soft herbs, a whole fish on ice, and a sliver of cheese Abigail never touched but always liked to see plated.

It was new routine. Rehearsed calm.

A shift in air pressure. The stillness between footfalls. Hannibal felt it then—a delicate disturbance, as if someone, unseen, lingered at the edge of awareness—only watching. At the corner, a dog paused, gaze fixed not on him but somewhere past him, like it sensing the same presence. Then it lowered its head and moved on.

He didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look back. But beneath his skin, the feeling lingered—observation without contact. It wasn’t the weight of a predator’s gaze, but something more recent, unfamiliar.

It returned again later, as he adjusted his chair at a small café table, the metal legs scraping faintly against the stone. There was no shadow, no reflection in the window across the street. But still, something moved just beyond perception. Not hunting him. Not grieving him. Not longing for him.

It was simply watching.

He sipped his coffee slowly, let the cup linger near his mouth, and didn’t acknowledge it with even the flicker of an eye.

Will was still in the city. He knew it with the certainty that came from months of attunement—an instinct so refined it no longer needed evidence. But this Will wasn’t circling him now. He wasn’t baiting. He wasn’t pleading. He had stepped off Hannibal’s stage entirely and begun choosing his own ground.

The thought didn’t wound him. Not quite. But it didn’t sit easily either.

He set the cup down, looked at the empty chair across from him, and wondered—for the first time—not whether Will would come.

But whether he would ever be expected to.

***

Florence, Riverside Apartment. Six days before Rebirth. The Quiet Recognition.

The air was cool when Will stepped out of the apartment—cool enough to make him notice the warmth of his own breath. The city hadn’t woken fully yet—shutters still drawn, cobblestones still damp from morning cleanings. A delivery truck rumbled distantly.

He didn’t walk toward the river this time. Or the piazza. He didn’t trace Hannibal’s old habits like he had the first week. Those paths had been walked too often, no longer heavy with grief, but faded by the quiet erosion of disinterest. He had walked them long enough to know they didn’t lead where he needed to go.

Instead, he turned toward the hill.

The steps that wound up past crumbling gardens and shuttered villas led to a small overlook most tourists missed. There were no sculptures, no plaques—only a bench beneath an olive tree, and a view that stretched across the city like a breath quietly held.

He sat down on the bench. The notebook was in his coat pocket, warm against his side. He pulled it out, ran a hand along the cover. He hadn’t written in it since he bought. Hadn’t dared.

It had felt like too much. Like whatever words he put down would demand permanence he couldn’t yet offer.

But this morning felt different. He opened the notebook. No fanfare. No ceremony. He reached for the pen he’d started carrying, tucked behind the ear the way he used to when he connected crime scenes.

He touched the tip of the pen to the first page. Hesitated. Then wrote, nothing long. Just a line.

‘I’m not trying to outlive my shadow. I’m trying to meet the man I already am.’

He stared at it. Let it settle. Something behind his eyes eased.

He closed the book, slid it back into his pocket, and watched the rooftops for a while. There was no hunger in it, no lingering ache—only breath, steady and unremarkable.

When he stood, he didn’t look back. Not at the city. Not at the bench.

And not at the shadow he finally stopped mistaking for himself.

***

Florence, Sant'Ambrogio Market. Two weeks, three days after he met the man who walked out from The Stage.

The bell above the market gate chimed once as he stepped through. Late morning, midweek—quiet enough that Hannibal could walk the rows without interruption. He hadn’t meant to come here today. The list in his hand was short. He wasn’t cooking for anyone.

Still, he walked. The air smelled of basil and lemon rinds. Metal buckets of anchovy glistened in crushed ice. A florist swept crushed petals from beneath her table, her hands dyed pink from cutting stems.

He paused at a stall near the edge. Not his usual vendor. He couldn’t have said why.

And then—something moved across the square.

It wasn’t sudden, and it wasn’t sharp. It was a change in rhythm, subtle and steady. The way you notice something familiar not by shape, but by its absence. No tension in the air. No pull beneath the skin.

Only breath.

Will. Not the man he had met at the bridge. Not the man who had circled his life in ruin, confusion and longing.

This one walked like someone who wasn’t chasing or hiding. He no longer chasing his own shadow, no longer afraid to look into his darkness.

He wore his coat like armor that no longer needed to be tested. A book tucked under one arm, an apple in the other hand, half-eaten. He stopped to speak to a grocer—briefly. Nodded. Smiled, even.

It wasn’t a smile Hannibal remembered. It was smaller, less precise. But real.

And it didn’t hurt to look at.

Hannibal turned back to the stall and lifted a bunch of thyme. His hand was steady, though the motion lacked its usual precision.

He placed it in his basket and moved on.

But his mind hadn’t moved with him.

Across the square, Will was still there. Still walking. Still… something else.

It didn’t flood Hannibal with grief. It didn’t hollow him out.

He didn’t look again—but he didn’t forget. He didn’t try to name it yet.

—

That evening, in the kitchen, Hannibal moved with the same elegance as always. He reached for the jar of vinegar but paused before opening it. The scent had shifted—acidity too sharp. His hand lingered on the lid, unmoving.

He tried again. Rosemary, garlic, butter warming in the pan. Familiar rhythms. But halfway through slicing a shallot, he stopped.

A wave of something—not nausea, not pain exactly, but a deep discomfort—unfolded through his lower spine, wrapping inward. He held the edge of the counter a moment longer than he meant to.

Abigail walked in. She said nothing, only crossed to the table, watched him in silence. Her eyes narrowed in quiet calculation.

He set the knife down. Straightened slowly. Too slowly. 

She didn’t ask. But the moment passed differently than others had. And neither of them pretended it hadn't happened.

***

Florence. Five days to Rebirth. The Separation.

Will spent the morning sorting the room. It was still temporary—rented in cash, above a bakery that woke too early and sang too much in the stairwell. The curtains were too short, and the walls were too thin. But he hadn’t left.

He had told himself he was only staying a week. Then a few more days. Then until he figured out what he wanted.

He still hadn’t figured it out. But the place felt less like a room he was passing through, and more like a place where something had begun.

The kitchen was cluttered, poorly laid out. But that morning, he boiled water. Sliced bread. Cracked an egg into the pan and watched it bubble. He hadn’t done that in weeks.

He stood at the window while he ate, one hand cradling the plate against his ribs. The sky over the roofs was grey-blue, the color before a storm or a decision.

He looked down at the notebook on the windowsill and opened it again. He hadn’t written much. Just fragments. Phrases. The shape of things he didn’t know how to say aloud.

‘I want to meet my darkness without turning away.’

He stared at it for a long time. The letters too neat. The honesty a little too bare. He didn’t close the notebook right away. It felt less like trying to escape something.

And more like moving toward it.

***

Florence. Five days after she saw the man walked past without looking in.

The kitchen was quiet, the only sound the steady rhythm of the knife against the board. Hannibal’s movements were slow, unfocused—less precision than habit. He sliced the fennel distractedly, letting the uneven pieces fall into the waiting bowl.

Abigail leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching him. She hadn’t spoken when she entered. And he hadn’t acknowledged her yet.

She let the silence stretch, but not too far. “I saw him yesterday.” she said.

Hannibal’s knife paused mid-cut.

“From the tram. He didn’t see me.” 

He resumed chopping, slower now. “And?”

“He looked… different.”

Hannibal’s shoulders tensed. “He is different.”

“I mean more than that.” Abigail said. “He didn’t look like he was looking for anything anymore. Not even you.”

This time, he did stop. The blade rested on the board. He didn’t turn. “I know.”

The air felt heavier. It was filled with something very close to grief. But not for the man who had stayed, for the man who had returned.

Abigail crossed to the table and sat. She didn’t fidget, didn’t speak right away. She waited, then, softly: “Have you decided?”

He finally looked at her. Not guarded. Not cold. Just still, like someone who knew the answer but didn't want to say it aloud. “About what?”

“About this Will.”

Her voice didn’t accuse. It asked. But he didn’t answer immediately. He set the knife aside, wiped his hands on a linen cloth, folded it. Carefully. Absently.

Then he said at last: “He is no longer the man I waited for.”

Abigail didn’t flinch, or snorted—more precisely. Oh, the ironic.

“But?” She prompted.

“But he is becoming something... apart from me. He isn’t pushing back. He isn’t following. He’s simply—becoming.”

Abigail studied his face. The faint shadows under his eyes. The careful way he folded tension into motion. “And does that make it harder or easier?”

He tilted his head, a breath caught in the base of his throat. “It makes him harder to shape and possess.” He said. “But easier to see.”

She nodded. “So see him.”

He said nothing. But between them, something move. The beginning of something quieter. No longer forgiveness. Not rekindled love.

Respect.

Not because Hannibal saw a mirror. Or a muse. Or a monster.

But because he saw a man—unshaped, unled, whole in his own becoming. And that, perhaps, was what had always drawn him to Will Graham.

***

Florence, Via Romana. Four days to Rebirth. The Refusal.

A thin veil of cloud rested over the city, like breath suspended just beneath the sky. The morning was bright, but held no warmth—only the hush before a thought. Will walked as he often did now: not toward anything, yet never without aim.

He passed the café where they’d once sat beneath iron arches, where silence had tasted sharper than the wine. The butcher shop came next, its window fogged from morning heat, the same clerk inside still watching too closely, as if every face might carry a secret.

And then—he came to the bridge.

He didn’t hesitate. His pace didn’t falter. The stones underfoot were the same ones that had once felt like the edge of a decision, but now they were just stone—worn, sun-warmed, familiar. He walked the length of it without ceremony, without glance to either side. The Arno below was quiet, slow. The wind nudged at his coat, but he didn’t lift his collar against it.

He walked through the bridge the way one passes a threshold already crossed long ago—not untouched by memory, but no longer held by it.

Now, there were no echoes of who he had been here. No ghost of who he might have become. There was just the stone. And the turn of the street. And the way the wind shifted as he passed the door.

He kept walking. With a quiet knowing:

The version of him that had once stood trembling on the bridge was no longer the one making decisions.

And he was not going back to pick him up. 

When he passed the corner where he used to hesitate. Some parts of him had already forgiven that version of himself for needing to be saved.

***

Florence, Riverside Apartment. Three days to Rebirth. The First Compromise.

It was the kind of afternoon that wore no face—neither cruel nor kind. The sky was blank with overcast light, and the city moved with the distracted hush of a day not yet decided.

He passed the church with the broken bell just after noon. 

A child was crying out, frantic, bent over a limp shape at the edge of the street. A stray dog. Will recognized the mutt immediately—it was the same one that he fed days earlier. Gentle. Unwanted.

There was a man standing over them, yelling at her. His hands were red, and not from accident. “Stupid mutt tried to bite me. Should’ve stomped it harder.”

Will stepped closer. Quiet. He didn’t speak until he was close enough to smell the beer in the man’s breath.

“What did you say?” Will asked.

The man laughed—mean, dismissive. “Oh, what—hero complex? You another stray?” The child’s sobbing grew quieter. The dog was still breathing. Barely.

Will punched him. The man reeled, but didn’t fall. He came back swinging—a wild arc, untrained but hard. His fist cracked against Will’s temple.

Will stumbled. And then he surged forward, not blind, not roaring, but focused. He drove the man back into the wall with a series of blows—measured, merciless. He struck the ribs, the jaw, the knee. The man sagged, cursing through bloody teeth, reaching for something metal in his coat.

Will grabbed his wrist, twisted hard, and threw him to the ground. The weapon—a folding knife—clattered uselessly against the stone.

He could end it. Right now.

The man was beneath him, wheezing, groaning. Still alive. Still stupid.

The knife was gleaming on the ground, waiting to be soaked in blood.

Will’s hand hovered over the knife. The air stretched thin.

And then—he took it. Put it in his pocket. When he stood, his breath came fast. His knuckles ached. His blood buzzed with adrenaline.

But he stepped back. He looked down at the man—not with pity, not even contempt. Clarity.

The child was still crying. The dog still breathing. Will knelt beside her, checking for signs—pulse, breath, consciousness.

“It’ll live.” He said softly. “You should go now.”

She looked up at him, grateful. She brought the injured stray with her. By the time he left, the man was crawling toward the alley wall, muttering curses between spit and broken syllables.

Will didn’t turn back to look at him. He walked the long way home, hands still trembling—but from restraint, not rage.

He didn’t fear the darkness inside him. He had named it. He had chose when to feed it. This was his choice.

At the door to his flat, he looked down at his bruised knuckles and let the ache speak without shame. A small smile bloomed, quiet and real.

He had made peace with the thing inside him.

And this time, it had bowed its head… and listened.

***

Florence, Royal Stables Garden. Two days to Rebirth. Communion Without Ghosts.

The next day came without ceremony. No dream. No shadow. Just the soft, persistent hum of a city still moving. Will moved with it—not chasing, not escaping—just letting the rhythm carry him.

And it brought him here.

The park wasn’t large. Just a sliver of grass hemmed in by wrought iron and rows of exhausted oleander. Will didn’t know why he’d come—only that his feet had stopped walking, and the bench beneath the willow wasn’t taken.

He sat without urgency. His coat unbuttoned, sleeves pushed up just enough to feel the wind on his arms. The air was warm, but not heavy. The kind that reminded you to breathe all the way down. Across the path, children shouted over a ball. A little girl climbed a stone ledge and declared herself queen of something. No one corrected her. Her mother laughed—tired but whole. Three dogs danced around her feet, leashed loosely but trusted.

Will watched them without watching.

He didn’t long for it. Didn’t ache. But something in the scene pressed gently at his ribs—recognition, maybe. He had wanted that once. The noise. The mess. The little things people argued over and forgot. The way people made space for each other, and stayed. The normality.

He closed his eyes a moment. Let the sound of it settle over him.

When he opened them again, the girl had tripped. Not hard—but enough to startle. She fell onto her side, scraping a palm, the ball skittering across the path and bumping against Will’s foot.

The dogs startled too—two barked, one bolted. The leash snapped from the mother’s hand.

Will was on his feet before she called out. He didn’t shout, only crouched low, palm open, body still. The dog—a tall brindled mutt, alert and uncertain—paused mid-stride, ears twitching. It looked at Will, then at the girl, then back.

“You’re okay,” Will said calmly, voice low. “No one’s chasing you.”

The dog hesitated. Then stepped forward. Will clipped the leash beneath its chin in one smooth motion.

He brought it back gently.

The woman—startled, steadying her daughter—looked up at him as he approached, leash in hand. “That was fast,” she said.

Will gave a soft shrug. “They don’t want to run. They just want to be seen.”

She blinked. Took the leash back. “I don’t usually drop things like that.”

“I don’t usually pick them up.”

That made her laugh—dry, tired, but real.

Will's eyes shifted to the girl, who had stopped sniffling and was now inspecting her scraped elbow like it might scold her. “You okay?” he asked.

She nodded. “I didn’t cry.”

He gave a small smile—awkward, but genuine. “Takes guts.”

The woman looked down at him again, a new calculation in her eyes. Consideration. “You work with dogs?”

“I’ve lived with them.”

“Well,” she said, half to herself, “you know how to speak their language.”

He didn’t reply. He just gently offered his hand for one of the dogs to sniff.

“You want to pet them?” She asked.

Will nodded. “I do.”

She watched for another breath, then said, “You love them.”

“I am,” Will said, rubbing behind one ear. “They are… honest. Simple.”

They stayed in silent for a moment. Then she offered a small, folded card from her jacket pocket—creased, a corner bent. “We’re short on hands at the rescue. Heavy work. Quiet hours. Not many questions. If you want to do something real.”

Will took the card. Looked at it. Didn’t answer right away.

She didn’t press, just gave a nod. “I’m Mara. That’s Nino, Beppo, and Gloria. She’s Sofia.”

Will glanced at the girl, who offered a small wave like a queen returning to court. He gave a soft wave back.

“Will.”

Mara smiled faintly. “We’re off Via Senese. If you decide to show up, just knock twice.”

And with that, she called the dogs and walked away.

Will stayed seated. He looked at the card in his hand. Not a promise. Just a door.

And when he tucked it into his pocket, it wasn’t hope he felt.

It was room.

***

Florence, Palazzo Capponi. In the stillness between return and arrival.

The apartment was quiet in that way only old buildings can be—settled. The floors didn’t creak so much as breathe. The air held scent like memory: cloves, linen, books that had been closed a little too long.

Abigail moved through it casually. There was nothing she needed to do, and still, she found herself tidying. Folding a blanket someone had left too carelessly over the arm of a chair. Stacking plates that had already been cleaned.

She found a shirt draped across the end of the couch. It wasn’t hers, or Hannibal’s. Or the man who used to be here.

She didn’t ask whose it was. She just picked it up. Folded it neatly. Set it in the basket of dry laundry like it belonged there.

When she passed the kitchen, she saw him—Hannibal. Standing near the window. Not doing anything, merely standing. Not even looking out, his gaze fixed somewhere that wasn’t quite here.

Like he was waiting.

She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed.

He didn’t speak. Neither did she. But she watched him. Not the way she used to—as a survivor waiting for the twist. This was something else. Observation sharpened not by fear, but by care. And time.

He moved slower lately. Not like someone tired. Like someone unwilling to disturb the moment. Like someone listening for a door he no longer believed would open.

She wondered, sometimes, if he remembered he had said he’d wait.

And if he realized, he wasn’t the one being waited for anymore.

She didn’t say it—or even let it fully take shape as a thought. She just turned away, returned to the bedroom, and began putting away the folded clothes.

When she reached the bottom of the basket, her hand paused on a button-down with sleeves too long for her, too soft for Hannibal’s taste.

She smoothed the collar. She didn't need to ask, she already understood.

***

Florence, Sant’Ambrogio Neighborhood. Six days since he wasn’t being watched anymore.

He hadn’t meant to see Will.

Hannibal had merely turned the corner—his usual route back from the wine shop—when a commotion near the curb caught his eye. A van with faded lettering, a crate tipped, voices raised in the kind of gentle panic that accompanies fur and uncertainty.

A dog. Small, soaked through. One paw curled oddly beneath it. A girl knelt beside it, speaking in low tones.

And Will—Will was there too. Not just observing. Helping.

His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, hands steady as he held the dog’s ribs, murmuring something Hannibal couldn’t hear. His body leaned into the moment, not flinching at the blood, not rushing to finish. The girl spoke to him softly—something about the clinic, a wrap for the leg. Will nodded, listening. The dog whimpered. He adjusted his grip.

Hannibal stood across the street. Still. Unnoticed.

Will never looked up. Not once. He didn’t scan the street. Didn’t pause to see who was watching. He was simply... there. Alive in this life that had nothing to do with Hannibal.

When the dog was lifted into the van for the clinic, the girl clapped a hand on Will’s leg—brief, grateful. Will smiled. A real smile. Small. Honest.

And Hannibal—he turned before he was seen. Before that smile could vanish into recognition.

He walked home slowly.

When he reached the kitchen, nothing burned. Nothing boiled. No sauce simmered. Only the hush of an afternoon holding its breath. Hannibal stood at the counter with a pear in one hand and a knife in the other. He moved slowly. It wasn't for elegance, but for ease.

His back ached faintly. His limbs didn’t obey quite like they used to, the way he'd once sculpted motion into ritual. But he made no sound of complaint.

The first slice was perfect. So was the second.

But on the third, the blade slipped—not much, enough to catch the edge of his knuckle. It didn’t cut deeply. It didn’t bleed.
Just a sting, and the faint smear of juice where skin had been breached.

Hannibal paused. He looked at the place where the blade had touched. Then at the pear. Then at the counter, where a small wet crescent now marked the wood.

He hadn’t made a mistake like this in years. Not one he hadn’t meant. Not one that hadn’t been... chosen.

The knife remained on the board, untouched. He didn’t reach for a towel. Didn’t finish slicing the pear. He walked to the sink, turned the tap, let the cold run over his hand.

His breath stayed even. But the rhythm—the one he had rebuilt so carefully—was gone.

He wasn’t thinking of the ghost who had once loved him.

He was thinking of the man who now passed him in the street without flinching. Without waiting. Without looking back.

And in that silence, Hannibal realized:
He had not expected to feel this seen. Or this invisible.

Not by a stranger. But by a Will who was no longer his.

The apartment was never this quiet like this moment. Abigail was out. The second mug on the counter was dry. No one had waited for breakfast. He’s no longer needed the way he once was.

And the man who’s near him now… might not want him at all.

He stood there for a long time, staring at his hand. Not bleeding anymore, but still unsteady. Then he shut off the water, wiped his hands on the dish cloth, and left the kitchen without touching the fruit again.

***

Florence, Arno River. One day before Rebirth. Stillness.

The river was still. Not silent—there was always sound in a city like this. Bells somewhere far off. Shoes on stone. The wingbeat of pigeons disturbed by nothing. But beside the water, at this hour, it felt like the world had agreed to pause. Will sat on a low bench near the edge of the Arno, elbows on knees, hands folded. His coat was open. The collar turned up not for vanity or comfort, but habit.

He had nowhere else to be.

He hadn’t spoken to anyone that day. Hadn’t bought anything. Hadn’t walked past any place that knew his name.

He didn’t think about Hannibal. Not in the way he used to.

There was no ache. No pull. No invisible line tying him to some remembered version of himself.

There was no grief. No performance. No plan. Only breath. And body. And sky.

Across the water, someone laughed. A child, maybe. The sound floated and dissolved. Will didn’t turn to look. He didn’t trace the edge of the sound for meaning. He didn’t try to understand it.

He just let it be.

For the first time in a very long time, he didn’t imagine himself inside the story. Didn’t imagine himself as prey, or predator, or partner, or patient.

He was not becoming anything. He simply was. And that was enough.

The sun fell lower. A breeze lifted the hem of his coat, then dropped it again. His fingers twitched once, and then stilled.

He sat there until the light changed.

He didn't waiting, or reflecting. Only staying. He sat there until the light changed. The sun fell lower. A breeze lifted the hem of his coat, then dropped it again. His fingers twitched once, and then stilled.

And just before he stood, he caught movement at the edge of the path. A dog—scarred, narrow-eyed, coat still rough from survival. The same one. The stray.

It didn’t come closer. It just watched him from the edge of the garden, still breathing. Still here.

Will met its gaze. Gave the faintest nod. The stray turned, limped back into shadow.

And when he stood, it wasn’t with purpose. Not because something had changed.

But because he had.

***

Florence, Palazzo Capponi. Seven days when he wasn’t being watched.

It was mid-afternoon when Hannibal looked up from the book he hadn’t truly been reading, and something in the air—quiet, almost imperceptible—pressed against his awareness. It wasn’t the weather. It wasn’t the light. It was subtler than that, something shifting beneath the ordinary.

He rose without urgency, crossed to the window, and looked out at the street—just... sensing. 

Will wasn’t out there. He hadn’t passed by in days. And yet—Hannibal had always known when he was near. A shift in rhythm. A flicker behind the ribs.

But today…

There was nothing. Not absence. Not avoidance. Just space where once there had been tension. Space that no longer bent toward him.

Will had stepped off his stage entirely—and become something that is not under Hannibal’s influence anymore.

He turned from the window, walked to the desk, and opened his journal. Then closed it again. There was nothing to write.

He had waited so long for Will to become his. And now Will has become his own. And he does not know what to offer him anymore.

He sat. Folded his hands. Waited for some trace of emotion to bloom.

But it didn’t. And that unsettled him more than any grief ever had.

He sat in his study until the light began to shift. Not golden. Not blue. That gray hour between clarity and shadow, when the walls hold everything you haven’t said.

The teacup on the table remained full. Cold now. He hadn’t touched it. Instead, his eyes rested on the space it claimed—the quiet absence beside it. A hollow once occupied by steady hands, by the kind of gaze that asked nothing yet saw everything. By someone who knew where to set the knife without asking.

Will.

No—not Will.

Not this one.

The man who had stayed—the one who had crossed the threshold already sure of what he wanted—had been... precise. Measured. Perfect in a way that had never needed proving.

Soft, where Hannibal needed softness. Certain, where Hannibal wavered.

Dangerous, yes—but his edges had always curved inward, never cutting in ways Hannibal wasn’t prepared to forgive.

He had loved that man. Had allowed himself to be seen by him. And when he left, it had felt not like a rupture—but like watching the final act of a story already written.

But now—now there was someone else.

Will, again. But not his Will. 

Someone quieter. Sharpened, not into cruelty, but into distance. A man becoming—not because of Hannibal. Not even in response to him. Simply… without him.

He hadn’t come back to finish the story. He hadn’t returned to reclaim the role he once abandoned. There was no final act waiting to be performed.

He had brought no script. No lines. No ending.

And Hannibal—who had once directed entire lives, folded seduction into dialogue, and stitched identity into every gesture—was now faced with a silence that refused to take the stage.

He folded his hands over his abdomen, slow and absent. The ache had returned—low, familiar. A small reminder.

His mind did not reach back to the man who had once whispered in the dark.

It reached, instead, toward the one who now passed him on sunlit streets without hesitation. Without fear. Without orbit.

This one didn’t move toward him. Didn’t flee. He simply moved parallel.

Hannibal’s gaze returned to the cup—untouched, unneeded. Once, he had loved with certainty, with script and score and prepared breath.

Now, he would have to ask himself—quietly, without words—

if he was willing to love without guarantee, with no trust built.

No performance. No reflection. No stage.

Only what stands and stays, even when it no longer waits for him.

Chapter Text

Florence, Lungarno Torrigiani (the quiet river path). Two weeks after she saw the man walk past without looking in.

Abigail didn’t plan to take the long way home.

But she had lingered at the market. Paused too long near a stall selling rosemary soap. Spent too long pretending not to listen to the man playing violin outside the bookstore.

She wasn’t avoiding the apartment. Not really, but sometimes it was easier to let the day breathe a little longer before returning to the place where things were so carefully… managed. She rounded a corner by the river, holding a paper bag of groceries against her hip, and stopped.

Will.

She knew him instantly.

He wasn’t doing anything. Just sitting on a bench, shoulders relaxed, a half-eaten orange in one hand. His coat was slung over the back of the bench like he didn’t expect to run.

He didn’t see her. Or maybe he did, and chose not to react. Either way, she didn’t move. 

It had been him, always—between the two of them. The bridge. The battleground. The bait. The storm. But now he sat like none of those things. 

Like a man. Nothing more. 

And for a flicker of a second, that made her ache. He wasn’t circling anymore. There were no ghosts here. No one left to chase, impress, or outpace. Only himself.

He was building something. Even if it was only a quiet life carved from someone else’s war.

She walked on. Didn’t call his name. Didn’t pause again. She let him have it—that quiet. He didn’t owe her anything, not anymore.

—

Later, at home. She let Hannibal finish putting away the dishes, then let him dry his hands. Only then, with the faint clink of porcelain still humming in the air, she said: “He’s still here.”

Hannibal didn’t turn, but his body shifts, just enough to know he heard.

“He looked… steady.” Just a statement, a truth, handed across the table like an offering.

Abigail didn’t press further. She just watches his hands still on the towel, the way he folded it slower than usual.

Something in the room has changed. And she knows he felt it too.

***

Florence, Piazza Tasso. The third morning after he chose not to feed his darkness.

The rescue center wasn’t hard to find.

Tucked beside an old tram stop, with a courtyard that smelled like damp hay and antiseptic, the building didn’t pretend to be more than it was. Its door had a crooked handle, and the paint on the sign had begun to fade. But when Will pushed through the gate, something in the air shifted—less like entering a place, and more like returning to one.

He hadn’t said yes to anything, not formally. But Mara had smiled when she saw him again, and nodded toward the back like she’d expected this.

“You can help with the crates.” She’d said. “If you don’t mind smelling like dog for the rest of the day.”

Will didn’t. He minded less than he thought he would.

Now, in the quiet corner of the back room, he knelt beside a half-assembled kennel, fitting bolts through rusted wire. The air was warm with fur and metal. Outside the door, a dog barked once, then went quiet again.

Mara was nearby, sweeping old sawdust into a pile. Her sleeves were rolled up, her curls pulled back with a pencil. She hummed softly—some half-song with no real melody, just something to keep rhythm with.

“You’re quiet today.” She said.

Will adjusted the bolt. “I’m always quiet.”

She nodded, didn't try to make the atmosphere lighter, like she understood. “That stray from the park came back. The one you stopped the fight over.”

Will’s fingers paused on the latch.

“He’s limping a little.” Mara continued. “But he’s eating. That’s more than I can say for half the people who walk in here.”

Will looked at her. Her expression wasn’t pitying, just observant. Certain. She wasn’t trying to read him. She was just there. He found he didn’t need to say much.

“I’m not… looking for anything.” He spoke, eventually.

“Didn’t think you were.” She replied. “Doesn’t mean you can’t be here.”

That was when the dog came padding in from the far side of the lot—cautious, limping slightly, still stitched along the side where the ribs had bruised deep. It paused at the edge of the concrete, ears pricked forward, nose twitching.

Will didn’t move, didn’t beckon, he just watched. The dog stopped a few feet away, its body taut with memory—legs stiff, eyes watchful, as if some old lesson was still whispering in its bones that men were not to be trusted, especially the quiet ones. It looked first to the woman, then back to Will, its weight shifting forward before pulling back again, uncertain, testing the space between fear and instinct.

Will held still and steady, his gaze level, not inviting but not pushing away either. He let the dog decide. 

And something in the animal did—subtle and slow, a flicker behind the eyes, a breath caught and released—as if whatever animal code had guided it through alleys and pain now registered him not as danger, but as someone who wouldn’t beg for loyalty but would demand it, and hold it with unshaken hands.

It stepped forward, cautious but unflinching now, and came to sit at his feet with a kind of quiet finality, its head tilting up to meet his eyes—with something close to alignment: an unspoken recognition of hierarchy, of belonging that didn’t need warmth to be true.

Will let out a slow breath, reached down, and when his hand came to rest on the dog’s head, rough fingers brushing against worn fur and the tender ridge of healing bone. The dog didn’t flinch, didn’t run away. Instead, it lowered itself beside him—shoulder against his boot, body angled like a soldier finding its post—and simply stayed, claiming its place with the same quiet certainty that Will carried in his silence.

Mara watched, saying nothing, her arms folded loosely, eyes unreadable. Above them, the sun began its slow retreat, casting long, fractured shadows across the gravel and concrete, and in the settling warmth, Will stood with the dog at his side, no longer feeling like something inside him was waiting to crack open.

The silence held.

And then—from somewhere down the hallway, a small voice broke through: “Mamma—he peed again!”

Will blinked.

Mara sighed, already turning. “Excuse me.” She said, brushing her hands on her jeans as she moved past him. “Welcome to Home.”

She disappeared into the back, her boots echoing on the concrete, followed by the quiet thump of a door swinging shut.

Will stayed crouched by the crate, hand still resting lightly on the dog’s head. He breathed in the scent of metal and cedar and old wool. The space felt… safe. Undemanding. A place where he could help without being asked for more than he had to give.

But even here, with his knees on cool tile and the steady warmth of a creature leaning into him, he knew it:

He wasn’t building something new. He was tending to something broken.

And while that mattered—deeply—it wasn’t home.

***

Florence, Home. Two days after he found something to do at the rescue center.

The place always smelled faintly of wet fur, old towels, and something floral that Mara kept near the door—lemongrass, maybe. 

Will moved quietly, as he always did. Refilled the water bowls. Reached into the wire crate to scratch the mutt’s ear—the one who wouldn’t let anyone else touch him but had taken to sleeping curled at Will’s boots.

He didn’t speak much, not even to the animals. But he listened, to the soft pads of paws on linoleum. To the way the wind passed through the screen in the back room. To the voices drifting in from the office. Mara’s voice—low, half-laughing. 

“No, he’s not scary. Just quiet. Yeah. That’s the man I meant—quiet with the sad eyes.”

A smaller voice, her daughter’s, piped up: “The dogs like him.”

Will paused, his hand resting on the crate latch. The dog inside looked up at him and let out a low huff, like it confirm it. He didn’t open the crate right away. Just stayed there a moment, listening to the quiet settle around him, letting the words hang where she’d left them.

Later, while he rinsed out the food bowls and set them upside down to dry, Mara walked behind him, wiping her hands on her jeans as she passed.

“I put you on the tomorrow shift.” She said without looking at him. “If that’s alright. The husky’s starting to wait by the door for you.”

Will nodded once. He didn’t correct her, or remind her he hadn’t said yes to anything permanent. He just kept drying the bowls. And when he left that evening, he didn’t check over his shoulder. He carried the rhythm of the place with him like warmth caught in his sleeves.

***

Florence, Piazza della Passera. One week after he realized Will had stepped off the stage.

It wasn’t planned.

That much, at least, was true. Neither had chosen the time nor the street. Neither had orchestrated the light, or the way the breeze stirred the edges of Hannibal’s coat, or how Will’s sleeves were pushed up, as if he’d just come from somewhere that required more than thinking. It simply happened. 

They saw each other across a narrow square—Hannibal emerging from a wine shop, Will passing by on foot with his hand wrapped around a paper cup, half-full and too hot to drink. There was a moment when either of them could have turned. Could have left it unspoken. Could have spared themselves the weight of what it might mean to stand in each other’s presence again.

But neither moved. So, when their paths converged, it wasn’t dramatic.

There was no shift in the air. No thundercloud. No language of hunger.

Only quiet. Familiar. Braced.

They stopped. Hannibal’s posture didn’t betray tension. But his gaze paused at Will’s hands before returning to his face. Will tilted his head slightly, like he was acknowledging that the space between them had once been something else. Something bigger. Something unbearable.

“You look…” Will started, then seemed to change his mind. “Well.” He said instead. The word didn’t carry suspicion or warmth. It just hovered there, carefully neutral.

Hannibal didn’t smile, but his expression softened around the mouth. “And you.” He replied, “look… different.”

Will’s lips twitched. Almost a smile, not quite.

“I stopped running.” He said. “That changes things.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Hannibal nodded once—slowly, like an agreement was being made, or at least considered. “I noticed.”

They didn’t sit right away. They didn’t speak of Abigail, or Florence, or the months between. They didn’t revisit the memory of the bridge, or the man who had vanished without asking permission. Or Hannibal’s invitation to run away together.

Instead, they both looked to the side, toward the edge of the square where a small café stretched its tables into the open sun. It wasn’t the kind of place they used to frequent—no white linen, no polished cutlery—but it was there, available. 

Will motioned toward it with a small nod—no longer waiting for permission, but giving a direction. It was up to Hannibal whether to follow.

This time, he did. 

They sat opposite each other. Will set his coffee down carefully. Hannibal folded his hands over one knee. The waiter didn’t come. Neither did they call for him.

It was the kind of silence that didn’t demand anything. And in that silence, Hannibal realized something he hadn’t prepared for.

Will wasn’t holding anything back. He simply wasn’t holding anything that needed to be given. He was already here. Already whole. Not waiting to be filled.

And Hannibal, now felt the weight of that.

They sat without urgency. The waiter arrived eventually, a distracted man with a pen that didn’t work and no interest in pleasantries—rude, even. Hannibal didn’t ask for his business card, not this time. He simply folded his hands. Will asked for water and coffee; Hannibal ordered nothing. The clink of glass gave them just enough sound to keep the silence from becoming too loud.

Will rested his forearms on the table. “I didn’t think we’d talk.” He said after a while. “Not like this.”

Hannibal didn’t ask what this meant. Instead, he said, “Did you want to?”

Will shrugged, but it wasn’t deflection. “I didn’t know what I’d want. That’s new for me.”

There was a gentleness in the admission, but no softness. He wasn’t asking Hannibal to hold that truth. He was just offering it. 

Hannibal leaned back slightly, studying Will’s face. He didn't search for cracks, or hunt signs of distance, but learning the new shape of him. The version that didn’t flinch. That didn’t bait. That didn’t beg to be understood. 

“You’ve changed.” He said again, but this time, it was not observation. It was something like respect.

Will let the words sit a moment before answering.

“I stopped asking what it would cost to be myself.” He said. “Turns out, it cost almost everything I thought I couldn’t live without.”

“And yet.” Hannibal murmured, “You’re here.”

“I am.” Will agreed.

"Why?"

Will looked past him—briefly—at the street, at the way the light struck a storefront’s sign, then back again. “Because this city still matters to me. Because Abigail is still here. And because I didn’t want to keep building something alone just to prove I could.” He paused, eyes looked at Hannibal.

Hannibal tilted his head. “You think I’m part of what you’re building?”

Will didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly: “I think you could be. If you let it be built without blueprint. Without ownership.”

Hannibal folded his hands again, slowly. He didn't say anything, yet, he stayed seated. And when the waiter returned with the bill neither had requested, Will reached for it.

Hannibal let him. They parted without ceremony. Will didn’t ask to see him again. He simply nodded once, took the folded receipt from the table, and walked back into the city like it didn’t belong to either of them. Not anymore.

Hannibal sat for a moment longer. He was still absorbing the shape of what had just been offered.

There had been no promises. No open doors. Will hadn’t asked for closeness or distance. He had only… allowed something.

A place. A possibility. And a condition.

No blueprint. No ownership.

Hannibal folded his hands, reflective. The life he had shared with the other Will had been built on design. Every glance, every movement, every dinner—crafted like a symphony of mutual understanding. And he had loved it. Loved the certainty. The orchestration. The control. The elegance of a life where nothing came uninvited.

But this Will…

He hadn’t arrived like a melody waiting to be conducted. He hadn’t stepped into Hannibal’s world as a fulfillment or a fantasy. He came like a variable—like he always had. Unpredictable. Uncontainable. A shifting wind. A man who no longer needed permission to be whole.

And that, more than hunger ever had, unsettled Hannibal. Because if he stepped into this—whatever this was becoming—it would mean abandoning the language he knew. A language of arrangement, of pageantry, of control. It would mean letting go of the map and embracing the unknown.

It would mean staying, not as the one who orchestrated, but as one of the instruments.

And perhaps, for the first time, being willing to follow the music. Wherever it might lead.

***

Florence, Home. One week after he found something to do at the rescue center.

It had been a week.

A week of opening the same gate every morning. Scrubbing the same water bowls. Folding the same chewed-up blankets. Getting used to the smell of bleach and hay, the scratch of fur on his jeans, the sound of paws before people spoke.

He hadn’t meant to stay this long. Not really, but no one had asked him to leave. And the quiet routine of the place settled into his days like something that had always been there.

Will stepped into the back room and looked toward the crate by the window.

Empty.

The dog—his dog, maybe, though he’d never said it aloud—was gone. The door hadn’t been left open. No signs of forced latch. Just... absence. The blanket was still rumpled where he used to sleep, the dent in the cushion still warm.

Mara walked in behind him, carrying a box of supplies. She paused when she saw his face.

“Figured you’d notice.”

Will glanced over. “When?”

“Last night, probably. No one’s seen him since dinner.” She set the box down, not unkindly. “Some dogs—doesn’t matter how much they love you. They’re just built for the road.”

He didn’t answer.

“He came back once.” Mara added, with a small smile. “Maybe he will again.”

Will nodded. He crouched down, ran a hand lightly over the blanket. It smelled faintly of dust and dried grass. He didn’t look for tracks or clues. Just let the space be what it was: empty, and not wrong for being so.

Mara leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You alright?”

“I didn’t name him.” Will said quietly. “Thought that might keep it from hurting.”

Mara didn’t say anything, she watched him for a beat, then left him to it. Will stayed there for a moment longer. The sunlight through the window had changed—it hit differently now, longer and softer along the crate.

When he finally stood, he just walked to the other end of the room and picked up the broom. There were still bowls to clean. Floors to sweep. Dogs to settle.

And he was still here.

***

Florence. One month, one week after she saw Will walk past without looking in.

Abigail hadn’t expected to see him.

She’d taken the long way back from the butcher’s—more out of habit than intention. The sky was brushed with that early-evening light, soft gold behind low clouds. She wasn’t in a hurry to go home.

Then she looked up—and there he was, across the street.

There was a plastic takeout container in one hand, a leash in the other. Two dogs padded beside Will, they following with the kind of lazy loyalty that came from hours of trust. One was old and limping, the other barely more than a pup. Will slowed at a patch of grass near the café, let them sniff around without hurrying them.

She almost didn’t cross the street.

He looked... settled. Not in the way he used to pretend. This wasn’t a man trying to blend in. This was a man who had stopped bracing against being seen.

She stepped onto the curb. Will turned before she said anything, as if he’d sensed her.

“Hey.” She said.

“Hey.” He adjusted the takeout in his arm, the faintest smile touching his mouth. 

She glanced at the container. “Dinner?”

“Sort of. They let me take leftovers when the place closes. Dogs get picky if you spoil them, though.” He scratched behind the older dog’s ear, then straightened. “You heading somewhere?”

“Just walking. I could say I was going to meet you, if you want to feel flattered.” He huffed a breath. Maybe a laugh.

They fell into step without needing to discuss it. For a while, they didn’t say much. The dogs trotted ahead, one with its ears back, the other nosing at a crumpled napkin on the sidewalk.

It was the silence that caught her—not what was said, but how it felt. It wasn't waiting for a jab or apology like before. Just ease.

Will carried himself differently now. He wasn’t constantly coiled. His shoulders weren’t hunched like armor. She watched the way he looked at the dogs, the shop windows, the rhythm of the street—not like someone trying to read danger.

She wanted to say something. About Hannibal. About what this meant. About what she’d seen change in both of them.

But then—one small thought stirred. Maybe this was the best thing for him. A life without Hannibal or her. A life where no one held a mirror to his darkness and called it art. The thought rose quietly. Unspoken.

And she let it go just as quietly, because it wasn’t her place to decide. Instead, she said: “You look happier than I’ve seen you in a long time.”

He glanced at her from the side, his expression thoughtful.
“I don’t think it’s happy,” He said. “I think it’s... not afraid.”

She nodded. That made sense, in a way that didn’t need explaining. They kept walking, letting the silence settle comfortably between them. When they reached the edge of the square, he slowed to a stop.
“I should get these two back before they guilt me into more rice and salmon.” He said, nodding toward the dogs.

Abigail gave a small smile. “You’re good at this.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked down at the dogs—the way one leaned gently against his leg, the way the other wagged its tail before trotting a few steps ahead. There was something easy in it, something that didn’t have to be earned or explained.

“Yeah,” he said eventually. “I think I am.”

She stood there for a moment, watching him as he walked away. The leash stayed slack between them, the dogs never straying far. He didn’t look back.

And then she turned, and made her way home.

—

Hannibal looked up from his chair, a book open in his lap, though it hadn’t moved in some time. His fingers rested lightly on the spine, marking a page he hadn’t turned. When Abigail entered, he didn’t shift. Just watched as she crossed the room and sat across from him, folding her legs beneath her like she had all the time in the world.

The quiet stretched out, long and unhurried. She didn’t try to fill it. Neither did he.

“I saw him.” She said eventually, her voice steady but quiet.

Hannibal didn’t respond—not with words, not even with a lift of his brow. But he didn’t need to, she could tell by the quiet in him that he understood who she meant.

She let a beat pass before speaking again. “He’s different.”

That got the faintest movement from him—a slight shift in how he held himself.

“But he’s still him,” she added, eyes steady on his. “Maybe more than ever.”

Still, Hannibal said nothing. He looked at her, then away—his gaze drifting to some fixed point just past her shoulder. She noticed the way his eyes dipped slightly downward.

“I think…” She let the words come slowly, giving them room to land. “I think you don’t know what to do with him now.”

That got a reaction—just a flick of his gaze, returning to her. There was something sharp in it, but not cutting. A glint of recognition. Of truth he hadn't yet given shape to.

She didn’t stop.

“And I think that might be a good thing.”

There was no reply. But she saw the way his fingers tightened around the book’s spine, just slightly. It was the kind of movement that didn’t mean anything unless you were paying attention. She was.

Abigail leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. She didn’t rush him. Didn’t press. She let the quiet stretch again before speaking.

“You used to know every version of him,” she said. “Even the ones that hadn’t happened yet. You could see it before the pieces fell into place.”

She paused, watching his face for any sign of disagreement. There wasn’t one.

“But this version?” She continued. “He’s building something—and he’s doing it without you.”

There was a flicker of something across his face. Not anger, not even sadness, something quieter. She couldn’t quite name it. And maybe he couldn’t either. His throat moved—just once. A motion that wasn’t a swallow, more like the echo of one, like the body remembering what it means to hold something back.

“And if you want to be part of it,” She said, her voice soft but steady, “you can’t build around him anymore. You’ll have to step into what’s already standing.”

That landed. Like the softest truth he hadn’t allowed himself to say aloud. She could see it in the way his breath slowed. The way his posture changed, just barely, like something had settled inside him he hadn’t noticed was restless.

Abigail stood. The conversation had run its course, and she didn’t need to drive the point in any further. He’d heard her. More than that—he was thinking about it.

When she was at the door, she paused.

“I think he’d let you in.” She said. “But this time... you’d have to ask.”

Then she left him in the quiet of the room. Not alone. But with something he’d have to sit with.

***

Florence, Home. Seven days after the stray—his dog, disappeared.

It was raining lightly, the kind of rain that silvered the air without soaking through. Will was halfway through folding laundry when he heard the scrape of claws outside the door. 

He opened it with the kind of caution he no longer called fear, but habit. The hallway was empty, save for the wet prints trailing toward the corner.

Then, from behind the stairwell: a small shuffle. A shape.

It had been days since Will had seen the stray dog. It looked older somehow, not in the way years age a body, in the way time settles into it. Leaner, sharper around the edges. The fur around its ears was still damp, clinging in thin, uneven patches. One eye squinted as if it had never fully healed, and the scar on its belly was still visible through the sparse hair.

But it stood. Solid. Steady on its feet.

Will didn’t call out. Didn’t move quickly. He simply crouched, slow and low, palm open to the space between them.

The dog stepped forward. No hesitation. No tail wag. It was the quiet gravity of something that had come back because it had decided to. Not because it had been called, or needed to be saved.

Will stayed still, hand resting where it had been offered. When the dog was close enough, he reached out—slow fingers brushing against fur still heavy with rain, tangled with road and silence. The dog didn’t pull away. Instead, it leaned in, just enough to let the contact mean something.

"You remember," Will said softly, the words more breath than sound.

He didn’t ask why it had left.

He didn’t ask where it had been, or what it had endured.

He only stepped back and opened the door. No commands. No coaxing. Some things, he had learned, come back more honestly when you don’t try to name them. When you don’t try to own them.

The dog crossed the threshold without looking up, moving past him into the room. Will laid a towel by the heater, filled a bowl with water, and returned to his seat. 

The dog found a patch of sun near the window—muted and gray from the rainclouds, but warm enough—and curled into it, letting its weight settle fully for the first time. Its breathing slowed. Eyes closed.

Will watched it for a long moment. In that moment, he didn’t feel like something was following him. It had simply come home. He sat nearby, one hand resting on his knee. He didn’t reach over. He didn’t try to claim it, he simply let it be there.

And in that quiet space—where the rain tapped lightly against the window and the dog lay sleeping without fear—Will felt something shift. A part of himself he had once kept at the edge—the part that used to tremble, that couldn’t decide whether to run or surrender—had crossed the threshold too.

It hadn’t asked for permission.

It had just come home.

***

Florence, Piazza Tasso. Two week one days after the last time they met.

There was no announcement, no carefully written note or planned arrival. Only the soft, deliberate sound of footsteps along worn stone, and the faint hush of breath before the turn in the road.

Will looked up from where he crouched, one hand resting loosely on his knee, the other extended near the lanky dog beside him. The animal’s coat had begun to thicken again—still uneven in patches, but no longer dull or dirty with neglect. It sat with surprising stillness, its gaze watchful but relaxed.

He didn’t seem surprised to see Hannibal.

“You walked.” Will said, his voice quiet. There was no challenge in it, only a kind of acknowledgment—as if Hannibal’s arrival, while not expected, had been accepted long before it happened.

“I did.” Hannibal replied.

Today, he dressed with care, but without his usual precision. His coat was lighter than usual. Shoes dusted from the road. His posture held the memory of formality, but the edges had softened. He hadn’t come to impress. Or to impose. 

Hannibal’s gaze shifted—not immediately to Will, but to the dog at his side.

It stared back at him, steady. No shrinking. No turning away.

There was a faint flicker in the line of its neck, a ripple of old instinct—but it held its ground. It didn’t press closer to Will in fear, and it didn’t retreat. It only stayed, rooted beside him.

The scar beneath its fur caught the light for a moment. Hannibal didn’t move. His eyes lingered on the dog with quiet, unreadable attention. 

“He disappeared a few days after I tended him.” Will said, his tone somewhere between amused and reflective. “I stopped expecting him to come. But some things already belong to you—even before you know it.”

Hannibal crouched, slow and quiet, knees folding with an ease that suggested thoughtfulness rather than caution. He didn’t reach for the dog—he let his presence speak for itself.

The animal blinked once. Neither approached nor retreated.

“You’ve named him?” Hannibal asked after a pause, not quite curiosity—more a subtle test of how far Will had stepped into this new space.

Will looked at the dog instead of Hannibal. His fingers dropped briefly to scratch behind the animal’s ear.

“No. I haven’t named him.” He said. “I thought maybe he had one before. Something I shouldn’t overwrite.”

Hannibal nodded once, the motion barely visible. He didn’t press.

Will stood slowly. The dog rose with him, stretching before settling again, its head brushing lightly against Will’s calf. Will didn’t look at Hannibal when he spoke next.

“I used to think naming something meant claiming it. Making it yours. But this one… he came back on his own.”

There was no bitterness in his voice. And Hannibal felt it—like a door being opened just enough to see the threshold. Not yet an invitation, but no longer locked.

“And what does that mean now?” Hannibal asked, voice low.

Will finally turned to him, and for a moment the light caught in his eyes—so clear, so quiet.

“It means I won’t name him until I’m sure he’s staying.”

Hannibal didn’t respond right away, he knew they weren’t talking about dog anymore. He glanced again at the dog, then back to Will.

“I’m glad he came home.” He said.

Will’s expression didn’t shift, but the silence that followed didn’t carry distance. It settled between them like something placed gently on the table—waiting.

Then Will moved to brush a few leaves off the bench nearby. He didn’t sit, but he left it clean.

“You walked all this way.” He said after a moment, his voice lighter than before. “You might as well stay a while.”

Hannibal didn’t take the offer immediately. He stood, brushed a crease from his coat, then—slowly, with a steadiness that spoke of no expectations—lowered himself to the bench.

“It’s good to see you again, Will.”

“You say that like it’s the beginning of something.” Will replied, tilting his head. “It’s not. It’s the continuation of something you never let end.”

His honesty in words caught Hannibal off guard. They never speak of their emotions—not willingly, anyway. Let alone this direct. Hannibal tilted his head slightly, absorbing Will’s words the way he might taste a new ingredient—carefully, as if unsure whether it might bloom or burn. The corners of his mouth curved.

“The river bends, but never forgets its course.” He said softly. “Some meetings are arranged not by the clock—but by the current.”

Will’s eyes narrowed—not anger, only tired affection. He exhaled, slowly, then turned his face back toward the open field, where the dog now lay curled in the grass.

“Don’t.” He said. “I used to mirror you. Held things back. Let language do the work so I didn’t have to.”

He paused, looking at him now.

“But I don’t want that anymore. If we’re going to speak… I need it to be from want. Not strategy.”

Hannibal blinked, once. He held the look longer than he intended. It wasn’t that he was unable to turn away—something in Will’s gaze simply ask to not pretend.

“Will you allow me to see you, Will?”

“I walk him by the river most mornings.” Will said, voice even. “If you’re not busy.”

He didn’t frame it as an invitation, not exactly. He offered it the way he might offer a cup of coffee to a neighbor—no pressure, no drama, but a gesture with the quiet weight of possibility behind it.

Hannibal looked at the dog again. Scarred. Strong, steady, not softened. It held his gaze for a breath longer before turning away.

“I think I’d like that.” Hannibal said.

Will didn’t nod. He simply stood, and the dog followed with an easy rhythm. Hannibal matched their pace without needing to ask where they were going.

The three of them moved forward, with a shared rhythm on a road that didn’t ask for explanation, or answers.

***

Florence, Arno River. Two weeks after he embraced the Stray inside him.

They walked together more than once after that. Nothing was arranged—no promises.

But somehow, more often than not, Hannibal was there. Sometimes just behind him. Sometimes waiting ahead. The dog never minded.

They didn’t talk much. Some mornings passed in silence, others with a word or two traded over the sound of the water. But the rhythm held. And in that rhythm, something that didn’t need naming took shape.

That morning, it had rained earlier. Enough to leave the sky low and the paths damp, the kind of morning that made most people stay in. Will didn’t expect him.

But when he walked by the river, coffee was already waiting—two cups, both paper, both plain, both still warm. Hannibal stood at the same bench. He held them without commentary.

Will took the cup. Nodded. Said nothing. Hannibal didn’t seem to need more.

They fell into pace without discussion, the dog weaving slightly ahead, then behind, as if uncertain which of them to follow. The leash swung loose from Will’s fingers but never pulled taut. It had become a habit now—this early walk before the heat rose, before the city made itself known.

Will took a sip of his coffee. It was strong. A little burnt at the edges. The kind of brew meant to wake you up, not impress you. Not something Hannibal would’ve touched a year ago—which only made it more noticeable that he drank it now.

“You’ve adjusted your taste.” Will said eventually, voice low, almost distracted.

“I’ve adjusted to yours.” Hannibal replied. 

Will glanced over. This morning, the lines in Hannibal’s face looked softer, touched by a kind of patience. Light fell gently across his profile, making everything seem quieter than it was.

They reached the river. The dog trotted ahead, sniffed along the low stone wall, then settled in a patch of sun. Will sat on the bench nearby. Hannibal didn’t ask—he simply joined him, their movements as natural as the morning light.

They drank their coffee in silence. But this time, it didn’t feel like distance. It felt shared. Will stretched his legs out, letting the warmth soak into him, slow and steady.

“I used to think this was all I needed,” he said after a while. “A quiet routine. A stray dog. A place to sit with someone.”

His voice held no shame. Just a kind of plain honesty, and already settled.

“I thought if I had that… it would fix something in me,” he went on. “Make me clean. Make me normal.”

Hannibal stayed still beside him, listening. 

Will looked down at the coffee cooling in his hands, then out at the slow ripple of the river.

“But I never was,” He said, quieter now. “Not really. I carried too much for that. Too much weight. Too many pieces that didn’t fit.”

“I walked too deep into the darkness. I danced too close to you.”

He paused, gaze steady on the water, as if considering whether to stop there. But he didn’t.

“Or maybe it was always me,” he said, voice even. “Maybe it was just... dormant. Waiting for someone to wake it up.”

There was no bitterness in it. No drama or accusation. Only the shape of a truth that had taken its time to surface.

“I’ve tried fighting it. Tried cutting it out. And it never worked.”

“Only to find I still want it.” He said. “And now—I'm done with hiding from what I am.”

He looked at Hannibal then, his eyes clear, unflinching.

“I want it because I can live in both. I don’t need to be ordinary. But I can still choose peace.”

And beside him, Hannibal didn’t reach for him. Didn’t say his name.

Yet something in the way he exhaled—careful, quiet—said he understood.

***

Florence. Almost two weeks since they walked the dog together.

The rain hadn’t broken, but the air tasted like it might. A low, grey light hung over the rooftops, and the stones beneath their feet were still damp from the night’s passing weather. Their steps echoed softer today—shoes muffled by dew, by fog, by the hush that came only when the city held its breath.

They didn’t meet at the door this time. Will had already leashed the dog when he found Hannibal waiting near the corner lamppost, coat collar turned up, a folded umbrella hooked over one wrist.

“You’re early.” Will said, voice neutral, not displeased.

“You’re later than usual.” Hannibal replied. 

Will smiled faintly and they started walking. The dog looped back once, brushed gently against Hannibal’s calf, then moved ahead again without looking back.

They walked in silence—two alleys, a narrow bridge—before either spoke again.

“You’ve been sleeping better.” Hannibal said quietly. It wasn't a question.

Will didn’t respond right away. His hand adjusted on the leash. Then, with a slight shrug:
“When I don’t run from it, the nightmare doesn’t chase me.”

A beat passed. Then Hannibal nodded once. “Progress.”

Will gave a soft sound of agreement. “It is.”

The river was higher than usual today. Leaves floated along the current, gathering in eddies where the water curved against the bank. At the familiar bench, Will paused only a moment before sitting. Hannibal joined him, neither too close nor too far.

The dog curled into the grass nearby. There was no tension on the leash. No unease in its posture.

“I’ve been thinking of cooking again,” Hannibal said after a while, his eyes on the water. His voice was light, casual. “Will you have dinner with me?”

Will glanced at him, brows lifting slightly. That had come sooner than expected.

“No,” he said, not unkindly. “That’s not the kind of dinner I’m showing up for.”

The pause that followed was longer than the words required. Hannibal turned his head a fraction, and for just a moment, something flickered across his face. He looked—genuinely—wounded, a flicker of it across his face, before the usual control and familiar calm slid back into place.

“I understand.” He said.

Will looked forward again, then added, almost offhand, “I doubt it.”

A dry note in his voice now—half humor, half truth.
“But you can bring food.”

That made Hannibal smile. But not the practiced smile of charm, or the pleased curve of winning.

Hannibal smiled at the permission.

The moment stretched, caught on the edge of old habits and new terms. Then, slowly, Hannibal smiled.

“I’ll bring something edible, then.” He said.

“Not too edible.” Will replied, glancing at him sidelong. “Let’s not tempt fate.”

Hannibal glanced at him, and the corner of his mouth lifted in understanding. “No seasoning stronger than honesty, then.”

The dog thumped its tail against the ground once, as if in agreement.

They sat a while longer, the rain still holding off, the sky undecided. Neither of them moved to end the moment. Neither asked for more than what was already there.

***

Florence. Four weeks after she knew Will had already found his equilibrium.

The kitchen smelled of thyme and browned butter.

Hannibal stood by the stove, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, moving with the kind of intention that belonged more to ritual than necessity. He wasn’t plating for presentation today. Just poaching eggs. Toasting bread. The fruit had been cut earlier and sat in a bowl, imperfectly arranged.

Abigail appeared in the doorway barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, still warm from bed. She leaned against the frame and watched him in silence for a few beats before speaking.

“So.” She said, “We’re making breakfast now?”

Hannibal didn’t turn. “We are.”

“Not just coffee.”

“No.”

She crossed into the room, her steps soft but unhurried. “Is it for all of us, or are you feeding someone specific?”

He cracked a second egg. “I’m simply preparing what’s needed.”

She let the silence stretch as she opened the cupboard for a glass.

“Right.” She said, drawing out the word. “And what was needed just happened to include fresh goat cheese and sourdough from across the river?”

Hannibal gave no outward reaction. But his hand, halfway to the herb jar, slowed just slightly before continuing.

Abigail picked up a piece of fruit from the bowl on the counter and took a bite. Juice hit her tongue, a little sharp. She chewed quietly.

“You don’t have to say it,” she said, tone even now. “I’m not teasing.”

He slid the eggs onto plates, careful with the yolks. They trembled a little from the heat but didn’t break. He didn’t look over at her.

Abigail leaned a hip against the counter, still watching him.

“He’s different now.” Abigail said softly, less teasing now. “But I think you are too.”

He didn’t answer right away. He focused on the plate, garnished with some rosemary. 

“There was a time.” Hannibal said finally, “When I thought wanting something meant shaping it. When I believed love required design.”

Abigail’s brow rose just slightly. “And now?”

He set the plates aside, folded the towel in his hands before answering.
“Now… some parts of me still believe that. But I have to learn how to show up without a script.”

That made her smile—quiet, genuine. “That’s probably a good place to start.”

She turned toward the hallway, glass in hand. Then stopped in the doorway.

“He likes his toast burnt.” She added, not looking back. “Don’t take it personally.”

Hannibal’s eyes followed her as she walked away. After a pause, he reached for the toaster, adjusted the dial down without a word, and waited.

—

The bench near the river was in shadow when Hannibal arrived.

Will was already there, seated with one hand draped over the leash, the dog sprawled at his feet in a patch of sun. He looked up as Hannibal approached.

“I brought food.” Hannibal said simply.

He set the basket down, pulling out two wrapped parcels. No silverware, no porcelain. Just wax paper, folded with precision, and two cups of still-hot coffee. Will raised a brow, but said nothing. He accepted the parcel, unwrapped it slowly. Inside was toasted sourdough, goat cheese, tomato confit, homemade pesto and soft egg nestled warm beneath a layer of thyme. Messy. Humble. Perfectly balanced.

He took a bite. Chewed slowly. Then said, “You adjusted the toast.”

“I did.” Hannibal said. “Burnt edges. As requested.”

Will smiled around the rim of his cup. “I didn’t request it.”

“No. But it was offered.”

They ate quietly, side by side. The dog nosed at the grass but didn’t stray. The river moved slowly behind them, the light rising but not yet harsh.

“Don't feel like explain your course today, Dr. Lecter?” Will asked.

Hannibal considered. Then nodded. Didn't examine why would such formalities—sarcasm, he knew—but still formality, made him winced inward.

“The bread is from Santa Spirito. Long-fermented. The goat cheese is from a small producer near the Arno. Milder than I’d usually use. I thought the tomato could carry more if I stepped back.”

Will nodded. “It works.”

Hannibal looked at him then—direct, tried not to invasive.

“I used to let food do the talking. I’m learning when it doesn’t have to.”

Will didn’t speak for a moment. Then, softly, he said: “You don’t have to stop explaining your food.”

“Just don’t make it the only way you speak.” Then he looked out at the river, the breeze brushing through his hair. "I also need you to speak to me as a person."

Hannibal sat with that. “I understand.”

And he did, at least in part. Will looked at him then, with the kind of expression that held both doubt and patience. A small tilt of the head, a shift in his eyes. He didn’t challenge the words out loud. 

And Hannibal saw it. He had meant what he said—but seeing that look, he realized understanding wasn’t enough. Not yet. Familiar instincts didn’t unwind with a single admission.

He’d always used cooking to bridge what he couldn’t say. Apologies, affection, desire—they had all come dressed as courses. It had been his language. His comfort. 

But this—this asked for something else. He didn’t speak again, only let the moment held. Let it settle in him like a flavor not yet named.

And beside him, Will didn’t pull away. He simply stayed. That, too, was part of the answer.

***

Florence. Almost a week since Hannibal prepared breakfast for Will.

She told herself she was just taking the long way back from the bakery. That she liked the air in this part of the city—less crowded, touched by trees. That she wasn’t avoiding the apartment. Just walking.

But as her feet carried her past the rescue center, down the slope toward the edge of the park, she knew better.

Hannibal had been making breakfast for nearly a week now. Nothing elaborate. No carving knives. No garnishes shaped like intention. Just soft eggs, sometime salmons, or the ham he spent almost the day to choose at the market. Burnt toast. Goat cheese from the stall across the river.

Meals served with care, not control. Nothing extravagant—not by anyone else's measure. But from Hannibal, who had once treated precision like breath, even this simplicity felt like surrender. Abigail saw it for what it was. He hadn’t just given up routine. He’d stepped away from the very language he used to shape his world. No plates arranged to impress. No performances dressed as generosity. Just quiet, unadorned presence. A kind of love she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen in him before.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was real. And real had to start somewhere.

So when she saw them—Will, juggling three leashes and a cloth bag that clinked faintly, walking alongside a woman with blond hair twisted into a knot, a child half-asleep on her hip—Abigail didn’t freeze. 

She only looked. They looked like something held together not by design. One could mistake them as a happy family.

The woman said something that made Will smirked—quickly, not flirtatious. Comfortable, the kind of laugh people made when they weren’t being hunted by memory anymore.

Abigail stepped into view as they reached the corner. The dogs noticed her first. The woman offered a smile of recognition—muted but polite. The girl blinked up at her sleepily.

“Hey.” Will said, shifting the bag higher on his shoulder. He looked better. Healthier. The sharpness around his eyes had dulled into something calmer.

“Busy morning?” Abigail asked lightly, a curious edge in her tone.

“Every morning’s busy with tens dogs and a seven-year-old.” The woman replied before Will could. Her voice was easy, without pretense. “He’s better at this than I am.”

Will gave a small shrug and looking at Abigail. “I just bribe them with boiled chicken.”

One of the dogs barked, as if confirming the fact. The woman snorted softly. Abigail knelt briefly, let one of the dogs sniff her hand, then looked up at Will. “You look… good.”

Will’s smile was quiet. “Been sleeping,” he said. “Finally.”

“I can tell.”

They stood there a moment. Not awkward, just quiet—full of things neither of them needed to say out loud.

“Don’t let him carry too much.” Abigail said to the woman, a sideways glance with a half-smile. “He’ll act fine until he’s not.”

The woman grinned, then. “Noted.”

Then, as they parted, the woman—Mara, the child called her—moving ahead, wrangling the girl and the dogs. Yet Abigail lingered.

Will caught the pause and tilted his head slightly. “You’re going to tell him?”

“Do I need to?” Abigail asked.

Will didn’t answer. So she added, quiet and pointed: “He doesn’t scare me. And you’re not a secret.”

He nodded, once. “Good. I don’t think I could survive another round of this game.” Then he turned and followed the others.

Abigail watched them go. No, she thought Will would survive another round of this game. But the life they want to build—even when they haven’t realized yet—wouldn’t.

When she returned home, Hannibal was standing at the sink, rinsing the stems from a bundle of basil. The scent rose with the water—green, fresh, almost sharp. His sleeves were already rolled; he’d been preparing something slow, something that needed patience.

She leaned at the counter, half-shadowed. She watched him for a moment. Hannibal wasn't the type of asking when he was curious, and Will wasn't the type who offer easily unless he had to. And Abigail, didn’t want this to become another one of those conversations they only have in blood. She didn’t know what had happened, not really. Will—the one who now left—had never told her the whole story. But the way he carried himself, the way certain silences stretched between him and Hannibal like old wounds, it told her enough.

She hadn’t lived it. But she’d seen its outline. And she didn’t want them to draw it again.

So she stepped into the kitchen now, folded her arms against the frame, and said, level and easy, “I saw him this morning.”

Hannibal didn’t turn, he picked up a towel, dried his hands with care. “I assumed you would.”

“He was walking the dogs. Three of them. Carrying a bag full of glass jars and looking like it wasn’t heavy at all.”

Now Hannibal looked over, brow slightly raised. “Three?”

She stepped into the room, folded her arms. “The woman, at his work I presume, had two dogs. Her daughter was with them too.”

There it was. Not a test. Not a knife. A fact, offered early—before it could turn sharp. Hannibal didn’t flinch, but the pause was unmistakable.

He reached for the olive oil, poured a thin stream into the pan. It hissed faintly when it touched metal.

“They must look like a family.”

“They looked... comfortable.” Abigail replied.

He nodded once. Slowly. The scent of basil filled the space again.

“Are you going to tell me,” She asked. “That it doesn’t bother you?”

He didn’t speak immediately. The pan simmered behind him. A sound to fill the silence. Then, without turning, he said: “I don’t think he’s running anymore.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“I haven’t decided.”

Abigail walked over, picked up a tomato from the bowl on the counter. Turned it slowly in her hands. “She’s kind. That woman. And smart. Doesn’t flinch when things get weird.”

Hannibal allowed the faintest twitch of amusement. “A rare quality.”

“She likes him.” Abigail added, watching him. “But she doesn’t try to shape him. She’s not pulling on him to be more or less than he is. That might matter more than you think.”

He set the wooden spoon down. “You don't sound like you’re trying to reassure me.”

“No.” She said gently. “Do you think the nurturing you offered is what he needs?”

The words landed quietly. Hannibal looked down at the herbs on the cutting board. Then, finally, he met her eyes.

“I know.” He said. But his knife cut the herbs more decisively than normal, like their existence offended him.

Abigail smiled faintly. “She isn’t trying to take anything from you.”

He nodded, slowly. “No. But Will may still give it.”

Abigail didn’t answer. She left the room quietly, leaving only the scent of basil behind.

Hannibal stood alone for a moment longer. Then turned back to the pan. The basil was wilting now. The oil was rich and dark.

And he stirred it. Because tomorrow, he would still cook for Will.

***

Florence, Borgo La Croce. The same evening.

He told himself they were only apples.

Pink-fleshed, from the southern market—just past their prime but sweeter for it. He had once used them in a tart that made Abigail raise an eyebrow in admiration. They weren’t necessary tonight. He had citrus at home. Figs, even. But still, he took his coat and stepped into the dark.

The streets held their warmth long after sunset. The stone breathed in heat and exhaled it gently now, wrapping the narrow alleyways in something close to comfort. Hannibal walked with purpose, but not urgency. A man without an appointment. A man with thoughts he would not name.

The fruit stand on the corner—coincidently near the rescue center—was still open. Lantern light flickered on baskets of apricots and late plums. He lingered by the pears too long.

And then—he heard a voice. Familiar in cadence but not in tone. Will’s voice.

But not the one who had once laced every sentence with resistance or unspoken need. This voice was loose. Casual. Speaking Italian—rough, imperfect, but enough to charm.

Hannibal turned, slow and smooth, just enough to see past the baskets and caught the scent of dogs mixed with sweat.

Will stood near the edge of the piazza, bag of dry kibble in one hand, leash looped around the other. The woman—Mara, Will had called her that—stood beside him, a half-laugh still curling at her mouth. The child tugged on her sleeve, saying something about gelato. Will said something back that made her giggle.

It was nothing. And yet, it was something.

Hannibal did not move. He simply watched from the shadow of hanging apricots. Will hadn’t seen him. Wouldn’t have looked for him. There was no tension in his posture. No reach in his voice. He was not performing. He was simply being.

Hannibal turned away before the moment could resolve itself. He paid for the apples without a word, his fingers pressing coins into the merchant’s palm more tightly than intended.

He walked back slowly.

He didn’t rehearse an explanation for the fruit.

He didn’t press it into a tart.

He placed them in the bowl on the counter, watched the way one rolled slightly into the hollow left behind by a lemon, and said nothing.

But he did not sleep easily that night. Because he had seen something—not threat. Not even intimacy.

Yet, it was the quiet proof that Will Graham had found a life that didn’t depend on him to exist.

And Hannibal, who had always been the axis, now stood slightly off-center. Still vital. Still chosen, perhaps. But not needed.

And strangely… that made the desire to be chosen burn even more.

***

Florence, Home. One week since Hannibal brought him breakfast.

The last of the dogs had been returned to their crates, save for the two who always lingered longer—old souls with slower legs and easier tempers. Will was adjusting a latch when Mara’s voice cut through the fading light behind him.

“You never told me about the girl in the park.”

He didn’t look up right away. He finished adjusting the latch on the kennel, checked the water bowl, then sat back on his heels.

“She yours?” Mara asked again, tone threaded with curious.

Will finally looked at her. Her daughter was tugging gently at her sleeve, half-listening, half-lost in her own world.

“She’s mine.” Will said. “Ours, actually.”

Mara tilted her head, raised an eyebrow. “Ours?”

Will rested one hand on the edge of the crate. “We adopted her. A long time ago.”

“I didn’t know you had a daughter that old.”

“She wasn’t always that old.” Will said, his voice gentling. “We didn’t raise her, not in the usual way. But she’s still ours.”

Mara watched him for a beat. She didn’t press, just nodded like she was filing the shape of the story in understand.

“You say ‘we’ like it still fits.” She said quietly.

“It does.” Will replied. “Just… complicated.”

She nodded slowly. “Complicated’s the only kind that’s worth a damn.”

He huffed a quiet laugh at that.

They walked together toward the supply shed. Her daughter wanted be be let down, and now she was skipping ahead, the smaller dog trailing behind like it had somewhere better to be but no urgency to get there. The late light stretched long across the gravel.

Mara glanced sideways at him. “You don’t have to tell me more.”

“I know.”

She gave him a small, knowing smile. “But you did. That’s enough.”

And Will, for once, didn’t feel the need to clarify anything else. He had spoken the truth—soft and simple.

Just a part of who he was. He no longer denied it.

***

Florence. Two days since she told Hannibal about the woman.

Abigail leaned against the kitchen doorway, chewing the inside of her cheek as Hannibal folded the linen napkin—once, twice, with exacting care—and slid it into the side of the small lunch sack.

Not his lunch. 

He didn’t notice her at first. Or if he did and gave no sign. He was focused. But not in the way he usually was when preparing food for himself, this was more gentle. There was a softness to it that didn’t match any guest she’d seen him host. Just rhythm. Familiarity. Less a performance.

Abigail’s eyes drifted to the spread on the counter. Toasted focaccia, crisp but not burnt. Marinated vegetables, layered with soft cheese and lemon zest. A tangle of greens tossed with shaved fennel and cracked pepper. Fruit—already peeled. Apple segments, soaked in salt water, then packed neatly into a small jar like he knew Will wouldn’t bother doing it himself.

And the coffee. She’d seen that thermos once before, not the porcelain travel press Hannibal used on his own walks. The one Will liked. 

“You’re packing for someone who doesn’t live here.” She said quietly.

“I’m making sure someone eats.” He replied, as if it explained everything.

She stepped into the room, reached for an apple, and took a slow bite. “You know, you’re not really pretentious.”

“I’m not trying to be.” He said, tying the twine at the top of the parcel. “Pretending would just be a form of manipulation.”

Abigail studied him—his shoulders a little less rigid, the quiet patience and waiting that had settled into his motions not like before.

“You think he’ll accept it?”

Hannibal paused, then nodded once. “He already has.”

She smiled faintly and bumped the heel of her palm against the counter. “And you packed extra. For the dog.”

“Of course.”

As Hannibal moved to gather his coat, she called softly, “You know, if you keep doing this, he might start to believe you want him to stay.”

He looked at her, his expression unreadable—then softened, just a little. “Good.”

She nodded. “Then you’re doing it right.” And watched him go.

Lunch in hand. A quiet truth sealed in bread and lemon rind.

***

Florence, the Rescue Center. One week, two days since Hannibal brought him breakfast.

The shelter was quieter than usual. Most of the dogs were already dozing after the morning walk, the smaller ones curled into one another like soft knots of warmth. Will had taken his break late, after the last crate had been scrubbed and the sun had shifted to cast long shadows through the side windows. 

The paper bag had been left on the bench. Folded. Neat. With a thermos of still-warm coffee set beside it. Will didn’t open it at first. He moved past it like it wasn’t there, leash in hand, towel over his shoulder. The dogs barked. The mop bucket creaked. Life moved.

But at noon, he sat at the far end of the open room, legs stretched out on a battered bench beside the low table where they usually sorted forms and clipped leashes. A parcel rested on his lap. He peeled it open slowly, methodically, even though he already knew what was inside.

Toasted focaccia. Marinated vegetables. Cheese. A lemon note tucked somewhere under the napkin.

Mara passed behind him, wiping her hands on a dishrag that had seen better days. She didn’t look at him at first, just dropped a bowl of clean water near the pen before glancing over.

“Is that the one who’s complicated packing for you?”

Will didn’t look up, he picked at the edge of the bread. “I can cook for myself.”

“I know.” She crossed her arms and leaned against the table. “But you’re not the type that… sliced apples and wraps things in cloth so your lunch doesn’t leak.”

He didn’t reply, but his small smile was quiet, unmistakable. Some things, Mara thought, were like water. The more you tried to keep them contained, the more they found ways to seep through. Truth. Want. Care. They always leaked, especially when you pretended they weren’t there.

“That doesn’t seem very complicated to me.” She added.

Will took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. “That’s the complicated part.”

Mara tilted her head. “So what is her, then? Complication or answer?”

Will didn’t answer right away. He pressed his thumb into the side of the sandwich like he was weighing something heavier than its ingredients.

“Sometimes.” He said, “It’s both. And it’s a he.”

Mara didn’t push, she only nodded, reaching down to scratch behind one of the mutts who’d wandered over to lean against her knee.

After a moment, she added, “Well. Whoever he is—he feeds you like he wants you to stay.”

Will folded the paper slowly, eyes thoughtful.

“He does,” he said eventually, his voice lower now. “But it’s not just about staying.”

He didn’t look up. It was a signal. Wrapped in care, sure. But with Hannibal, there was always a signal. Will’s gaze dropped to the food again. He picked up the last bite, held it a second too long between his fingers.

Yet he ate the rest, didn’t leave a single crumb. Slowly. Deliberately. Like swallowing it meant accepting something more than lunch.

***

Florence, Borgo La Croce. The next morning after he brought Will lunch.

They didn’t meet at the door today. Will was already halfway down the block when Hannibal joined him, coffee in hand, the dog bounding slightly ahead before circling back to nudge his leg. They didn’t speak at first. Not until the corner, where the sidewalk dipped just enough to catch the sun and make everything smell faintly of warm stone and coffee grounds.

Will took a sip from the cup Hannibal handed him without comment. He didn’t ask what was inside—it was always like this, lately. 

“The lunch was good.” Will said, voice casual, like he was mentioning the weather.

Hannibal’s eyes flicked toward him. “It’s the least I can offer.”

“It was more than that.” Will said. “Thoughtful. Balanced. Slightly too much thyme.”

“Then I’ll adjust the seasoning.” Hannibal replied, the ghost of a smile on his lips. But he didn’t reach for more than that. He knew better now.

They walked a little farther, the dog stopping to nose at a patch of grass, the leash still loose in Will’s hand.

“I saw you the other night.” Will said then, lightly. “At the market.”

Hannibal didn’t pretend to misunderstand. He only raised one brow, like he was indulging Will’s point.

“Must have been very urgent.” Will continued, “Buying apples at that hour.”

“Only when the craving strikes.” Hannibal replied, unbothered.

Will’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close. “It’s a long way from craving to the fruit stall beside the pharmacy.”

“You doubt the sincerity of my need for Macoun?”

Will finally gave him a sideways glance. “No. I just wonder if you’ve ever been less subtle in your life.”

Hannibal didn’t deny it. “There are worse things than watching someone who matters.”

Will looked away at that—gathering himself. His next words came quieter. “Just don’t forget—I watch, too.”

Their steps fell into rhythm again. And the air between them wasn’t heavy. It was shared.

But a small truth, laid down like the crust of bread neither of them had finished.

***

Florence, Arno River. Four days since the First Lunch.

The walk had become routine now—quiet and unspoken, as familiar as brushing his teeth or boiling water for coffee. When Will opened the door that morning, Hannibal was already waiting with the leash in hand, the dog circling their legs with practiced ease.

They spoke little. They didn’t need to. The rhythm had changed—but the ritual held. They sat on the low stone wall just above the river, a shallow bag of market fruit between them. The sun had not yet decided whether it would stay, and a cool breeze trailed its fingers across the water. Will peeled an orange without looking at Hannibal, while the dog dozed in the shade.

Will offered him a segment. Hannibal took it without hesitation. The brush of their fingers was brief—barely a pass of skin on skin. But it lingered. Not in the air. Not in the moment.

In Hannibal.

Will didn’t pull away. He didn’t flinch or shift. He simply let his hand stay there—on his thigh. Palm slightly open, fingers curled loosely against his knee. An ordinary shape. But open enough.

Not an invitation. Not a test. And when Hannibal reached, he did it slowly. Carefully. Without calculation, or at least tried to.

“May I?”

Will looked at him, nodded. Their hands met. The grip wasn’t full—just fingers laid into fingers, cool from citrus, warm from sun. A line of contact drawn without ceremony. Crooked. Imperfect. Real.

They didn’t look away. But neither stared.

It was enough to know it had happened. That it was happening.

Will’s expression didn’t change—but something in his breath did. Less guarded now. Less braced.

And Hannibal, didn’t try to name the moment. Didn’t try to weigh it or hold it too tightly.

He just let it be. And held on. 

***

Florence. The next morning after their hands touch.

The light was low and clean—early enough that the air still held some night in it. Hannibal stood at the kitchen window, fingers curled around a teacup that had gone cool. He wasn’t watching the street. He was watching the pavement. 

Will was outside, walking with the dog, crouched low as he gently brushed through its coat. It was patient with him, tail thumping lazily as he murmured something Hannibal couldn’t hear. But he knew it was care, slow and consistent. The kind people never showed when they didn’t expect to stay.

Hannibal didn’t move. He only drank him in—like a man memorizing a painting that kept changing its details when you blinked.

Will looked different in the daylight. He always had. But now, that difference was deeper.

He wasn’t the man who’d once bent under the weight of empathy until it fractured him. He wasn’t the ghost who returned with a steady pulse and a knife beneath his breath.

He was becoming something else. Something Hannibal couldn’t name yet.

Will said nothing as he talked, but he glanced up once toward the apartment. Not directly at the window, not at Hannibal. But close enough.

Hannibal didn’t flinch away. He simply stood there, watching the kind of tenderness he’d never known how to give without shaping it into something else.

Will brushed passed down the dog’s back. His mouth moved again—too far to hear, but gentle enough that the animal leaned into it.

And Hannibal didn’t speak. He just stayed there, watching him.

Then, Will glanced up again—higher this time—past the curling vines along the apartment wall, past the soft morning shadow stretching over the stones, toward second-floor window. Hannibal stood there, motionless, a half-full teacup in hand, gaze resting not just on Will but on the whole shape of the scene below. Their eyes met, like something inevitable aligning.

Will didn’t smile, but he lifted a hand, fingers curling in a small gesture.

A simple summons. Come here.

—

Will stood, brushing his hand once over the dog’s back as it settled. He looked up at Hannibal.

"Will." 

"Hello. Hannibal." He said, standing up from petting the dog. "Want to invite me in?"

The kitchen was quiet when Hannibal entered. Light filtered in through the sheer curtain above the sink. He moved without urgency—selecting two cups from the open shelf, plain and sturdy, not the delicate porcelain he usually reserved for guests. This one was slightly imperfect at the lip. There was no iron teapot, no ritual unfolding on the counter. Just water boiled, a modest tin of strong, middle-shelf tea, and a moment of stillness as the steam curled upward from the mugs.

He didn’t lace the tea with anything. No honey. No citrus twist. Just heat and tealeaf, poured and offered.

When Will entered through the side door, the dog’s nails clicked briefly on the tile before she settled again at his heel. Hannibal handed him the cup without commentary, only a brief glance and a nod toward the table.

They sat. Will took a sip first. The heat touched his face, softened his expression. He rested the cup between his hands, thumbs brushing the rim, as though he meant to warm his whole body through his palms.

Hannibal sipped his own tea. It was… ordinary. By his standards, under-steeped, sharp at the edges. But the simplicity of it—the deliberate restraint—carried its own weight. There was no seduction in the cup, and Will understood it as such. He didn’t thank Hannibal. Didn’t praise the flavor. He just drank again, slower this time, and let the silence between them stretch in ease.

This was not the moment designed for memory. And yet, Hannibal would remember it. Because this tea was made without an agenda and Will, had accepted it—for what it was, without suspicion.

—

When the mugs were mostly empty, the light had shifted, angling across the floor in long gold shapes. The dog had curled at Will’s feet, sighing in its sleep. The silence had stretched, but it wasn’t strained. It had settled around them like breath.

Hannibal set his cup down gently. He watched the last swirl of tea at the bottom, the faint ring of it tracing the glaze. Then he said, not looking up, “I didn’t use the Darjeeling.”

Will glanced over, surprised of what he’d chosen to say. Hannibal went on, voice quiet, but even:

“It’s what I would have served. Once. It’s what I’ve served others. Visitors. Guests. People I needed to disarm, or impress.” His thumb moved against the ceramic lip of the cup. “But you said you don't want something rehearsed.”

He looked at Will then—not measuring, not searching. Hoping. Something in his posture had shifted, just slightly—an offering extended in restraint.

Will didn’t speak right away. His gaze stayed level, his fingers curling once around the base of the cup. Then—gently, like choosing not to let the moment fall: “I noticed, Hannibal.”

He lifted the cup again, took another slow sip. No smile. But that careful and deliberate gesture was already its own form of answer. 

And Hannibal sat quietly with that. While it was not approval he’d needed, but that Will had seen the change. Had named it. And chose to stay. It was enough, for now.

***

Florence. Three days after he invited Will to his apartment.

The next few days passed without ceremony, only small things—quiet walks with the dog, shared silences that no longer scraped. Hannibal still packed breakfast and lunch. Will still accepted it. But now, occasionally, he stayed to drink coffee on the steps before leaving. Sometimes they spoke. Sometimes they didn’t.

Today, the air had cooled by the time they left the river. The dog padded ahead, tail twitching at pigeons, pausing at corners like it already knew the route. Will walked with one hand in his pocket, the leash loose in the other. He didn’t speak right away, and Hannibal didn’t prompt him. Their silence had shifted lately—less watchful, more companionable.

They crossed a narrow street, then turned up a smaller one—stones uneven underfoot, the sun slipping sideways behind buildings stained with age.

“Want to see where I’ve been living?” Will asked, casually. The kind of offer someone makes when they’re no longer afraid of being seen too closely.

Hannibal didn’t answer immediately, yet he followed.

It was small. Second floor. The stairs creaked like they didn’t approve of visitors. The dog scratched the door once before Will opened it. The space inside was functional—cool, clean, lived-in. Sparse enough to suggest he hadn’t intended to stay long, but well-tended enough to hint that he’d changed his mind.

The walls were blank. No framed memory. No curated bookshelves. But the sofa was worn in one spot, and a wool blanket rested in an untidy fold on the back of it. A single mug sat by the sink. No matching sets. Will didn’t offer tea or wine. He didn’t comment on the space, didn’t apologize for its sparseness. He simply reached for the remote and clicked the television on, choosing something with casual. Then tossing the dog a chew and flicked on the television.

“Something dumb.” He said, sinking into the couch. “Nothing elegant.”

He didn’t ask Hannibal to sit. He just looked over once, as if to say: you can if you want.

Hannibal didn’t ask what was playing. He just watched Will instead, then moved to sit beside him—not too close, but no longer across the room. And from the moment he did, the room seemed to narrow. Everything else receded.

It wasn’t high cinema. The dialogue was easy, the plot predictable, the colors too saturated. But the room dimmed under its flickering light. And in that soft, shifting glow, Will leaned back, feet crossed loosely at the ankle, eyes on the screen. Hannibal’s gaze was drawn to him. The slope of Will’s wrist, resting loose along the armrest. The soft curve of his neck where the light caught the edge of a fading sunburn. The profile of his face, unguarded in ways Hannibal still hadn’t fully learned how to interpret.

Will wasn’t tense, but he wasn’t careless either. There was an alertness to his stillness. A kind of chosen peace. Like this—his presence, his quiet, his breathing—was a position he’d taken, not a place he’d fallen into.

Hannibal barely noticed the movement on the screen. His eyes tracked only the way Will blinked slowly at something unseen, the small tug at the corner of his mouth when a line of dialogue grazed his sense of humor. The flick of his fingers against his thigh when the dog shifted nearby. And Hannibal sat there, watching a man who no longer needed to be convinced of his own presence—who no longer looked to anyone else to reflect it back. 

Will didn’t miss the attention, he hadn’t missed it for the past ten minutes. But he let it sit there, between them—unacknowledged, unchallenged. 

When he finally turned, it was only a slow shift of the head. The way someone takes when they already know what they’ll find.

And he found it: Hannibal, watching him like he always had. Their eyes met—brief, but full of something unspoken and strangely gentle. Will didn’t say anything. He only reached out, slowly.  Like a man who had thought about this for a long time, weighed it, carried it. And waited until it no longer felt like surrender, but like choice.

Without hesitation, his fingers found Hannibal’s hand and it into his lap. Palm-down, fingers laced easily with his own. He didn’t look back at Hannibal. He just turned his eyes to the television again and let the contact remain. As if they already did that thousand times.

For a long moment, Hannibal sat still, uncertain. He hadn’t been invited into a performance. He hadn’t been offered a role to play. This wasn’t theater. It wasn’t design. This was Will—warm, steady, and quietly inhabiting space. Like he was reclaiming something that had always been his, only now without apology.

The weight of his hand was solid in Hannibal’s.  A touch made without caution or claim. The kind of contact that asked nothing but honesty in return.

Hannibal shifted slightly, grounding himself more firmly into the cushion beside him. Their hands remained joined, steady. 

The film still played on. The city outside already dimmed. Nothing in the room shifted except the warmth spreading beneath their joined hands, and the slow, near-imperceptible rhythm of breath aligning in time.

Will leaned into the moment, and Hannibal stayed with him.

And that quiet between them had became the shape of something beginning to take root.

***

Florence, Royal Stables Garden. Five days since Will invited him to his apartment.

The past five days had passed in something close to peace, easy in a way Hannibal had rarely allowed himself to know. Mornings shared in silence, hands brushing over mugs. The dog sleeping with its chin on Hannibal’s foot.

They hadn’t touched again since the couch, but neither had stepped back. Whatever they were building, it was forming without blueprint.

He hadn’t expected to see Will there. But he was. 

It was a detour. A walk extended by nothing more than a change in light. The clouds had held the sun back all morning, and Hannibal, who rarely changed his path, found himself passing through the park.

On the far side, beneath a quiet stretch of trees. Leaning slightly forward, one knee bent, coaxing laughter out of a small child.

Mara’s, he assumed. The girl had her eyes. Her steadiness. She tossed a soft rubber ball toward Will, missed, ran after it with the full-bodied enthusiasm only the very young ever gave freely.

Will smiled. Not wide, just that shift around the eyes. A kind of quiet joy. Unguarded. He didn’t see Hannibal. 

Hannibal stood still, hands folded lightly in front of him, half-shielded by the length of a stone railing. He watched—long enough. There was no intimacy in the scene. No special bond, no claim. Will wasn’t acting like a father. Not quite.

But he wasn’t not, either.

There was something in his body: how he crouched without bracing. How he listened with full attention. How he waited for the child’s words to finish before responding. The same stillness he once gave stray dogs, wounded creatures, untamed things.

But now he gave it to someone fragile and unafraid, someone who might trust him just because he was there. And Hannibal saw it for what it was. Possibility. Will could do this. Could be this. A steady hand. A kind voice. A shape a child could recognize as safe. He could live this life—one rooted in steadiness, in repeatable gestures, in a safety that required no translation. Mara had shown him how, by never asking him to earn it. Just offering it, daily, without design.

And Hannibal—Hannibal—could not.

Not without pretense. Not without performance. Not without the structure of metaphor or sacrifice or blood beneath the floorboards. He could offer Will a life. But not a safe, stable one. It would be one where children laughed with one eye on the hallway. Where safety came laced with tension. Where warmth was a beautiful veneer stretched thin over something sharp. A home, yes—but one that asked its inhabitants to memorize the floorplan of danger. To adapt, not to rest. To live with elegance, always bracing for the cost.

Because wherever they stood together, the ground shifted. Always. The cracks didn’t vanish—they just arranged themselves into more intricate patterns.

He could play along. Cook the meals. Walk the dog. Drink tea in the quiet. But his presence was still the shadow in the hallway, the echo behind the lullaby. 

Will could choose this kind of life. Mara’s life was not extraordinary. But it was steady. It ran on small rituals—folded laundry still warm from the sun, boiled pasta with too much salt, bedtime stories told twice because her daughter liked the sound of her voice. The kind of life that didn’t ask to be earned or endured—just lived. 

A child could grow up safe there. A man could grow into belonging. There was no spectacle in her world, no hidden test. Only repetition, honesty, enough. And Will had smiled inside it. Smiled like it wasn’t borrowed.

Hannibal didn’t stay. He turned, walking back the way he came, the clouds finally beginning to break overhead. The sky clearing as if to say—now you see it. 

Not what you can have, but what you were never meant to give.

***

Florence, Home. Three weeks since Will worked as her employee.

The bell above the door chimed—a half-hearted sound, metal against metal, softened by years of use. Mara didn’t look up at first. She was elbow-deep in a crate of flea powder and old towels, sorting what could be salvaged from what should’ve been thrown out weeks ago. The light outside had gone soft—late afternoon, post-lunch lull.

Then she heard the footsteps approached—measured, unhurried, carrying the weight of someone who already knew where he was going. She wiped her hands on the edge of her jeans, stepped out into the main corridor.

And stopped.

The man standing in the entry didn’t belong here. Not on this side of the city. His coat was dark. Expensive. The umbrella at his side wasn’t the kind you bought from a corner stand—it had a silver tip, too polished for weather. He looked like someone who belonged in a private gallery, not beside a bin of leashes.

He didn’t look like he needed directions. Or help. Or anyone at all.

“Good afternoon.” He said. His voice was the same—measured, smooth. Like he knew how to speak softly without giving anything away.

Mara nodded. “We’re not accepting adoptions today.”

He paused, then with the faintest hint of a smile: “I’m not here for an animal.”

Of course not. She set the blanket aside. “Will’s out back. He’ll be in soon.”

“I can wait.” The man said. Not asking permission, only stating like he owns this place.

He moved further into the space, his gaze not invasive, but curated—selective. Like he was taking note not just of the room, but of the life that had shaped it. The mismatched chairs. The cracked ceramic bowl of keys. The faded mural one of the volunteers had half-finished and never returned to.

Mara flushed in embarrassing at the scrutiny. It was not a life designed for impression. But it was real.

“You keep it simple.” He said.

Mara met his eyes. “It works.”

He glanced toward the door that led to the kennels, observing the furniture as if it had some life-long mission to carry. It was not, only there because it held things that needed holding. Mara watched him read meaning into what had none—trying to decode the world. Now she understood what Will meant by complicated. Who lives like that on purpose?

“He seems... comfortable here.”

“He is.” She said. “He’s good with the animals. They trust him.”

“As they should.”

He didn’t say more, they stood in the quiet together. Two people occupying the same air with very different weight.

Mara finally spoke. “You’ve been watching him.”

“I’ve been near.”

“Same thing.” She said, folding the next blanket with care.

He didn’t argue.

“You saw them at the park.” Her voice wasn’t accusatory, just naming what she already knew. “Will and my daughter.”

He didn’t deny it, either.

Mara glanced at him. “Children don’t care about what’s behind you. Only how you stand in front of them.”

At that, he inclined his head. “And Will stood well.”

The compliment wasn’t hollow. But it wasn’t harmless. It didn’t show in his posture, but something about the calm in his voice—controlled, precise—sent a chill up Mara’s spine.

Mara folded the last blanket, set it down. “You came here to see if he could live this kind of life.”

“Did I?” He said. “You’re a smart woman, Mrs…?”

“Mara.”

“Mrs. Mara.” He smiled at that, too calm. And hadn't bother to offer her his name. “Will hasn’t decided yet.”

“No.” Mara agreed, tone flat. “But he’s not undeciding either.”

That gave him pause, barely. She met his gaze, steady and unflinching. “I don’t know what the two of you are. I don’t need to.

But I know this—he’s trying to live different now. He’s building something real, even if it’s small.”

Her tone didn’t sharpen. It didn’t need to. It was the kind of care from someone who’d decided that Will deserved something that didn’t twist when he touched it. And the man, his expression didn’t falter, but something in the line of his shoulders eased—like a man acknowledging a point scored, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

“Thank you.” He said. 

It wasn’t gratitude. It was a warning, dressed as civility.

She nodded once. No smile. “You can wait outside. He’ll be off soon.”

The man inclined his head again, as if they’d come to terms. He stepped out without a word more, the bell chiming once behind him. Mara turned back to the blankets. Picked one up, refolded it.

The air still held his presence for several minutes after he left. 

***

Hannibal didn’t wait. The light filtered sideways through the trees, casting long shadows across the stones as he walked the narrow path home, the soles of his shoes striking in soft rhythm. His hands were folded behind his back. 

He had seen enough.

The rescue center had smelled of bleach and dog hair, of dry kibble and warm metal. A place of worn function. Stubborn purpose. Nothing curated. Nothing concealed.

Mara’s life was small. Practical. Lived with both feet on the ground. There were no flourishes. No music in the corners. But Will had stayed there. Found rhythm, fed animals, folded towels.

And she—Mara—had said almost nothing at all. No competition. No fear. Only truth.

She had no illusions about him. That was what unsettled him most. She saw him not as a threat to be confronted, nor a stray to be save—but as a fact. Inconvenient. Fixed. Something like weather: real, yes, but impossible to tame.

She didn’t ask what he wanted. She already knew. She didn’t try to warn him. She knew it wouldn’t matter.

Mara had no control over Will’s heart, and didn’t seem to want it. That made her more dangerous than he expected. She was an anchor. Unseduced by myth. Unchanged by history. And she had offered Will a life so ordinary, so painfully viable, that Hannibal had felt its weight just standing in the room.

Not a rival. A counterweight.

She asked nothing of Will but for honesty. She offered no metaphor, no grandeur—just space, warmth, continuity. All the things Will sought.

And Hannibal could offer none of that. He had tried once—to make love out of terror, trust out of the exquisite tension between predator and prey. But this Will, the one who folded towels and laughed with children, had grown past the hunger for danger disguised as intimacy.

At the corner near the grocer, he paused. Just once. Long enough for the ache to settle into the backs of his knees, like gravity adjusting its grip.

And yet—

Will still walked with him. Still shared quiet. Still let the spaces between them speak.

So Hannibal kept walking. Past the marketplace. Past the corner where he once bought oranges no one else touched. Past the church that rang its bells off-key.

He would not press. But in the privacy of his thoughts, he acknowledged her. Because it did occur to him—Mara had never needed to be extraordinary to be close to Will.

She had shown him the shape of something he would never be.

And Will—Will had seen it too.

***

Florence. The day she felt things changed.

The next morning, the apartment felt different. Not warmer exactly, but like it had stopped holding its breath.

Abigail noticed it first in the quiet. The way the silence no longer pressed in like it had something to prove. Hannibal moved differently now—less composed, as though something beneath the surface had relaxed. He didn’t hover near the windows anymore. He didn’t time his returns from the market so precisely. The harpsichord stayed uncovered. The change had begun before that. But now, it was becoming lived-in.

And maybe it was her imagination—but he seemed to move a little differently these days. Slower at first. Then careful. Like his balance had begun to shift in ways he hadn’t yet named aloud. 

There were small signs, too—leftovers of Will, even though he didn’t stay long when he came. A cup left drying by the sink that didn’t match their set. A dog bowl set near the door, as if its place there was no longer temporary. A worn book on the side table, with a scrap of paper tucked inside, like Will had intended to come back to it later.

Hannibal never moved these things. Not anymore. 

And today, when she passed the study, she saw something else.

He was packing. Not away Will’s things—the one who was here now—but in the past.

A scarf she hadn’t seen in months. A heavy journal, a sketchbook with blank pages left, and old leather binding. A few letters, neatly folded, tied with a ribbon so dark it looked black in the light. 

She looked around and saw a half-used bottle of vitamins rested near the edge of the desk—tucked beneath a folded shirt, barely visible. Abigail didn’t notice it. She wasn’t looking for it. But had she paused—had she picked it up—the label would have told her more than Hannibal was ready to say.

Hannibal didn’t look up when he placed the lid on the box. He simply rested his hands over it for a moment—just long enough for her to understand that this wasn’t an act of hiding. It was closure.

A quiet shelving of a chapter already lived.

She didn’t say anything, let him took his time.

Later, when Will came by to walk the dog, she crossed paths with him in the pavement. He didn’t pause, but something in his posture had shifted. He walked like someone who no longer doubted whether he was allowed to take up space.

Abigail gave him a glance. A knowing look that said:

He’s making room.  And I think you are, too.

***

Florence, Riverside Apartment. One weeks after he invited Hannibal to his current apartment.

The room was still warm from the afternoon sun, enough to make the light settle low and golden across the floor. The dog had dozed off near the door, ears twitching now and then in some quiet dream.

Will stood in the kitchen, turning the kettle on without checking the temperature. He didn’t measure the leaves today. Didn’t reach for the better tin. He moved through the steps the way he had every day this week—without hesitation, without second-guessing.

He reached up into the cupboard and pulled down two mugs. It wasn’t a decision. It wasn’t a thought, really. Just a motion his body made. One for himself. One for Hannibal.

He set them down—one to the left, one to the right—because that’s where they belonged. A small jar of honey. A spoon. No citrus. No lace of bitterness today.

The dog stretched, paws flexing toward the kitchen tiles, and then padded in to sit by his feet. Will reached down and ran his hand over its head, absentminded and steady.

There was a knock—barely a sound. A shape in the glass beside the door. And Will opened it before Hannibal could knock again.

He already knew who it would be—he always did, these days. But today, Hannibal stood with a plain paper bag folded carefully at the top, the kind restaurants used for takeaway but never with such precise symmetry.

Will raised an eyebrow, leaning on the doorframe. “You brought dinner?”

“Nothing performance.” Hannibal said. “Simply nourishment.”

Will stepped back without a word, letting him in.

The room still smelled faintly of tea and dog fur, the windows cracked open to the late breeze. The dog greeted Hannibal with a single blink, then returned to its corner, disinterested. She’d grown used to this rhythm. They all had.

Hannibal moved to the small table by the window and unpacked the contents of the bag with familiar quietness. Flatbread wrapped in linen. Roasted vegetables with sumac and oil. A lentil stew still warm in its container. Simple food. Earthy. Humble.

Will didn’t ask if it was homemade. He already knew. And more than that—he knew why Hannibal had brought it.

There was no offer of a table set with silver and glass. No suggestion of a return to velvet and shadows.

Just this: a meal carried across the city and shared in the light.

They ate with the window open. The light dimmed slowly, and neither of them reached to turn it back up. Conversation came in pieces—about the dog, about the butcher’s awful mood this morning, about a stranger who'd tried to play Bach in the piazza and failed spectacularly.

It wasn’t weightless, but it didn’t ache.

Will chewed a piece of meat slowly, then set it down beside his plate. He looked over at Hannibal—no longer to study him or challenge him. He already knew the outlines, the edges, the ways he gave himself away in silence.

And still, there was a part of him that liked to press. To ask in just the right way that might make Hannibal unfold under watchful eyes.

“What can I expect from this course, Dr. Lecter?” He said with almost teasing, almost.

Will watched him over the rim of his glass. The light was nearly gone now, the corners of the room drifting into shadow—but the table, the space between them, held.

Hannibal didn’t look up right away. He set his own fork down with careful precision, like the question required its own kind of ceremony.

Then he answered.

“Sea bass. Poached with fennel, orange peel, and a broth I assure you won’t trouble your conscience.”

A flicker of something—amusement, maybe, or just acknowledgment—passed between them. Will didn’t smile. But his thumb tapped once against the stem of his glass, thoughtful.

He didn’t need a confession, not anymore. He knew the kind of hunger Hannibal had once fed. And he knew, too, what it cost him now not to.

A man who once orchestrated symphonies in blood had learned, somehow, to let dinner stay dinner. And Will felt it. That quiet restraint made for him.

“You know.” He said, tone casual but not careless, “eventually I may have the pleasure of eating dinner at your place again.” 

He didn’t smile. But his voice curved at the edges. 

Hannibal paused—just long enough.

And Will saw it—the flicker of something like hope made cautious by memory. A man trying not to damage what had taken this long to grow.

Hannibal folded his napkin gently, hands precise. “When you do.” He said, “I’ll be ready.”

Will didn’t respond right away. He took another bite, nodded once, and glanced toward the window.

“I don’t think I missed your cooking that much.” He said, the tone was dry, but the truth sat plainly beneath it.

Hannibal turned toward him, an eyebrow faintly raised.

“No?” He asked.

Will looked back at him—longer this time. Something quieter passed between them. Something patient. Certain.

“I missed this.” Will said. “You. Here.”

The dog shifted in the corner. The streetlight flickered on outside. A breeze moved the curtain, just enough.

Will stood. He didn’t reach. But Hannibal did. Just a hand raised, steady, brushing his knuckles lightly across Will’s jaw as if confirming he was real.

Will leaned into the touch and met it halfway. And then, like the most natural thing in the world, he kissed him.

No hunger. No pulling. Only a kiss without weight—but not without history.

When it broke, Will didn’t step back. “You can stay for tea.” He said, quiet and steady.

There was a flicker, brief and unreadable, across Hannibal’s face as he stood. A wave, low and internal, that passed beneath muscle like a ripple in dark water. He adjusted his posture, carefully. 

“As you wish.” He said again, and followed.

***

Florence. The first night Hannibal didn’t come home.  

Abigail heard the front door close before she saw him.

Hannibal moved through the apartment with a rhythm that was almost soundless, but not invisible—not to someone who’d lived alongside him long enough to know the difference between silence and intention. The paper bag he placed on the counter was empty now. She caught a faint trace of roasted spice in the air, and something earthy, like lentils or cumin.

She looked up from the chair by the window, where she’d been flipping through a well-worn novel without really reading.

“First breakfast. Then dinner.” She said, voice neutral. “Now even stay the night.”

Hannibal didn’t look at her. He took off his coat, smoothed the sleeves, and hung it by the door. His movements were as precise as always. But there was a softness now, one that hadn’t been there weeks ago.

“You’ve taken a second job?” She asked lightly, one brow raised. “Personal chef to a moody ex?”

He paused just long enough for her to know she’d hit the mark. Then he turned, folding his hands loosely behind his back.

“He eats.” Hannibal said, almost thoughtfully. “That’s all.”

Abigail snorted once, quiet but amused. She closed her book, rested it on her lap.

“Yeah. And I suppose you just accidentally brought food to his home and fell on his bed so hard it took you eight hours to regain consciousness.”

He glanced at her for the language, but didn’t answer. He didn’t deny it either.

She watched him for a moment longer, then let her voice settle.

“You could’ve invited him here.”

“I know.” He said.

“But you didn’t.”

His gaze flicked toward her, faintly sharp.

“Not yet.” He replied. It wasn’t defensive, it was measured.

And she understood. Hannibal Lecter, who had spent years controlling every angle of his table, had finally stopped setting it like a trap. He was waiting now. Not for a moment, never—for Will's permission.

Abigail nodded once, as if to herself. “You’re not just feeding him.” She said. “You’re feeding whatever this is.”

Hannibal didn’t smile. But there was something in the stillness of his shoulders that softened, just slightly.

After Hannibal left the kitchen, retreating to his study or the garden or whatever quiet corner he occupied when he didn’t want to explain himself, Abigail remained where she was. She didn’t follow him.

She sat with the book still in her lap, one thumb tucked between the pages as if she might start reading at any moment.

“It’s happening again.” She said to herself—softly, like a truth spoken into a cathedral.

A quiet recognition of something set in motion. Something inevitable and set in motion long before her. And this time, she knew—no one could stop it. Not even fate would try.

***

Florence, Home. Two days since they kissed.

Will was eating lunch in the back office—folded flatbread, pickled figs paired with goat cheese, a modest lentil salad cooled with mint. Nothing elaborate. But each piece chosen with a kind of thoughtful precision that answered hunger. The kind of care that met Will where he was, instead of asking him to admire it.

Mara leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, pretending to scroll through her phone. She didn’t say anything at first.

Then, with that offhand tone she used when she wasn’t being casual at all: “That one again?”

Will paused, a half-chewed bite still on his tongue. Swallowed. “Yeah.”

She nodded, looked away. Then—like she hadn’t meant to say it but had already committed:

“Did you meet him last Tuesday? He waited for you.”

Will’s hand stilled near the jar of figs. “No.” He said.

“Not long after I saw you at the park.” She continued. “He didn’t say much. Just looked around. Then waited for you outside.”

She watched Will for a beat, with the kind of look that didn’t let you lie to yourself.

“You didn’t tell me.” He said finally.

“I didn’t think I had to.” She gestured at the food. “Besides, I figured he’d find his way in again. One lunch at a time.”

Will didn’t smile. But something in him softened. A breath released he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Then Mara added, quietly—almost like a warning, almost like care: “He didn’t ask about you. But he looked like he was trying not to.”

Will looked down at the half-finished lunch, then out toward the kennels where the dog was barking at shadows.

“He asks now.” Will said, more to himself than her.

Mara nodded. “Good. Make sure he keeps doing that.”

—

That night, Hannibal came to his place. They’re on Will’s couch. The dog was asleep by the door, chest rising in slow, contented breaths. Will has one hand resting near Hannibal’s knee—not touching, yet close enough to feel the warmth between them.

On the coffee table: a small earthenware tray lined with soft bread still warm from the oven, a bowl of lentils stewed gently with garlic and thyme, roasted carrots glazed with honey and vinegar, and a modest square of dark chocolate set aside for later. Those are food meant to settle the body, just the way Will liked. 

Hannibal had carried it all in a linen bundle—still warm when unwrapped. Alongside it, a tin of herbal tea: chamomile and lavender, blended with a hint of lemon balm. For calming, restorative. Will had raised an eyebrow at the scent but hadn’t said no.

The TV glowed softly across the room—some old Italian film, muted. Subtitles half-forgotten. Neither of them were really watching, anyway.

Will’s hair was still a little damp from the shower, curling slightly at the edges. He shifted once, adjusted the blanket over his knees, then said something low—half a joke, dry and offhanded.

Hannibal didn’t laugh. But he smiled—barely, without teeth. The kind that softened the corners of his eyes, like the expression had been shaped only for Will, and wouldn’t quite make sense on anyone else. 

So he turned slightly, shoulder pressing gently into Hannibal’s arm. The touch that said stay without needing to be said. Hannibal leaned into it, just slightly. His hand didn’t move, but his breath did.

They didn’t kiss. Yet it felt like they already had.

Later, after the teeth were brushed, the dishes put away. When the air had gone still. Hannibal was still in the kitchen—slow, deliberate, drying a spoon that didn’t need it. Will watched him from the couch, his feet bare. The blanket pulled to his waist. One of the mugs still sat on the table, his fingerprints fogged along the rim.

He didn’t speak at first, just sat with the silence and let it thicken a little. Then Will spoke—without hesitation:

“You visited Mara.” He said it like he might say ‘pass the salt’ or ‘it might rain tomorrow’—calm, factual, unavoidable.

Hannibal paused, he didn’t pretend to misunderstand. He turned back toward Will. The towel in his hand hung slightly too still.

Will met his eyes. “She didn’t tell me.” Still not angry, but solid. “She mentioned it, by mistake. When I was eating lunch. Your lunch.”

Hannibal set the dishes down and crossed the room. He didn’t sit on the bed—just waited, at the edge.

Will let the quiet hang, then continued. “You went there. To see what I was choosing.” 

Hannibal didn’t answer. That was fine—for now. Will shifted, leaned back on the bed head.

“If you wanted to know what kind of life I was building, you could’ve asked.”

The quiet stretched, this time with weight behind it. Drawn tighter now, like it was bracing for impact.

“But you didn’t want to see it through me.” Will continued. “You wanted to see it without me. Would you care telling me, Hannibal?”

Eventually, Hannibal spoke. Not defensively, not with pride either.

“I needed to see the life you would have if you didn’t choose us.”

Will crossed his arms, leaning forward. “Not really answer my question.”

Hannibal didn’t respond. Not yet. He stood like a man holding a confession between his ribs—shoulders straight, chin slightly lifted, but the rest of him betraying a quiet static tension. His fingers, usually so precise, flexed once at his side before curling inward. Not clenched—contained.

The space between them, once open, now felt tight. Like air pressed through a funnel. Hannibal's breath slowed, deliberately. The sort of control a person puts back on, piece by piece, when stripped too close to the bone.

Will noticed it. That calibrated calm. The one Hannibal wore when emotion threatened to break past language.

And he didn’t flinch. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Hannibal held his gaze for a beat too long, then looked away, not in retreat, but as if turning from a threshold he wasn’t ready to cross. There was a tension beneath his stillness now, subtle but unmistakable. Like a string drawn tight, not ready to snap—for now, but close enough that pulling further might make something unravel they wouldn’t be able to mend.

“You know why, Will.”

Will sighed. “Come here.” He beckoned. Hannibal hesitated, then sat—reluctant, but compliant.

“I know, Hannibal.” He said. “But that’s not the point.” Then he searched for Hannibal’s expression. “Try again.”

Hannibal didn’t speak at first, but Will could be patient when needed. 

Eventually, Hannibal spoke. His posture remained composed—shoulders straight, chin level—but his eyes betrayed the rest. A flicker of something guarded, uncertain. The kind of pause that once belonged to Will: an old discomfort with being seen too clearly.

“Articulating my emotions,” he began, and the words didn’t come easily, “is not something I… do without calculation.”

He paused—just long enough for Will to feel the war happening beneath the control. Then:

“I knew there was nothing between you and Mara. But when I saw you in the park, with her child—” He hesitated, a muscle in his jaw tightening,

“—I saw something I couldn’t give you. The kind of peace you could grow into.”

He didn’t look at Will then. He stared slightly past him, like aiming for a target behind glass.

“I didn’t ask because asking would’ve forced me to see it through your eyes.”

He paused. So Will reached for the hand at Hannibal’s side, steady and unhurried. Held it in his palm—as if to say: Go on.

“Because it would made it feel more clear than I wanted it to be.”

Will reached for his hand—steady, open. Hannibal let him take it. But his fingers didn’t close at first. Only after a beat, almost reluctantly, did he curl them around Will’s.

“Some truths,” He added after a moment, softer now, “feel too final when spoken aloud.”

Will didn’t answer right away. He just shifted, barely to draw their joined hands toward him, and with his free one, reached across to straighten the cuff of Hannibal’s sleeve. Careful, practiced. But there was something intimate in the gesture, because it meant: you’re not undone. 

“I might have chosen her—in another world, when I was still running. Still waiting to be rescued.”

That made Hannibal wince, and the room seemed to fill with his distaste.

“But I don’t need saving now. She is a chapter I needed, but not the book I’m in anymore.”

“But you, Hannibal. I chose you.” His brow furrowed, quiet tension settling—of what comes with something non-negotiable. “So, I need you to tell me what you need—and let me see you.”

“I understand.” 

“I doubt it.” He leaned forward, just a little to feel the breath between them. “But we have all the time in the world to fix it.”

Chapter Text

Florence, San Niccolò Neighborhood. Three days after he told Will.

They had walked farther than usual that evening.

It wasn't in any purposeful direction, they just following the dog’s slow path through the side streets, winding past shuttered cafés and laundry strung high above the alleys like old flags. The air had cooled but not turned cold, and the stones underfoot still held the warmth of the afternoon sun.

Will didn’t speak much. He never did when the city dimmed like this. He kept one hand in his pocket, the other loose at his side. Occasionally, he looked over to check the rhythm between them. Making sure it stayed even.

Hannibal kept pace without effort. He always had. But tonight, something tugged at him—not pain, exactly, but a quiet strain deep in his ribs. By the third corner, it had thickened into a dull heat in his stomach, a weight that stayed longer than it should.

He didn't mention it. But when they reached the river, he slowed first. Not from discomfort—he told himself—he only to watch the light curling along the surface of the water. A golden shimmer across the Arno, made smoky by the early haze of twilight.

Will stopped beside him without a word. The dog turned a slow circle in the grass, then settled down with a sigh.

Hannibal didn’t turn his head, but he felt Will’s eyes on him. Calm. Knowing. The kind of look that caught more than it should—and let most of it pass without saying anything.

“Tired?” Will asked. 

“No.” Hannibal said softly. “Only… waiting.”

It was a strange answer, but Will accepted it. He had a way of giving silence the shape it needed, without pressing it to speak.

They stood that way a while longer. Letting the quiet stretch between them like silk. And Hannibal did not touch the small, sharp point of pressure just under his ribs. Did not look down at the way his hands had curled, uninvited, across the front of his coat—as if concealing something.

“Sit down. I’ll get you something warm.”

Will let him sit on the bench. Then he opened his bag to pour some tea, and a leather book dropped.

“What is it, Will?”

“Oh.” Will paused for a moment, his face was softened. He opened the book. “I used to write random things I see, what I felt before we happened. Just to ground myself. It helped, sometimes.”

Will held the leather book in his hand for a moment longer. The corners were worn. The binding soft, the way things became after being handled too often. He didn’t open it to a particular page, just let it fall open where it wanted to.

“I don’t write in it much anymore.” He added. “But sometimes… I reread it.”

Hannibal watched him. Quietly. As if watching might be enough for tonight.

Will looked down at the page, reading to himself. Then, without saying anything, he turned the book toward Hannibal and held it out. A simple gesture. Intentional.

Hannibal took it.

His eyes moved over the lines. The handwriting was steady, though the ink had smudged in a few spots. Nothing elaborate. Just notes. Snapshots of thought.

‘The uncompleted painting.’

‘I’m not trying to outlive my shadow. I’m trying to meet the man I already am.’ The ink at the shadow had spread slightly, as if the pen had lingered there—like Will had stopped, thinking, before the rest came clear.

‘The child at the park.’

‘The new tea at Chiffon was too bitter.’

‘I want to meet my darkness without turning away.’

‘The stray.’

‘I stopped, even when continuing was easier.’ The words here were written with more weight—each letter deliberate, steady. The kind of handwriting that doesn’t drift, meant to hold something in place. A choice made, not just remembered.

Hannibal read without comment. He knew this was Will letting him in—quiet, unmasked. His eyes didn’t flick up until Will said, softly, “Sometimes I wrote things I knew I’d never say out loud.”

A breeze lifted a lock of Will’s hair. He didn’t brush it away. Hannibal closed the book with care, resting it in his lap. Will’s gaze found him there—thoughtful, measuring.

“Will?”

He blinked. “I’m just thinking maybe you should do it.”

Hannibal looked down again. “You want me to write something.”

Will nodded. “I won’t read it, if you don’t want me to.”

Hannibal didn't answer. Then Will handed him the pen, sliding it from behind the elastic band with trust.

“This isn’t for self-awareness.” He said when Hannibal didn’t reach for the pen. “I want you to get familiar with letting yourself be seen.”

Want. Not asking. 

Hannibal found himself nodding, and accepted the pen. He didn’t write quickly. He rested the book on one knee, uncapped the pen precisely, and began a short line near the bottom of the page. Will didn’t try to look. He let the river hold his focus, let the wind move across his throat like a pulse.

When Hannibal finished, he closed the book, slid the elastic band back into place, and handed it over without a word. Will took it. Didn’t open it. There was a silence, dense but not heavy.

Then Hannibal said, almost too small to hear, “I think you’ve ground me, too.”

Will looked over, startled by the honesty. He set the book aside to reach for Hannibal’s hand, folding it gently between his own.

“I know.” Will said.

Neither spoke again, but the silence between them had changed—no longer an absence, it was something quietly held, waiting for what might come next.

***

Florence. Twelve hours after he showed Hannibal his leather journal.

‘It does not come naturally to me, Will. But I persist, because you wish it of me.’

The journal sat on the windowsill. Will hadn’t moved it since last night. He hadn’t even opened it to read what Hannibal had written—not yet. Because some truths needed to steep—to gather gravity by being held in silence, not immediately confronted.

He moved through the kitchen without effort. Brewed tea for two. Folded the napkins like he always did, even though neither of them cared for presentation. The dog lay half-curled on the mat, watching the motions with patient detachment—the way dogs often do when something old is becoming something new.

The knock at the door came just as the kettle began to settle. Will didn’t rush. He opened it with a quiet kind of knowing.

Hannibal stood there. No words, only two apples in one hand, a folded paper bag in the other. Will stepped aside.

They ate together at the small table with the window open, the city exhaling slowly around them. A church bell rang somewhere in the distance. The sun caught the rim of their mugs, turned steam to soft light. Their knees touched beneath the table, and neither moved away.

After the dishes were rinsed and dried, Will reached for the journal. He opened it to a blank page and placed it between them. The pen lay beside it, an invitation without pressure.

Hannibal looked at it for a moment, then at Will. Will said nothing, just nodded, once. The smallest invitation.

Hannibal picked up the pen. He wrote. Not much. Just a few lines. Measured, but not guarded. A thought offered, not wrapped in metaphor, not hidden in riddles.

When he was finished, he didn’t slide the journal back. He left it open. Let it sit between them like a shared breath.

Will didn’t read it. He said he would, in time. When the moment asked for it. 

They stayed at the table a while longer. No words. The dog sighed once and curled tighter. Even the floorboards, often creaking under late morning weight, stayed quiet.

Here, in this moment, everything held.

But outside, the wind had changed. It slipped through the open window with an edge to it, carrying a different kind of air. There was no birdsong now. Only the dry rustle of branches against stone, and a distant clatter—metal, maybe, or glass—too faint to place, too sharp to ignore.

A shadow passed briefly across the table, drawn by something above the window neither of them looked up to see. 

Will’s fingers brushed the spine of the journal. Hannibal sat very still. And though neither said it aloud, the room felt... watched. By the knowledge that something had paused outside their door. Waiting its turn.

***

Florence. The day she sensed something happened.

‘You asked for truth, not theater. I am still learning how to speak without staging it.'

The first time, she thought little of it. By the time she reached the hall, Hannibal had already rinsed his mouth and was toweling his hands dry, face composed. He nodded once, offered something mild about the eggs being overdone, and moved past her like it hadn’t happened.

She let it go. For the moment.

But the next morning, she noticed he hadn’t finished his tea. And that he paused longer than usual before starting breakfast—just staring down at the pan, as if the idea of food had lost shape.

Then, the third morning, she woke early. Earlier than she needed to. 

She didn’t know what made her do it. Maybe the quiet tension in Hannibal’s shoulders the night before. Maybe the way he’d pushed his plate aside with barely a dent in the toast.

She didn’t go to the kitchen, not right away. She stayed in her room, the door cracked just enough to let sound slip through.

She heard the soft clatter of dishes. The faint scrape of a match. Oil in a pan.

Then silence, a beat too long.

Then: the bathroom door.

And the sound that followed was quiet—but not unfamiliar.

Her chest tightened, though she didn’t move. She sat there, still, as the water ran and the routine resumed: sink, towel, breath. Composure folding back into place like nothing had happened.

But now she knew.

That evening, Hannibal moved a little slower. His posture remained perfect, but there was a faint stiffness in how he reached for the kettle. Abigail watched him out of the corner of her eye, saying nothing.

She didn’t ask. But the next morning, when he left for the market, she stayed behind and opened the medicine cabinet. There was nothing alarming. Nothing labeled. But the quiet emptiness of the shelf felt like an answer.

It hadn’t come from nowhere. Now that she let herself think about it, the signs had been there. Small ones. Easy to brush off.

Like Hannibal had started walking slower in the afternoons and nights, just a little. At first she’d thought it was nothing—maybe even deliberate, some silent adjustment to match Will’s pace. But it wasn’t just that. Or, sometimes he rested his hand against his lower back without noticing. Sometimes he paused at thresholds, like his balance was adjusting beneath him.

There were vitamins in the house. A few jars she’d seen without thinking—iron, folate, magnesium. Common enough. He’d always been methodical about his health. It didn’t raise alarms.

And his belly—barely changed, really. Just a little more fullness when he buttoned his shirts. She’d assumed it was from cooking more, eating more. Eating with Will. They were indulgent together, after all.

But now?

Now, it didn’t feel that simple.

She sat with it, alone in the quiet of her room, long after he’d left for the market. She could feel the shape of the realization forming.

It pressed at the edges of her understanding like something she should have known. Should have seen.

And maybe she would have. Before.

Before this life grew soft around the edges. Before her guard had dropped. Before mornings started with warm bread and quiet music, not adrenaline and survival instinct. It had been a long time since she’d been afraid of Hannibal. Even longer since she’d needed to be.

Since when, she thought. Maybe after he’d invited Will—the other Will—to dinner, all those months ago. That night had changed something. In him. In all of them. A knife’s edge of possibility turned just enough to miss the vein.

She didn’t forget what he was. She just… hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected their lives to last this long. 

And yet, here they were. In Florence. With too many quiet mornings and now, this quiet, strange truth sitting in her hands.

She didn’t know what to do with it. But she knew what it felt like. And she knew where to start.

—

That evening, she was halfway on her way to tell Hannibal she went for a walk when she heard the drawer open. The sound was subtle. Measured. 

She turned—and there he was, still in his shirt sleeves from the kitchen, fingers brushing lightly over the handle of something thin and black against the soft lining of the drawer.

A stiletto. 

She hesitated. “Really?”

“It’s light,” Hannibal said. “It fits your hand. And it won’t be seen unless you want it to be.”

She stepped closer. Took it. The grip was cold. Elegant. Deadly in that quiet, pointed way—like most things he gave her.

Abigail turned it over in her palm, testing the weight. She didn’t ask what he thought she’d need it for. She already knew the gesture wasn’t about threat. This wasn’t a weapon for attack. 

“You think I’ll need it?” She asked anyway, watching him.

He didn’t smile. “Only if someone forgets who you are.”

That answer settled heavier than it should have.

She stared at the knife a moment longer. It was protection—for herself, for whatever she might learn.. But it was also permission. He wasn’t stopping her. He wasn’t asking where she was going.

He knew. He always knew. 

She slid the knife into the pocket of her coat.

“Don’t be late.” He added as she opened the door. “There’s dinner.”

She nodded once. Then left—heart already beating faster than it had all day.

Oh. This peaceful life had make her soft, and she was naive enough to think it make Hannibal soft too. But he had only gone quiet. Not harmless.

The knife in her coat shifted as she walked, just enough to remind her that trust from Hannibal was never passive. It was sharp-edged and precise. He didn’t stop her because whatever answer she found—he had prepared her for it.

So she didn’t rush. The streets were still warm from the day, the cobblestones holding onto light like memory. She moved with the kind of tension you carry when you know too much about how calm can turn.

When she reached the corner near the rescue center, she didn’t go in.

She waited.

The door was propped open for air. The usual dog barking, the clatter of metal bowls, the scent of antiseptic and fur. She leaned against the low stone wall across the street, half-shadowed by a tree just beginning to drop its leaves. 

And she waited. 

Will found her outside the shelter, sitting alone on the low wall that ran along the edge of the lot. A half-empty soda bottle rested by her feet, and her legs were stretched out in front of her, long and careless. She looked up when she heard the door click shut behind him.

“Took you long enough,” She said. “I was starting to think I should file a missing persons report.”

Will gave a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “You waited?”

Abigail shrugged. “Just happened to be walking by.” 

He smiled, small and real. Then sat beside her, shoulder not quite touching hers. The wall still held the heat of the sun. They sat in it a moment, watching the clouds shift above rooftops, covering the moon.

Then, without looking at him, Abigail said, too casually, “So… Hannibal’s been staying over.”

Will’s smile lingered a second too long. Then faded.

He glanced at her, careful. “Yeah,” He said. “Sometimes.”

A beat passed. He watched the way she picked at the label of her bottle with her thumb, eyes forward. Her voice, when it came again, was light. Just enough to sound like teasing.

“Should I be expecting something?”

Will stilled—barely. Just a subtle stilling in his breath. In the way his hands stayed flat on his thighs. Then, quietly:

“What kind of something?”

Abigail tilted her head, mock-innocent. “Why do you think?”

Will looked at her now—fully. “We’re just sleeping.” He said, his voice even, simple. No embarrassment, only truth laid bare. “Literally.”

There was a flicker in her posture. Small. Quick. Her smile faltered for just a beat—and Will noticed. His brow furrowed with quiet concern. He watched the way her shoulders didn’t quite relax again. The way her mouth held too still.

He didn’t press. But something in him sharpened.

So Abigail tried to laughed. Too light. “Guess that means I don’t need to prepare a toast yet.”

Will didn’t answer.

She felt his eyes on her then. Steady. Like he knew something had turned in the room, and was trying to give her the space to say it if she wanted. Or not.

Abigail kept her gaze on the pavement. Will stayed quiet, he didn’t fidget, or try to fill the space. She was grateful for that.

But inside her, something had already begun to shift. Whatever Hannibal was holding—it belonged to the other. 

The sun-warmed concrete still touched the backs of her legs. The soda bottle clicked gently against her shoe. And yet, the afterglow of the day, once soft and golden, had cooled.

What had felt steady only hours before—the ease, the trust, the warmth of mornings without fear—now seemed out of reach.

Still real, maybe. But farther. Thinner. As if it had always been borrowed, and someone had quietly started calling it back.

This was the test they hadn’t seen coming.

***

Florence. Four days since Hannibal wrote in his journal.

‘The apple vendor was unkind. I thought of the quiet peace you once chose instead.’

Will hadn’t meant to stay long.

The dinner had been simple—braised fennel, fresh pasta, and a sauce that held more to warmth than flavor. They ate slowly, the dog curled at Will’s feet, the apartment quieter than usual.

Hannibal cleared the plates without prompting, his movements smooth but... slower. Not deliberate in the usual way—more like his body was thinking ahead of itself.

Will leaned back in his chair, eyes trailing Hannibal as he moved toward the sink. It wasn’t anything obvious. Just a shift in weight, a pause when he straightened, the way his hand lingered against the counter for balance. Like... a beat off.

“You alright?” Will asked, casually, not pushing.

Hannibal didn’t look over. “Yes. Merely the end of a long day.”

Will’s brow furrowed. “You’ve been saying that a lot lately.” He murmured.

Hannibal turned then, and offered a smile. It reached his eyes—but only halfway. “I suppose I’ve had more days lately worth reaching the end of.”

Will let that sit. He reached down to scratch behind the dog’s ears, gaze still lightly fixed on Hannibal. When Hannibal finally joined him at the table again, Will pushed a mug of tea toward him without a word. Like he always did.

And Hannibal accepted it, now that he allowed himself to want it.

***

Florence. Three days after she knew Hannibal wasn't his old self.

‘I saw you feed the dog before you fed yourself. I wonder if that is mercy, or punishment.’

Abigail heard it before she saw him. 

A sound from the bathroom—soft at first, then more ragged. Water running. A sharp, muffled cough. Then silence.

She stayed seated at the table. The kettle was just beginning to hum. A spoon rested in her hand, still dry.

When Hannibal emerged, his shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms. His face was pale, lacking its usual careful color. His movements were slower than usual. Not quite composed now.

He looked at her, briefly, then walked to the sink to rinse his hands.

Abigail didn’t speak at first. She poured the tea. Set the cup down across from her. Watched him wipe his hands dry with mechanical precision.

Then, softly: “This is the third time this week.”

Hannibal didn’t turn. He folded the towel with infuriating care.

“It’s nothing.”

Abigail lifted her own cup but didn’t drink. She studied him—the set of his jaw, the faint tremor at his wrist, the way his breath came just a little too deep for someone doing nothing at all.

“You’re sick,” She said. “Or you’re… not just you anymore.”

That made him pause. He looked at her then, really looked. Abigail didn’t flinch. She tilted her head, like she might when observing an injured animal. Gentle, but firm.

“I’m not asking how,” She said. “I’m asking—”

She hesitated, not out of fear. Out of care. 

“What do we do now? With Will?”

Hannibal’s mouth opened slightly, as if to speak. But nothing came.

She watched him, waited. “He deserves to know.” She said, quietly.

There was no accusation in it, only the unshakable truth of someone who’d lived in Hannibal’s world long enough to see how quickly silence could become cruelty.

Hannibal sat slowly, lowering himself into the chair across from her like it cost him more than he wanted to admit.

He didn’t answer her right away. But he wrapped both hands around the cup she’d poured.

And for once, he let someone else carry the silence for him.

***

Unidentified Place.

That night, Hannibal stood in the kitchen. Not the familiar one. Not Florence. But a kitchen that belonged to no time at all. The counters were bare. The air held no smell. The knives gleamed, untouched.

Will was there.

He didn’t move. He stood at the edge of the room, near the doorway, one hand curled lightly around the strap of a bag. His coat was still on. His eyes unreadable. He frowned, but his face wasn't angry. 

Tired.

Hannibal didn’t speak. He sliced something—a fruit, maybe. Or tried to. The blade pressed down but didn’t break the skin. The flesh underneath stayed whole, untouched. The red bled only across his hand.

Will didn’t come closer. He turned toward the door, slowly.

“You knew I couldn’t stay.” Will said. "Not when you're marked by him. Forever."

His voice was quiet. Not cruel, never cruel. But inevitable.

“You already had someone who stayed.”

Hannibal reached out, but his hand met air. Will didn’t look back. He opened the door.

And there—
waiting in the threshold—was Abigail. Her coat zipped to the neck, her hands in her pockets. The dog sat beside her, calm and leashed, like they’d been there a while. Like they already knew. 

Will stepped toward them.

Hannibal didn’t follow. Couldn’t. Because if Will took them—if he took what was warm and real and still half tethered to Hannibal—
then it meant he wasn’t just leaving.

He was going.

The door closed without sound.

And Hannibal stood there, the fruit uncut, the juice on his hand sticky and useless. 

Only absence remained.

***

Florence. Four days after Abigail knew he was scarred.

'At times, I find myself wondering—did you truly drop your journal by accident that day?'

He woke slowly.

The light that slipped through the window was pale and colorless, not yet claiming the warmth of morning. Outside, the city hadn’t fully stirred, though a dog barked once in the distance, brief and uncertain. Hannibal lay still, the sheets drawn neatly across his body, as if he had not moved in hours.

The dream lingered. Not in clarity—its images were already dissolving. Yet the silence of it, the soundless door closing, the feeling of absence not just as loss, but as judgment. Those lingered.

He rose quietly, bypassed his usual rituals. No breakfast. No music. He didn’t prepare the table or set out two cups as he had begun to do.

He didn’t open the journal. Not today. Not after a dream that felt like it had already been written in its margins.

He was still at the sink, rinsing his hands as if the dream had left something physical on them, when he heard it—the sound of a key in the lock.
The door opened.

Will stepped inside. Coat in one hand, leash in the other, the dog trailing behind him, alert and content.

He met Hannibal’s eyes briefly. Said nothing. Just moved through the space like he belonged in it. 

The ache in Hannibal’s chest didn’t come from fear—not this time. Will had returned. But the dream still pulsed behind his eyes, too clear in the places that mattered:
the weightless fruit
the untouched hand
the door that closed
and the feeling that what he reached for had never been his to begin with.

That memory lived under his skin as they walked later, beneath the sun. The cobblestones still held the warmth of afternoon, and the breeze carried traces of bread and lavender. The dog trotted ahead. The city whispered around them.

Will moved with his usual ease. Hannibal let himself fall behind, just a little. Will noticed. Of course he did. He slowed—just enough to return them to step.

Hannibal noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed everything now.

The gesture lodged somewhere beneath his ribs, quiet and deep.

When they reached the terrace, Will sat without prompting. Hannibal joined him, side by side. The dog curled between their feet. They watched the sky, silent.

But the dream stayed with him. The not-touching. The not-enough. The way absence had felt like judgment.

So he spoke.

“I want us to hold hands.”

His voice was low. Certain, laid bare. It wasn’t a strategy. It wasn’t a test. Just the thing that had been missing in the dream.
The thing he’d woken determined not to lose again.

And Will, he didn’t turn to study him. He didn’t smile or joke or soften the moment. He just reached out. His fingers found Hannibal’s, warm and dry. They laced together easily. 

They sat like that for a long time—no tension, no words. The sky turned slowly overhead, and neither of them moved. The dog yawned, stretched, and fell asleep again. 

Hannibal didn’t close his eyes, but he let his shoulders settle. The kind of ease that follows a held breath finally exhaled.

In this moment, he felt no need to explain himself.

He only felt held.

***

Florence, Riverside Apartment. One week after he found out he was scarred.

'I find myself writing more than I intended. As if placing my thoughts here might keep them close to you. Closer than I am.'

It was late when they finally lay down. The dog had already claimed its corner at the foot of the bed, curled tight against the chill, and Will didn’t bother turning off the lamp. He just reached over and dimmed it to a low hum.

Hannibal had stayed past dinner, past the tea, past the threshold of politeness where departure might’ve been expected. And Will hadn’t asked him to go.

They didn’t speak much as they settled in. Will slipped under the blanket quietly. Hannibal moved more deliberately, folding his coat over the chair, pulling back the sheet like a guest in someone else’s memory.

But the bed wasn’t wide. And neither of them made an effort to stay apart.

They found each other in the dark—knees brushing, elbows knocking gently as they shifted into something that felt more like habit than hesitation. Hannibal lay on his back, the sheets cool against his skin. Will moved closer, slow, like he was following a path he already knew. He leaned in, head nestling into the curve of Hannibal’s shoulder, breath warm at his collarbone. One arm draped across Hannibal’s chest, hand resting lightly over his ribs, where the breath still came uneven.

He wasn’t seeking sleep. He was seeking skin. Proximity. Proof that Hannibal was still here, still warm, still real.

And Hannibal knew—this was one of those rare moments when Will wanted him not just with him, but touched, close. To be present in a way only skin could confirm.

His heart beat faster before he could stop it. Will didn’t comment. He only shifted his hand, fingers spreading slightly over Hannibal’s chest in a quiet, grounding press.

“Sleep.” He murmured.

And Hannibal let the breath go. Let the tension bleed away, and let himself be wanted.

—

Somewhere in the deep of the night, Hannibal stirred.

The room was quiet, but the shape behind him had shifted. Will was still asleep—his breath steady, slower now. Softer. His hand had curled more firmly over Hannibal’s side, and Hannibal could feel it—pressing into him. Will’s arousal. Unintentional. Unconscious. But unmistakable.

He didn’t move. Not at first.

Then Will shifted again, slow and instinctive—and woke.

Hannibal felt it in the pause of his breath. The sudden quiet of awareness. The tension that rose, not from shame, but from being caught off guard.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” Will said, low. His voice still thick with sleep, but steady. “Not like this.”

Hannibal didn’t hesitate. “It’s alright.” He said softly, gently.

He reached down and covered Will’s hand where it rested, anchoring it.

Will exhaled—a quiet surrender more than relief.

“I’m not trying to rush this.” He murmured.

“I know.”

There was no urgency between them. Only the quiet knowledge that something was shifting—something long coiled was starting to unspool.

Will pressed his forehead into Hannibal’s shoulder. Not apologizing. Not retreating. Just grounding himself in the skin he’d longed for, in a closeness finally allowed.

And after a moment, Hannibal guided his hand back to where it had been—loose, low, over his ribs.

They slept like that until morning.

***

Florence. The morning after.

'I noticed you left part of the salmon untouched at lunch. Was it not to your taste? I had tempered the seasoning, as you once preferred.'

Will woke before the dog. Before the city. Before Hannibal.

The apartment was still. Dim. Cold at the edges.

But behind him, there was weight—breath warm against the back of his neck, steady in a way that threaded itself quietly into the space around them. A hand rested at his waist, fingers relaxed, curved like they’d landed there in sleep without thought.

Like they had always belonged.

It should have felt unfamiliar. Maybe even unsettling. But it didn’t.

What surprised him wasn’t the touch itself—it was the ache that settled low beneath his ribs. Not sudden, it was something he couldn't name at first. It felt more like a feeling that arrives before thought can shape it into language. 

He shifted slightly, careful not to wake Hannibal. But the movement stirred something—heat that traced a slow line up his spine, the gentle hum of his own body responding, quietly and completely.

He paused halfway.

The feeling wasn’t born of fear. It wasn’t about need, or the echo of loneliness. It wasn’t even about the history they shared.

It came from now. From the way Hannibal’s breath stayed soft and even, brushing his shoulder like it had always known how to find him. From the weight of that hand at his waist, anchored and steady. From the quiet hum beneath their skin that asked nothing, demanded nothing.

Will had spent so long studying Hannibal’s mind—the elegance of his control, the precision of his perception, the ability of seeing and accepting Will. He had learned to see that part of Hannibal clearly.

But this part—this softness, this quiet—he had never let himself notice. 

The small, unconscious curl of Hannibal’s fingers. The way their knees met beneath the blanket. The near-silent sound he made in sleep, somewhere between a sigh and a letting go.

It rose in Will again—slow, warm, certain.

He didn’t move. But in the quiet morning, he breathed in and let the truth settle inside him:

He wanted Hannibal.

Not just as a mirror, or a puzzle. Or the dark reflection he’d spent years trying to escape.

He wanted this—all of it.

The mind that had unraveled him. The hands that had steadied him. The silence that had once terrified him, and now felt like home.

The breath against his neck. The body beside him. The presence that asked nothing, and gave everything.

And for once, the wanting didn’t feel dangerous.
It felt real. It felt alive.

***

Florence. One day since he had realized he wanted Hannibal.

'I’ve noticed your laughter comes more easily these days. I suspect it is not mine to claim—but I entertain the thought that I may have earned one.'

Hannibal arrived just before dusk, a linen bag slung over one arm. It was heavier than usual. He’d brought the ingredients himself this time—wrapped carefully, as always—but not with the intent to prepare them alone.

Will was at the sink, rinsing plates from a late lunch. The coffee on the counter had gone cold. He looked up at the sound of the door, raised an eyebrow—but didn’t ask questions. He only stepped aside, letting Hannibal move into the kitchen like it was second nature.

It wasn’t.

The space was lived-in, but not designed for precision. The knives were sharp, but poorly stored. The pans were mismatched. And the cutting board had the deep grooves of someone who used it to think more than to cook.

Even so, Hannibal said nothing. He moved with quiet intention. Set the fish on the counter, laid out the fennel, the leeks, the lemon. Removed his coat. Folded the scarf Will had given him last winter. Rolled his sleeves.

Will watched from the side for a moment, then crouched to pull out a second cutting board from beneath the sink.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked—not dryly, but open. Willing.

Hannibal gestured gently toward the vegetables. “Trim the leeks. Not too deep. I’ll show you.”

He stepped closer, his hand over Will’s for just a second—adjusting the angle of the knife, the tilt of the wrist. His touch was steady. Instructive, warm.

Will’s hands weren’t delicate. They moved like someone who worked with engines and animals, not to create. But still—they moved. Not perfectly, anyway. Will listened, with the attention of someone who wanted the food to turn out well. That he wanted Hannibal to see that he was trying to make something here, too. It must meant something.

Yet, the fennel came out uneven. The lemon was over-zested. Hannibal didn’t say a word. But his eyes softened—watching like he would a young animal learning to stand.

So Will followed. He asked when something wasn’t clear. He paused when the fish’s spine caught on the blade and stepped back without argument, letting Hannibal lift it free.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was shared. They didn’t speak much. The only sounds were the hiss of butter in the pan, the quiet scrape of the knife against wood, the clink of ceramic as Will set the plates down.

At one point, Hannibal reached for the salt. Will handed it to him without being asked, not because he’d read his mind—

but because he’d been watching.

Hannibal’s hand paused briefly in midair.

Will saw the flicker of pleased. Or maybe memory. Maybe it was something his other half used to do.

When they sat down to eat, it wasn’t with candlelight or music. Only the soft hum of the evening through the window, and the quiet of two people who no longer needed silence to say everything.

The fish was just slightly overcooked. But neither of them mentioned it.

—

When they finished eating, Will didn’t move right away. He leaned back in his chair, fingers curled loosely around the edge of his plate. Hannibal had already begun gathering the dishes, but paused when he noticed.

“You don’t have to clean up tonight.” Will said, voice quiet. “You cooked.”

Hannibal looked at him for a beat. “I cook everyday, Will.” But he still set the plate down and sat again.

Will didn’t smile, but there was warmth in his eyes. He reached across the table, tentative at first. His hand found Hannibal’s—resting over it gently. Hannibal turned his palm to meet the touch, letting it stay.

For a while, neither of them moved. The plates stayed on the table. The dog huffed softly in sleep on the rug nearby.

Then Will rose without haste. He walked around the table, pausing beside Hannibal’s chair. He didn’t speak—just stood there, watching how the evening light softened the edges of Hannibal’s face.

And he leaned in. The kiss was quiet—but it wasn't small. It unfolded slowly, as though neither of them wanted to rush the truth of it. Will’s lips brushed his first, testing. Then steadier, with the softness of someone who had imagined this often but never dared to reach.

Hannibal didn't pull away. He met him there—still, steady, his hand rising almost unconsciously to cradle Will’s waist, tried not pulling him closer, only grounding him.

It was certain. A long-held breath finally let go. And in it, they told each other more than words had ever managed.

When they parted, Will didn’t move away. He let his forehead rest against Hannibal’s temple, breathing in the familiar scent of woodsmoke and lemon peel. Hannibal’s hand came up to rest against Will’s side. They stood like that for a while. 

Then Will asked, voice low, just above a whisper. “Have you ever thought about something more, Hannibal?” 

“I’m content when I’m with you, Will.” Hannibal said. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

“I know.” Will’s thumbs brushed lightly against Hannibal’s side. “I’m not worried. I want it.”

“Oh.” Hannibal said—softly, with surprise he didn’t mask.

Will huffed a dry breath. “Oh.” He echoed, mockingly, though his eyes were serious. “I’ve never been with a man before.”

Hannibal’s hand drifted down, found the hardness pressing against Will’s trousers. He palmed it, slow and deliberate, through the fabric. The breath Will let out caught in his throat.

“I think you’ll do just fine.” Hannibal murmured.

Will laughed, half-strained. “Just fine?” He swallowed, then asked: “When you were with him… with him… what did you do?”

Hannibal met his eyes for a long moment. He saw no threat in the question. No doubt. Only want—and the quiet ache of someone trying to understand what they were stepping into.

So he rose from his chair, slowly, with intention. Crossed the few feet of space between them like someone offering closeness without demand. When he dropped to his knees, it wasn’t a gesture of surrender—it was trust answered in kind.

He reached for Will’s belt with steady hands. Undid it with care. Will didn’t move. He watched—silent, jaw tight, breath already shifting. Hannibal freed him, fingers brushing skin like they were learning it anew.

Then he leaned in. And took Will into his mouth—slowly, deeply—like it wasn’t just an answer, but a promise. 

Will’s reaction was immediate—a groan that curled deep in his throat. His hands caught in Hannibal’s hair, unsure whether to pull him closer or hold him still.

Hannibal moved slow, like this was something sacred. That each motion had to be right, not just felt.

“I let myself be seen.” Hannibal murmured between breaths. “I let him in.”

And then he swallowed Will again, deeper this time. Will’s knees buckled slightly, and Hannibal held him with one hand at his hip, firm and steady.

“Christ.” Will hissed, voice half-lost. “I want that too—God—”

Hannibal hummed around him, the vibration slipping through Will’s body and making him shudder. He wouldn't last long. Hannibal didn’t expect him to.

When Will came, Hannibal stayed with him. Then he held him through it, steady as breath, taking everything Will gave without recoil or question. 

And when it was over, he didn’t move away immediately. He waited. Let the silence close in gently around them like breath returning to lungs. Then, with the same quiet care he’d shown all evening, he helped Will tuck himself back in. Smoothed the waistband. Buttoned the jeans with a precision that more gentle than clinical.

Will was still catching his breath, his chest rising and falling in slow waves, his eyes glazed with the echo of something not quite worn off. He laughed, the sound raw and uneven.

“Jesus, Hannibal,” he managed, voice hoarse. “Your mouth should be illegal.”

Hannibal smiled as he stood, brushing the hair back from his brow with one elegant flick of his wrist. “Thank you, Will. I am, after all, a wanted man for a reason.”

Will let out a low, wrecked laugh, shaking his head. “You’re way too proud of it.” Then he reaching out, his hand drifting toward Hannibal’s waistband—offering, instinctively.

But Hannibal caught his wrist before it could settle. He didn't push Will away, only pause him. His grip was gentle, warm, but immovable.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Hannibal said, his voice soft. “I already did.”

Then a faint smile, real and quiet. “You can help me with the dishes instead.”

Will groaned and leaned forward until their foreheads met again. “Fuck, Hannibal.”

They stayed like that for a moment—breath warming the space between them. 

Eventually, they moved together. 

Will stood at the sink, rinsing his hands under the tap—only to center himself. The water was warm, bordering on hot, but he didn’t pull away. The sensation gave him something to hold onto. His hands were still trembling, slightly. No longer from nerves, or fear. It was release—deep and slow, like something long-hidden had surfaced at last. Months of restraint peeled back in a single breath, want unspooled from under his skin. What he’d kept contained

Behind him, Hannibal moved with the kind of quiet ease that belonged to someone who wasn’t performing anymore. He wrapped the leftover bread, folded the dish towel with neat precision. He hummed, faintly—something low, tonal. Unselfconscious.

Will dried his hands and turned to watch him. He’s not afraid, Will thought. And I’m not either.

The wanting didn’t ache anymore. It was just there, calm and steady, like warmth held in the skin long after the sun’s gone down.

When he turned around, Hannibal was already watching him—leaning lightly against the counter, arms relaxed at his sides. Will stepped closer. There was no distance to cross, really. Only a few feet between something shared and something kept.

“Stay,” He said, the word simple. Honest. “Tonight.”

They’d never had to say it before. It had always been understood, a shared rhythm. But now, it was a request, stripped bare.

Hannibal looked at him. And the look that passed between them wasn’t weighted by the past or haunted by the what-ifs. It was quiet. Present. Real.

He nodded once. Slow. Certain. Like that was always the answer.

***

Florence. Morning, the day after Will asked him to stay.

'We no longer test each other—but it seems fate has not yet ceased testing us.'

The kitchen smelled like toast.

Warm bread meeting heat, crisping slowly in the pan. Will stood at the stove, sleeves pushed up, moving with the kind of ease he didn’t used to have in the morning.

The dog was still asleep on the rug. Hannibal sat at the table, watching him.

It was a quiet kind of watching—nothing predatory, nothing even particularly curious. Simply living. He hadn’t said much since waking.  His cup of coffee, mostly untouched, cooled beside him.

Will cracked an egg, one-handed. “You know,” He said, voice rough with sleep but light with amusement, “you’re the one who usually handles the morning.”

“I’m letting you.” Hannibal replied, softly.

Will gave him a side glance. “A rare and terrifying privilege.”

That made Hannibal’s mouth twitch. But even that small motion came slower than usual.

Will noticed. He didn’t say anything. But he clocked the way Hannibal shifted in the chair, one hand briefly pressed at his side—almost thoughtful. The kind of gesture people made without knowing they made it.

“You okay?” Will asked, casual.

Hannibal looked at him for a long moment.

“Yes.”

It wasn't a lie. But not fully truth either. Like the answer was more about the moment than the body.

Will let it go for now.

He plated the eggs and toast, added a few slices of the fig chutney left from earlier in the week, and brought the dishes to the table. Hannibal reached out automatically to adjust the placement. Will let him.

They ate quietly. The city beyond the window stirred with birds and distant motorbikes. Hannibal didn’t finish his toast. Will didn’t mention it.

“You always this quiet after a good night’s sleep?” Will asked, half-joking. And the edge of it carried something else.

Hannibal looked up. “Am I quiet?” He asked, as though the answer might interest him.

Will shrugged, spreading jam on his toast without looking up. “Quieter than usual. Thought maybe I wore you out.”
He glanced up just then, casual—too casual. Watching.

Hannibal folded his napkin in half with slow precision. “Not quite,” He said. “Though I can admit to a certain… fatigue.”

Will studied him for a breath longer. His voice dropped a little, still soft, but edged with something that could cut if it needed to.
“Something I could help with?”

It hung there—not yet a threat, or a press—but not a throwaway line.

Hannibal didn’t blink. But he did pause. Then, gently, he said: “I would tell you if I were.”

Will’s expression didn’t shift much. But his hand slowed on the jam. “I’d like to believe that.”

A quiet moment passed between them. The clink of a fork. The kettle hissing faintly on the counter. Outside, a pigeon clattered its wings against the ledge.

Will added, lightly: “Guess we’ll see how much toast it takes to wear down your secrets.”

Hannibal’s lips lifted, just slightly. “You’ll need more bread.”

And Will let it slide. 

Yet, it lingered beneath his ribs, as a truth he wasn’t ready to meet.

The warmth of the morning stayed in his skin as he left. Will’s voice still echoed soft in his ear. The touch of his hand. The taste of fig on the edge of silence.

He walked back slower than usual, letting the noise of the street blur the feeling of Will watching. Letting it fade.

But it didn’t.

When Hannibal came back, Abigail was peeling apples. The sun had settled on the countertop in long slats, catching the faint steam from the kettle and the sheen of juice on her fingers.

Hannibal hung his coat, folded his scarf. He moved with a measured carefulness now, as if his body was adjusting to a new rhythm and hadn’t yet told him what it was.

He passed her in silence, placing the empty breakfast basket on the counter with care. She didn’t look up right away, just wiped her hands and kept peeling.

“You haven't tell him.” She said.

Hannibal paused at that. Then, slowly, he turned toward her.

“No.”

Abigail finally looked up. Her expression was calm, but there was something unmistakably adult in her eyes. Not the girl who once trusted him blindly. Not the survivor who learned to watch him sideways. Now, she was someone who knew him, without needing to be told.

“You're not the only one who’s changing.”

Hannibal said nothing. He turned toward the window, letting the warmth of the sun touch his hands on the sill. Outside, the street was quiet, a bicycle ticking faintly as it passed.

“I know.”

Abigail set the knife down. She stepped away from the counter and leaned against it beside him.

“So what are you still deciding?”

He didn’t answer at first. His jaw moved slightly—whether from tension or thought, it wasn’t clear. Then, with the smallest flicker of breath:

“I won’t risk it.”

Abigail watched him for a long moment. Then, quietly:

“You already are.”

She left him there—standing in the sunlight, the warmth of Will’s scarf still fainted around his neck, the absence of a choice pressing like a pulse in his chest.

***

Florence. One week after Will asked him to spend the night.

'Some nights, I catch myself composing my thoughts as if you’ll read them—though you never will. It’s a habit I haven't had the heart to break.'

The mirror had stopped being a place of judgment. Now, it was simply a marker of time.

Hannibal stood before it in the half-light of his bathroom, the air still warm from the shower. The towel was wrapped low, his shoulders damp. The steam had blurred the corners of the glass, but not enough to hide the curve.

It wasn’t dramatic yet. But it was no longer invisible.

Each day, the shape beneath his ribs shifted. He had switched to softer clothing. Knits. Linen. Layers that forgave. Nothing stiff or tailored anymore—those were in boxes now, folded carefully behind winter coats.

It was too soon to speak it aloud. The domestic rhythm between them was still new—too newly real to risk making it heavy.

And he couldn’t name it yet. He could only protect it.

—

That night, dinner had been simple—roast chicken with thyme, salad barely dressed. Will had cooked most of it, under Hannibal’s watchful eye, and they had eaten on the couch, plates balanced on knees. The dog had settled near their feet, nosing at the air, content just to be near them.

Hannibal had laughed once—actually laughed, not the half-smile he so often offered. Something had been said about the burnt edge of bread, about how it reminded Will of his first attempt at baking. The moment passed gently. They were clearing dishes when the nausea hit.

It came fast and sudden.

A cloying mix clung to the air—thyme, roasted fat, the faint sweetness of wine still lingering in the empty glasses. Ordinarily, he would have catalogued it all with clinical ease. Scent was his privilege, his precision. His dominion.

But tonight, it turned on him.

The aroma curled too tight in his throat, turned heavy and sharp where it should have been round and soft. It wasn't from the food itself—but from his own body’s betrayal. His hand gripped the counter, steady but pale.

He didn’t speak. But Will was already watching.

“Sit down.” Will said, voice low. “I’ve got it.”

Hannibal obeyed without protesting.

Will brought a glass of water. A cool cloth. He wiped Hannibal’s brow, quiet and precise, and disappeared briefly before returning with a shirt—one of his own, worn but soft.

“You’re not going home tonight.” He said. Merely stating a fact.

Hannibal lay on the couch, curled under a blanket that smelled faintly of cedar, something citrus and Will. The dog jumped up only once, settled against the opposite cushion, content to keep his own distance.

Will sat beside him on the floor, leaning back against the armrest. His hand came up after a while to brush Hannibal’s hair back from his forehead.

“You should stay.” He said again, this time softer.

And then, he leaned up and pressed a kiss just at Hannibal’s temple.

And Hannibal, in that half-lit quiet, said nothing. But he didn’t leave.

***

Florence. The next morning where Hannibal didn't return, again.

'You smiled at your dog today—unguarded, whole. It’s simpler than the ones you give me. Those are heavier.'

She noticed the absence first. It wasn't the first time. But usually, Hannibal would returned before she woke. Now, the apartment had a stillness that hadn’t been broken by his usual quiet movements.

She got up, made tea, fed the fish. Waited.

By mid-morning, she heard the lock turn. The door opened gently, and there he was—coat folded over his arm, scarf tucked neatly into his pocket, but the shirt…

It wasn’t his.

Soft cotton, looser than usual. Not pressed. Washed with something faintly citrus. And though he wore it beneath his own sweater, she could tell it didn’t belong in his wardrobe. Not in his color. Not in his shape.

He looked rested, but guarded. His hair was still damp at the ends. And he smelled like someone else's home.

She didn’t say anything at first. She let him walk into the kitchen, put the coat on the hook and place his keys in the bowl. Let him prepare his tea with the same careful ritual he always did.

Then, she turned from the window, leaned against the counter.

“You didn’t come home last night.”

Hannibal stirred the tea, once clockwise. His hand didn’t pause.

“No.”

She looked at him—took in the shirt again, the slight flush still lingering on his cheek, whether from weather or something else.

“Rough night?”

Hannibal glanced at her, calm. He lifted the cup but didn’t drink yet.

“A difficult moment. He handled it… with more care than I expected.”

There was the barest flicker of something behind his eyes, something edging toward resolve. A hesitation yielding to recognition.

Abigail studied him, then reached past him for a pear from the bowl.

“He’s not stupid, you know.”

Hannibal exhaled slowly.

“No. He never was.”

She took a bite, chewed slowly, and smiled with a softness that understood things long before they were named.

“So... what are you waiting for?”

He didn’t answer. But she noticed he still hadn’t taken off the shirt for the whole day.

***

Florence, Riverside Apartment. The same morning.

'I am still wearing the proof of your patience, though I told myself it was only a convenience. Abigail noticed, of course.'

He hadn’t changed the sheets. The bed still held the shape of where Hannibal had laid. The blanket draped half over the armrest, the mug on the table with just a trace of tea left at the bottom. It smelled faintly of honey, and something darker beneath it. Something floral.

Will touched the cup but didn’t move it.

The shirt Hannibal had worn last night—his shirt, technically—was folded over the back of the chair. He didn’t pick it up, just looked at it.

It was strange, how normal it had felt. Hannibal curled on that couch like he’d always belonged there. Just breath and warmth and the quiet tilt of his body when Will brushed the hair from his forehead.

There had been something fragile in that stillness.

It hadn’t seemed unusual, not at first. Hannibal staying the night after the nausea. Resting. He’d looked pale when he left that morning—but nothing alarming. Just... quiet. Like someone who’d been given a kindness they didn’t know how to name.

Will had washed and dried Hannibal's shirt overnight. But Hannibal hadn’t taken Will's shirt off. Hadn’t offered to return it. That wasn’t like him.

Not that Will expected it. But still—there’d been a shift.

Will rinsed the last plate slowly, letting the water run longer than necessary.

He didn’t know what Hannibal was hiding. 

But he felt it. Not betrayal, it was like something held too tightly behind the eyes.

And Will—who had spent most of his life being read and examined—had grown wary of people who folded truth into elegance.

He wouldn't push. Not yet. But he wouldn’t pretend not to see it.

—

When he came to the rescue center, the dogs had already been walked, fed, and watered. The late-morning light had begun to climb the walls of the place, warming the dusty tile and making the corners glow in soft gold. Will knelt at the back, working on a crate hinge. The metal groaned faintly under his hands. His focus was too sharp—like a blade turned on something that didn’t need cutting.

He didn’t hear Mara at first. She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching.

“You’re sanding that like it owes you something.” She said finally.

Will glanced up. “Only to kill time.”

“Sure.” Her voice was dry. “Because you’re the kind of man who fixes crate hinges for fun.”

He stood slowly, wiped his hands on a rag. His jaw was tight. Movements too controlled.

Mara tilted her head, her arms still crossed, but she didn't press. “Are you okay?”

Will looked at her—too fast, too direct. Then sighed, dragging a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know.”

She waited. He didn’t speak right away, and the silence stretched around them.

“He’s hiding something,” Will said, eventually. “Not pulling away. Just—he’s folding something behind his teeth. And he thinks if he says nothing, I’ll let it slide.”

Mara walked closer, picked up a stray bolt from the floor, turning it idly in her fingers.

“You gonna call him on it?”

Will hesitated. “Not yet. I want to understand why first. He’s not used—” He stopped, shook his head slightly.

“You don’t want to spook him.” Mara said, finishing it for him.

Will looked down at his hands, didn’t correct her. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Then Mara bumped her shoulder lightly against his. “Just don’t start fixing the water heater next. That’s when I call in backup.”

Will huffed, a breath that almost became a laugh. Something in his chest loosened.

He hadn’t known how tightly he was holding it—until he said it aloud.

***

Florence, San Niccolò Neighborhood. Two nights after he could voice his unsettling with somebody else.

The street was quiet as they walked side by side toward Hannibal’s apartment. The kind of quiet that settled after the lamps had flickered on, but before the last cafes closed. Spring had touched the air—cool enough to curl into your sleeves, but soft on the skin. Somewhere above them, a dog barked once from a balcony, then fell silent again.

They didn’t speak much. They didn’t need to, nowadays.

Will carried a bag with a single loaf of bread, still faintly warm. The paper crinkled against his thigh with each step. Hannibal’s hand swayed close enough to brush against his coat now and then, a barely-there touch that felt more like a pulse than contact. It grounded Will, not that he would speak out loud.

As they neared the building, he glanced over.

“You’ve been tired lately.”

Hannibal didn’t respond immediately. His gait didn’t change. He moved without pause, reaching for his keys with steady fingers.

“Perhaps.” He said after a moment. “It’s the season.”

Will gave a small, crooked smile. “Sure. Spring always makes people nap between murders and wine.”

Hannibal’s lips curved, fractionally. But when they reached the foot of the stairs, Will stopped.

He didn’t follow. He stayed at the base of the steps, one hand still resting in his pocket, the other curled loosely around the bag. His shoulders were easy, posture relaxed—but his gaze held.

Hannibal paused, one foot on the first step.

“I know you’re hiding something,” Will said. His voice wasn’t sharp. It was quiet, like someone naming the shape of a shadow without needing to chase it.

“You don’t have to say anything now.”

Hannibal didn’t look back right away. But something in his frame shifted—shoulders straighter, breath subtly deeper.

“I can learn to be patient,” Will added. “Maybe you could learn to be honest—and trust me.”

There was no weight to it. No expectation and pressure coiled beneath the offer. Only truth.

Now Hannibal turned. Their eyes met in the spill of yellow light from the stairwell. His expression didn’t change, but something behind his gaze steadied.

“I trust you, Will.” He said.

Will didn’t smile. He only nodded once.

Hannibal turned and climbed the stairs. The door closed behind him with its usual hush.

Will stayed there a moment longer. The air was still, save for a faint rustle of leaves from the tree across the street. He listened. Let it settle. Then turned, and walked home.

—

Later. The kettle had long stopped boiling by the time Will remembered it. He poured the water anyway, and let the tea steep until it turned bitter. He didn’t sweeten it. He barely sipped.

The dog had settled near the bookshelf, paws tucked beneath its chest, eyes half-lidded in that still, watchful way of creatures who no longer expected sudden movement.

Will moved through the apartment with the quiet of someone occupying both presence and absence. He didn’t turn on the lights. The curtains stayed half-drawn. His hand brushed against the scarf left on the back of the chair—folded too neatly, forgotten in the way only Hannibal could forget something.

It smelled faintly of something clean. Cold. Will pressed the fabric between his fingers. He didn’t bring it to his face. Just held it.

He sat by the window. Opened the leather journal. It fell to a new page.

No date. But recent.

The handwriting was unmistakable—precise, elegant, as always. But this time, the words were few. They didn’t need to be many.

'I opened him, left a wound I knew would scar him. I did not expect it to scar me as well.'

Will read it twice. Then let the silence wrap around him.

He didn’t need to ask who “him” was.

Some truths don’t belong to the past or the future. They simply bleed. Into whatever part of you is still trying to survive.

He let the tea go cold beside him. Didn’t touch it again.

He knew Hannibal trusted him—knew it in the way that didn’t need repeating. He could feel it in the spaces between Hannibal’s silences, in the way his hands didn’t hide, in the way he lingered.

But Hannibal didn’t trust the thing they were building to withstand exposure. Not yet.

And Will… Will wasn’t angry.

He understood that kind of fear. He’d lived in it. But he also knew what happened when you fed it too long.

Because love, without belief, was just a well-decorated ruin.

And Will—he was done living in ruins.

The journal stayed open on the windowsill, its words half-lost to the dark.

Will didn’t close it.

Will didn’t close it. He only reached for the scarf still folded on the chair, pulled it into his lap and held it there. Held it like the shape of someone not gone—but not yet arrived.

***

Florence. The same night.

She heard the door before she saw him.

Not the creak—Hannibal’s doors never creaked—but the sound of the latch catching. The quiet slide of keys into the bowl. The faint rustle of a coat being hung with deliberate precision. Like his hands needed something small to control, just to steady the larger thing unraveling beneath.

He wasn’t wearing the scarf.

That’s what struck her first: he hadn’t replaced it with something else. As if he’d left it somewhere with intention. Left it with Will. And not just for warmth.

She didn’t speak at first. Just listened to the soft hush of his movements down the hall. The tea in her cup had long gone cold. Her book lay open in her lap, unread for some time now.

When Hannibal passed the archway into the living room, he paused. He wasn’t startled to see her awake. He never was. 

“You were with him?” she asked, evenly.

He nodded once. “He walked me home.”

She watched him more closely now. Something in the slope of his shoulders had changed. Not tense anymore. Like something inside him had rearranged itself and hadn’t quite settled yet.

“Did he say anything?”

That gave him pause.

“He said he could wait,” Hannibal said after a pause, voice even. “But that I shouldn’t assume he’ll wait quietly.”

He looked down when he said it. Like he was hearing the words again now, in her presence, and realizing they echoed more than he’d expected.

Abigail didn’t react right away. She only nodded. Looked at the tea she hadn’t touched.

Will had said more than that, she thought. She could feel it in the space Hannibal left around the words, in the way he didn’t meet her eyes. He’d chosen what to bring back—and what to hold close.

But that wasn’t hers to press. She reached for her book again, let her thumb find the place she’d left off. And in the quiet that followed, she kept the thought to herself:

Will would ask. He always did.

She didn’t need to.

So she said: “That’s fair,” 

Hannibal stood there a moment longer. 

She closed her book, quietly. Rose without hurry. When she passed him in the narrow hallway, she stopped. Reached up and adjusted the edge of his collar. It didn't need fixing, she only did that to remind him, that she understood. That he wasn’t invisible.

“You’ll know when it matters enough to name.”

And then she walked away, slow and even, into the dim hallway. Left him there in the kitchen light, the silence folding around him gently.

He was still holding his breath. But maybe, just maybe—not alone in it anymore.

***

Florence, Riverside Apartment. Two days after Will walked him home.

'I wanted to tell you everything on those stairs. I wanted to speak without caution, to give you the pieces without shaping them first.
But old habits hold like bone.'

Hannibal let himself in with the spare key. Will had given it to him weeks ago—offhandedly, without ceremony. “For the dog.” Will had said. “In case I’m late.”

He hadn’t used it. Until now.

The apartment held the hush of early evening. The last of the light leaned across the floorboards in long, slanted bars. The dog lifted its head from the foot of the bed but didn’t bark. Just thumped its tail once and settled again.

Hannibal moved into the kitchen without turning on the overhead lights. The counters were clean. A few dishes drying beside the sink. He placed the bag—bread, fennel, a small cut of beef—gently down and began preparing dinner.

Will didn't expect him to, he never did. But Hannibal wanted to be here when Will came back. Waiting, as someone who belonged.

The table was already set when Will returned—keys soft against the bowl, dog padding out to greet him with a low thump of the tail. Hannibal didn’t turn. The fish was nearly done. The kettle had just begun to sigh.

Will paused near the bookshelf. His eyes landed on the journal—closed on the windowsill—not by accident.

Hannibal had noticed it the moment he entered, opened to the page he’d written days before.

And now, beneath it—Will’s handwriting: sparse, measured. A quiet echo.

‘I meant it.’

Hannibal had read it once. Then closed the book—but left it open in his memory.

Now, as Will stepped into the kitchen, their eyes met with the understanding that they had both seen what the other had left open.

Will paused in the doorway to the kitchen.

“You used the key,” he said, noting it aloud.

“I did,” Hannibal said.

Will nodded, then looked at the plates, the scent in the air, the chair drawn slightly back from the table.

“You didn’t have to,” he said.

“I know.”

Will pulled out the chair, sat. Let the quiet settle. They didn’t speak at first. The quiet was warm, not sharp. Hannibal poured the tea and set it between them. The steam curled up slowly.

Then Will said, without looking up: “You won’t lose me, you know?”

Hannibal looked across the table. He didn’t smile, but something in his eyes opened—soft and quiet, like a breath held too long.

“I’m learning to believe that, Will,” he said.

Will nodded. He picked up his fork. And together, they ate.

The journal still sat in the window behind them. Closed now. But not forgotten.

—

The night passed quietly.

Hannibal didn’t wake to silence. He woke to the sound of Will in the kitchen—drawers sticking, mugs clinking softly, the kettle letting out a tired whistle. 

The dog scratched at the floor once before sighing and curling tighter into sleep. Morning filtered through the curtains in soft gold. Hannibal didn’t move. He lay still, half-lidded, watching the shift of Will’s body in the kitchen.

Shoulders slightly hunched. Shirt askew. One sleeve half-rolled. There was a familiarity in the clumsiness that softened something in Hannibal’s chest. He turned slightly to pour the coffee, not realizing he was being watched, and scratched his neck. The shirt collar folded strangely where it met the curve of his jaw.

Hannibal’s fingers itched to fix it, but he didn’t move.

A tea tin clattered to the floor. Will muttered under his breath.

It wasn’t graceful. But Hannibal didn’t need it to be.

The part of him that once ached for symmetry, for the careful orchestration of affection, no longer stirred. He didn’t need it to be elegant. He didn’t need the tea to be served in bone china or the silence to be shaped like a sonata. He just needed this.

Will. Breathing. Still choosing him. Still here.

This cluttered morning, with a chipped mug and a groggy dog and Will fumbling for the sugar—was not the life Hannibal'd imagined.

But it was real. And it was his. Not borrowed. 

And then, Will turned. This time, he caught Hannibal watching. He paused for a moment. Then, without a word, he reached for the other mug. Poured the tea and walked it over.

He set it down carefully on the nightstand, it was steeped the way Hannibal liked. 

Hannibal sat up slowly, reached for the mug. His fingers brushed Will’s, lingered. He looked up. His eyes caught on Will’s mouth—just for a breath too long.

Will saw it. And smirked. “You haven’t brushed your teeth.” He said.

But he kissed him anyway. It was warm. Unbothered. Certain.

Hannibal stilled beneath it—from the softness of it. The simple certainty. It cracked something open in him, gently. Without cruelty.

When Will pulled back, Hannibal’s hand came to rest lightly at the side of his neck just to stay connected.

Will tilted his head, eyes clear. “Something wrong?”

“No,” Hannibal said. His voice was quiet, but steady. “Something right.”

And in that moment, Hannibal knew. Whatever truth he still carried, folded tightly in silence—he didn’t want to hold it alone anymore.

***

Florence, Palazzo Capponi. One day after he realized their current life was nothing like the life he once dreamt.

‘Abigail said I was already risked us by not telling you. Yet, telling you feels no less a risk.’

Hannibal didn’t rush. The morning had been quiet, but not restful. He had spent it in measured avoidance—rearranging the books near the hearth, polishing the already-clean brass handles of the cabinet doors. The tasks held no urgency, only to delay.

But no ritual could hold the truth back indefinitely.

By noon, the decision had settled into him like the afternoon heat pressing against the stone walls. Certain. There would be no clever introduction. No orchestration. He would not wrap this truth in ribbon and pretense.

He would tell Will. With the honest he demand. Hannibal would offer what had been withheld, and let Will decide what remained afterward.

When he entered the kitchen, he brought that decision with him. The space was quiet—its silence the kind that settled gently rather than pressed in. Afternoon light passed across the tile floor and pooled against the legs of the table. The scent of last night’s tea lingered faintly, citrus and dried flowers left hanging in the air like a note that had never fully resolved.

This, too, would not be performance.

He would cook not to impress. The tomatoes were ripe, their skins fragile. He sliced them cleanly. Olive oil. Garlic, crushed beneath the flat of the blade. He let the pan heat, stirring slowly as the sauce deepened into something rich and familiar.

On the counter, he had already set out bread from Will’s preferred bakery. The wine stood uncorked nearby, unpretentious but good. The cloth on the table was beige, the lemons in the center arranged not for color but out of quiet habit. There was no centerpiece, no flourish.

Then he went to the drawer, retrieved the small, cream-colored card. He wrote slowly.

Dinner. My place.

Just food.  Come if you want to.

—H

He folded it, no seal. He would drop it off himself. Slide it beneath Will’s door without knocking.

If Will came, he came. And if he didn’t—Hannibal would find another way to tell him. 

He stepped back to take in the space, letting his eyes rest on each detail as though it might shift beneath his gaze. And then the sensation came—slow and unmistakable. A subtle tightening, familiar now, pulsing low through his center. He reached for the back of the chair, steadying himself, one hand sliding instinctively to his stomach.

The change was no longer deniable. The fabric of his shirt didn’t fall like it once had. The curve beneath his palm was present even in stillness, even in silence. And though he had long practiced the art of concealment, tonight he chose not to.

He wear his turtleneck sweater. The fabric falls smoothly over his body, cozy, but the gentle curve of his belly shapes the knit. It’s not a dramatic bump, but it’s clear, defined, and impossible to miss. 

Hannibal looked at the reflection in the mirror. This wasn't what he had planned for their life. But if Will came through the door tonight, Hannibal would be ready to receive him.

No performances. No masks. Only a seat. A plate. 

And the beginning of something they hadn’t tried before—honesty.

***

Florence, Riverside Apartment. Three days after he told Hannibal he wouldn’t lose it.

Will didn’t open the card right away.

It had been left beneath his door sometime that afternoon, the handwriting immediately recognizable—precise, elegant, restrained. The message inside was brief, almost casual in appearance. But the moment he saw it, before he even unfolded the paper, he felt the weight behind it. The restraint was deliberate. The invitation quiet, but sincere.

He held it in his hand for a while, standing in the center of his apartment, reading the words once, then again.

There was no pressure, no manipulation. It was the simplest version of truth Hannibal could offer—and the space for Will to decide.

He didn’t dress for the occasion. There was no occasion, really. He changed his shirt, something clean and soft at the collar, comfortable in a way that had nothing to do with presentation. They wouldn’t need armors tonight.

The walk to Hannibal’s place was a short one, familiar by now, but tonight it felt different. The streets had the quiet hush of early evening, where even the clatter of a distant glass or the brief echo of footsteps seemed softened. Will walked slowly, hands deep in his pockets, he wanted to let the moment settle.

When he reached the door, he didn’t knock immediately. He stood there for a breath too long. He was no longer uncertain—but the weight of what he was walking into, who he was walking toward, deserved that breath.

Hannibal had spent years orchestrating elegance, control, performance. Tonight, he offered none of those things. And what waited behind the door wasn’t a carefully set trap or a test disguised as hospitality.

It was an offering.

Will's hand come to press at the door. He wasn’t walking into a past version of their life, nor into a fantasy of what could have been. He was choosing this—for what it was now.

Then he knocked. Just once. Lightly.

He raised his eyes to the door again, just as the latch gave.

And Will let himself be ready, to step forward without pretending he didn’t want to.

The door opened.

Will’s gaze lifted, steady—and then dropped.

He didn’t react. Not in a way most would notice. But Hannibal saw it: the shift in his eyes, the quiet pause of breath as they caught on the curve beneath Hannibal’s shirt.

He asked no questions, didn't even surprise. Only a blink of eyes to show knowledge settling where uncertainty had been.

Will stepped inside without needing to be asked, and Hannibal closed the door with practiced care.

The air in the apartment still carried the warmth of cooked tomatoes and basil. Bread rested in a cloth-lined bowl. The table waited—modest, inviting.

They didn’t hover in the space between. Will moved toward the table. Sat. His fingers skimmed the edge of his glass but didn’t lift it. Hannibal joined him, taking the opposite seat. Neither of them reached for the food.

Will’s eyes lingered not on the plate, but on Hannibal’s hands—where they rested, loosely folded atop the table.

And then, quietly, he asked: “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

It wasn't a test. But an opening, for whatever Hannibal offer tonight. And Hannibal, still not looking away, nodded once.

“Yes.”

Will didn't say more, but he looked into Hannibal's eyes now. Waiting for him to said the words they all knew.

“Do you remember,” Hannibal began. “When we first met in Florence?”

Will gave the faintest nod. His expression didn’t change—but something in his posture shifted.

“That wasn’t the only gift he left me.” Hannibal continued. His voice was low, deliberate.

He hesitated—paused for a beat, because wanted to speak them rightly.

“When I first understood what this was… I intended to end it. Quietly.” He doesn’t look away as he says it. Doesn’t soften the words. “That chapter of my life had already closed, and I don't want the actors lingered on the stage.”

He exhaled, slow. “But nothing about Will Graham has ever molded into the shape I imagined.”

“But then, I think, Will. If Mara was the test for you.”

“Then perhaps this—” his hand brushes unconsciously across his lower stomach in acknowledging—“is the test for us.”

“I hadn’t meant to keep it from you.” He said. “But once I realized… I didn’t want to speak it too early. I didn’t want to offer it with expectation, nor risk with our new changes.”

Will didn’t interrupt.

Hannibal’s eyes lowered briefly—to his hands, to the edge of the plate where his reflection bent with the porcelain.

"I am pregnant, Will.”

There was no embellishment. No gauze of metaphor. No language to soften it. 

Will was quiet for a long time, and Hannibal didn't press it. He waited, until his grip on the fork was too much.

“The journal.” Will said after a long pause. “You had been given me hints.”

“Hints.” Hannibal said. “But not declarations. Because this was never meant to be a test we could pass or fail.”

His hand moved instinctively to rest over the curve of his stomach, just for anchoring. “It’s the kind of test that asks only one question: can you love what remains, not what was lost?”

When Will met his eyes again, his voice was steady:

“And you,” he said, “you wonder if you can be chosen, even when marked and altered by a version of me who already left.”

The words hung in the air. Hannibal nodded, though he didn't need to. Will always knew. 

“I must admit... part of me needed to see whether you would choose me—even like this.”

Will sat with it. Quiet. Then he nodded—just once, in understanding. He reached for the fork, needing something to anchor himself.

He didn't softened, and it ached, but Hannibal understood that. His hand stayed resting over his stomach, but his gaze lifted in clearness. Simply unhidden, for Will tonight.

Will didn’t speak right away. He only watched—watched Hannibal hold himself. The weight of it pressed into the room slowly, like something seeping through the cracks of certainty.

“I thought,” Will began, his voice rough, “that he was gone.”

Hannibal’s throat moved, but he didn’t look away. “He is.”

Will’s eyes flickered, something sharp breaking in them. More fragile than anger, more human than blame. Maybe grieving, maybe not.

"And yet..." Will’s gaze dropped to where Hannibal’s fingers had unconsciously tightened. He didn’t finish the sentence.

Silence stretched again.

“You made us a gambler.” Will said finally. 

Hannibal’s lips parted, but there was no need to confirm it. 

“I don’t know if I should be angry you decide to keep it.” 

Will reached for the wine, poured them both a glass. “But I think I understand it. I wouldn't want be left behind, again.” 

And Hannibal—his hands just a little unsteady, his shoulders looser now—lifted his glass in return.

The dinner had not yet begun. But the truth had arrived.

And that, tonight, was enough.

Chapter Text

Florence, Home. Two days after The Dinner.

'Perhaps, this time, we might be permitted a different outcome.'

Lunch came in the form of roasted vegetables and chicken, packed neatly in a box Will hadn’t asked for. Hannibal brought it, gave only a short nod at the rescue center door, and Will accepted it without question.

Mara’s daughter was there, playing with one of the puppies recently brought in. Her laughter rang out, unfiltered, as the animal clumsily rolled beneath her palms. 

Will glanced over to see Hannibal was watching the girl play with the puppy with calm and quiet. His hands folded, the kind of silence that no longer felt like a mask. For a second, Will didn’t see the girl at all. He saw someone else. Someone not yet born. Their child, small and barefoot, chasing light across a floor in some future room they hadn’t found yet. And Hannibal standing there. Like this, only watching. Will stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder.

It wasn’t a grand image. Not a fantasy, merely an ordinary moment they might have.

Will blinked. The picture slipped. He looked again. The girl was laughing. Hannibal hadn’t moved. And Will thought, with bitterness he hadn't know was exist until it hit him with like quiet wave: 

If I hadn’t left... would this have been mine alone?

Now, it still was. But only because he'd come back. 

He didn’t say anything when Hannibal stood and came to collect his things. He nodded once, held the silence a little too long.

That night, he didn’t dream of murder, or memory, or the ocean.

He dreamt of a dinner table.

And a chair with no place set for him.

***

Florence. One weeks after The Dinner.

Hannibal sensed something was changed in the wrong way, before it happened.

Nothing had fractured, Will still came, still stayed late. But late enough that the silence between them stretched long and unfilled. They sat across from each other. The tea between them had long gone cold. The conversation had slowed hours ago.

It wasn’t awkward, or cold. But something had gone still between them. And Will’s gaze, now steady and unreadable, had begun to weigh more than it used to. His gaze lingered—on Hannibal’s hands, on the curve of his belly on his face. Unmoving. Thoughtful in a way that made his spine tighten.

Will wasn’t blinking. He was there, all the time, but somewhere else entirely.

And Hannibal felt it all at once. Like a drop in temperature no one else registered. He felt it coil, low and quiet. Like sinking. He had seen this before. He knew this look. He had known it before. That distance. That processing.

He’d once seen it in patients just before they severed ties.

In Alana, the morning after her last drink from his cellar. In Jack, when respect first curdled into suspicion duty.

In Will, too—long ago, when trust had turned brittle.

Now Will was here again, sitting in front of him. But not reaching.

The quiet between them didn’t ache. That would’ve been easier. It simply expanded. Inevitable. Hannibal felt the weight of it press like frost against his ribs.

He did not speak it aloud. The words curled behind his teeth, but never found a way out. But that evening, after Will left—the same way he always did, quiet, with a murmur of something halfway between goodbye and habit—Hannibal remained where he was. Longer than necessary. As if his body hadn’t yet received the signal that the conversation was over.

When he finally moved, it wasn’t to clean up. He stood in the center of the room, fingers pressed against the back of the chair where Will had sat just an hour ago. The air still carried the shape of him. Hannibal's breath shallow, as though bracing for impact that might not come—but would always threaten.

He hadn’t been wrong to worry.

Perhaps nothing had changed after all. And still, he remained there. In the dim light, holding on to the quiet.

—

He didn’t mention it the next day. But Abigail saw it. She always did.

She came in with the morning light, carrying a paper bag folded tightly at the top, its corners warm and crinkled from fresh bread. The smell drifted into the kitchen ahead of her, comforting and familiar. Hannibal stood by the counter, slicing apples in smooth, even strokes. He didn’t look up.

“You’re brooding.” She said. Her tone was light, almost absent, but her aim was exact.

“I’m reflecting.” Hannibal replied without shifting his attention.

Abigail made a quiet sound, something between a scoff and agreement. She set the bag down beside him and leaned her weight slightly into the edge of the counter. She wasn’t pressing—just watching him with the patient precision.

“On Will?” She asked.

He didn’t answer. She stepped closer anyway, bracing her hands lightly on the counter. Watching him with that careful, unhurried gaze she had learned from him long ago.

“I saw him.” She said. “Last night. The way he looked at you.”

His knife paused, the blade suspended over the cutting board. For a second, his hand hovered—then resumed, the motion slightly slower now.

Abigail tilted her head, half-smiling. “Not the way you think.”

She didn’t tease this time, her voice lowered. “Not the way you want him to look yet,” She added. “But not gone either.”

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed slightly in thought. She was reading too much. She didn’t soften. Her voice was gentler now, but steady. “Give him time,” she said.

“You’re asking him to catch up to something that happened without him.” Her glance flicked toward the curve of his stomach. “He’s still deciding what that means.”

And Hannibal didn't need to look into her eyes to feel the weight of her words more acutely than her glance. She watched him another beat, then nudged the bag of bread slightly toward him, the paper crinkling beneath her fingers.

“Staying isn’t just waiting. It’s choosing to be present—again and again—until that presence means something. Otherwise, it’s just absence wearing a different name.”

She left him there—no reassurance, no closing note. Only the quiet scrape of the knife as he resumed slicing apples, slower this time. Alone in the quiet he couldn’t quite settle.

He thought of that night, when Will had once said it so simply—You won’t lose me, you know?

But Will hadn’t known, then, what would follow. Not this, not the quiet, irreversible shape of a life still forming. One marked not only by what they were now, but by what had already been.

And Hannibal found himself wondering:

What if Will had been wrong?

Not entirely wrong, just enough to matter.

***

Florence. Four days after The Dinner.

'I tell you this to shield what was still delicate between us. But perhaps, in that silence, I revived the old wound we never let heal.'

The house was quiet. Hannibal hadn’t said he wouldn’t come that night—but he hadn’t come. And Will, who didn’t ask for promises, hadn’t waited. At least not in the way that looked like waiting, anyway.

Will hadn’t turned on any lights after sunset. Hadn't washed his dishes from the noon. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed. The room held its hush like a held breath, lit only by the low amber spill from the hallway. A sweater lay folded at the foot of the bed—Hannibal’s. Left behind last week. Will hadn’t moved it.

Across the room, the coffee he’d poured had cooled into bitterness. The book he’d opened hadn’t been turned past chapter one. There were no dog at his feet tonight. No fire crackled to keep the silence from settling.

Only Will. And the silence that settled like a second skin.

He wasn’t planning to leave. That impulse had burned out long ago, smothered by too many nights of return. But something in his chest—low and warm and unsettled—had begun to shift again.

He had seen the way Hannibal’s hand rested over his stomach now. How natural it looked. How unconsciously he did it, as though already cradling someone who hadn’t yet been born.

Will didn’t hate it. He didn’t even resent it, not really.

But he mourned it. For the moments that had already happened without him, the life they hadn’t built from the start. The soft hours he had never witnessed. The first stir of morning sickness he hadn’t soothed, the early tenderness that wasn’t his to carry. And it ached. 

It was grief shaped like absence, like standing outside a house he hadn’t helped build, and still being given the key.

A family, a child, a life that wasn’t his at the start—but became his anyway. 

Eventually, he moved. He crossed the room and sank to the floor beside the dog, hand slipping into warm fur. The creature leaned into his side like it had been waiting.

Will didn’t speak for a long time. The silence wasn’t heavy, but full, thick with the unsaid. Then, almost to the dark itself, he murmured.

“I came back.”

His voice was rough, but not uncertain. “I didn’t stay gone.”

He let that settle. Let the words find their place.

“That has to mean something.”

The dog huffed back. Warm and steady. Certain in a way Will wasn’t.

Will sat there for a while longer, letting the quiet curl around him. Letting it hum against the hollow places that hadn’t quite healed.

That night, he didn’t dream of the dinner table. He didn’t dream of the empty chair either. He dreamt of the quiet shape of someone sitting across from him—and the steady thrum of something still living between them.

—

In the next few days, the changes were small. But that’s how Will knew they were real.

Hannibal still came. He still knocked with the same rhythm. He still brought food: bread from the shop on the corner, butter wrapped in paper, sometimes a little jar of olives he pretended not to enjoy. But now there was no folded napkin tucked into the basket. He placed the bag down, nodded once, and left before the tea finished steeping. No surprise dessert resting beneath waxed parchment. Nothing that said I lingered, because I wanted to stay.

Will noticed. 

The first time, he didn’t think about it. The second, he told himself Hannibal was just busy, or the fatigue. But the third—when the soup came sealed in a plain container without its usual pairing, he stood still for a beat too long before opening it.

They still walked the dog. Still stood just close enough to feel the warmth where their sleeves nearly touched. But Hannibal no longer let his coat brush against Will’s fingers. No longer lingered when Will handed him a cup, he took it only once Will had fully let go. 

And Will—who had learned silence so well—now found it louder than usual. He stood by the table after Hannibal left one evening. The food was still warm. The plate still full. But the chair across from his was too neat.

No trace of another. No second glass. No quiet laugh over the rim of a shared cup. He didn’t eat right away, only stared at the untouched plate. He couldn't find himself to get angry.

But he missed him. And that gentle and polite absence, somehow hurt more than distance ever had.

When Will finished eating, he moved to the counter, reached for a dish towel, but then stopped. He didn’t want to clean up just yet, because if he did, it would feel like he agreed with Hannibal.

Like saying: Yes, I’m fine with you leaving. Yes, you were right to keep your distance.

And Will—who had spent so long convincing himself he didn’t need to be chosen—was beginning to understand that now, he did. Because this time, he had come back. Because he was still here. Because what he wanted wasn’t only to be seen.

He wanted to be stayed for.

***

Florence. Three nights after she sensed the change in air.

Abigail heard the front door before she saw him.

A soft click. The slow, even tread of shoes crossing the threshold. Hannibal wasn’t rushing—but he didn’t linger either. She didn’t call out. She stayed seated at the kitchen table, half a pear left untouched on her plate, the tea gone lukewarm beside it. He removed his coat. Hung it by the door like other normal days, then came into view without announcement. 

She waited. 

“You’re early.” She said, without looking up.

He didn’t answer. Just moved to the sink and began washing his hands—slowly, longer than necessary. When he dried them, the movements were careful, precise. Ritual.

When he finally turned, she caught the shift. Something drawn in the corners of his mouth. Less alert than usual. Less composed. Like something inside him had loosened.

“Your man didn’t walk you back tonight?” She asked, light but deliberate.

“No.” He said evenly. “I came alone.”

Abigail raised an eyebrow, exaggerated. “Did he insult the seasoning again?”

He didn’t rise to it. “I decided it would be best to allow some space.”

“For who?”

“For him.” The answer came as if it had been waiting in him all day.

That earned her full attention. She turned in her chair now, facing him properly. “So, what—he needs a reminder he can leave?”

Hannibal held her gaze. His expression didn’t shift, but something in his quiet did. “So he remembers he still has a choice.”

Silence stretched between them. Abigail tapped a finger against her mug.

Then she blinked once—slow and theatrical. “And you think leaving him alone at the table with your perfectly folded dinner is how you keep his free will intact?”

“I think.” Hannibal said quietly, “people see most clearly when no one is reaching for them.”

Abigail leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. The look she gave him wasn’t unkind. But it was deeply unimpressed—unfiltered.

“You’re not as selfless as you sound,” she said. “You’re afraid if you keep stepping forward, he’ll step away.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “Do you not trust that he’d still choose you, even if he saw all of you?”

She let it hang there. Hannibal didn’t contradict her. He just glanced toward the window, where the last light had dipped behind the rooftops. His posture didn’t change, but something in his hands—how they touched the edge of the counter, how still they were—gave him away.

And Abigail, watching from the chair, felt something tighten in her chest. A small, protective ache. Because beneath all the elegance and silence, he was still waiting. Still hoping. Still bracing for an answer he hadn’t yet heard.

And all she could do was sigh and reach for her tea. “You two really are the worst romantic comedy I’ve ever watched.”

***

Florence. Almost one week after Hannibal told him the truth.

'She moved today—her first little rebellion. And I wished, more than I should, that I could have shared it with you.'

The day had passed mostly in quiet. Quiet in that restrained way Hannibal wore when he didn’t want Will to notice something he couldn’t quite hide. He moved softer. Kept his distance just a hair too long. Wore a loose shirt he hadn’t used until now, the hem falling low to obscure the curve of his stomach. 

Hannibal moved like he was trying not to move differently. A bit too brisk when shifting. A little too composed when reaching overhead. 

But Will saw it. The brief hesitation. The subtle recalibration of balance. The way Hannibal slowed when he thought he was alone. He glanced at Will often—when Will wasn’t looking. But Will felt it anyway. The weight of his gaze, landing, pulling back. Again. Again.

He thinks I’ll break, Will thought. That if I see too much, I’ll run.

And maybe he wasn’t wrong. Sometimes, when Hannibal moved like that—tender, open, half-vulnerable—it sparked not care in Will, but wariness. As if some part of him still thought softness was camouflage. That safety was a prelude, not a promise.

And yet, Will didn’t pull away. Instead, he let the ache come. He didn’t swat it down. Because Hannibal saw him as fragile. And while that wasn’t the role he wanted, it was given in love. A different love than the one he’d run from, but still shaped by it.

The light had shifted by the time they had tea. The sun held longer now, shadows stretched slower. Hannibal sat by the window, his feet bare, the book forgotten in his lap.

There was some take-away food being sold on the street below—something spiced and sharp. The scent rose through the apartment windows and coiled into the kitchen before either of them could shut it out.

Hannibal had gone still. Subtly—so much so that anyone not paying close attention might have missed it. Will didn’t.

He looked up from where he was halfway through slicing fruit. Hannibal’s face had lost color, his jaw set tight. He stood with care, composed as ever, but something in the way he moved was too controlled. He crossed the room with that same practiced elegance he always used when he didn’t want to be followed. And headed for the bathroom.

He left the peaches half-sliced on the board, the knife resting where he’d set it down. Then he paused and stepped to the window and closed it. The latch clicked softly into place, the scent of the street faded behind the glass.

Only then did he turn and walk toward the bathroom. The door wasn’t locked. Hannibal was on his knees, one hand braced against the edge of the porcelain. He didn’t make a sound, but his shoulders held too tight.

Will didn’t say anything. He stepped into the space behind him and crouched, resting a hand at the back of Hannibal’s neck—nothing more than that. Steady. Certain. A quiet point of contact meant only for grounding.

When Hannibal finished, Will was already moving. He reached for a cup, filled it at the sink, and passed it to him. Hannibal rinsed, spat, then wiped his mouth with the towel Will handed over without a word.

Still, silence held between them.

But when Hannibal rose, Will caught him gently with a hand to his side, enough to steady him. His touch lingered a moment longer than necessary, then eased away.

They returned to the couch without comment. Will didn’t say much, he helped him lower down, placed the tea in his hands, and turned quietly back toward the kitchen.

Halfway there, he gave the faintest flick of his fingers. The dog, waiting patiently at a distance, rose and padded forward, settling against Hannibal’s legs with calm certainty. A warm, steady weight.

Will didn’t look back. He picked up the knife, gathered the scattered slices, and resumed his work. The peach was softer now. Easier to cut.

By the time he returned with two bowls—one filled with cut peaches, berries and roast almond, the other with plain yogurt and honey—Hannibal was sitting a little lower on the couch, one hand resting absently in the dog’s fur. His fingers moved in slow, absently idle strokes.

Will paused for a moment, barely, long enough to take it in the scene. Then he set the bowls down, not making a point of it.

"You didn’t finish your tea." He said, voice even.

Hannibal tilted his head faintly, not quite apologetic.  His eyes followed Will as he sat beside him, close enough that their knees touched.

"It cooled." Hannibal said mildly.

"So will the peaches." Will replied, sliding one into his mouth and gesturing with his chin. "Eat."

Hannibal picked up his spoon with deliberate composure. He ate slowly—dignified but cautious, like every movement had to earn back its ease. Will didn’t comment. He only sat with him, finishing his share with fewer words than usual.

When Hannibal set the empty bowl aside, Will stood. He cleared his throat, brushing crumbs from his fingers. Without asking, he took Hannibal’s bowl and the untouched tea mug from the table and carried them to the sink.

Hannibal didn’t drop his gaze, but something in his shoulders gave—barely.

"Don’t do that again." Will said quietly, glancing back as he rinsed the mug. Drawing a line in calm water.

A simple rule that they all knew it had nothing to do with the sickness, and everything to do with disappearing into silence. 

Hannibal swallowed. “No.”

Will dried the mug with care and placed it down.

“Good.” He said. The rest of the sentence faltered, or maybe he chose not to finish it. Instead, he leaned against the counter and waited, watching in silence as Hannibal rose to bring his glass to the sink.

They didn’t rush, but they moved forward, in small, shared steps. Like that was enough—for now.

***

Florence. Three days after their unspoken simple rule.

They didn't speak of it again—not directly. But in the quiet hours that followed, and the days that unfolded with slow, deliberate care, something between them held. 

The night stretched quiet and unhurried. Will leaned back against the arm of the couch, book slack in his hands. He wasn’t reading anymore. The soft hum of the city outside had blurred the words into something formless.

Across from him, Hannibal sat curled slightly to one side. His reading glasses were folded on the table, untouched. One hand rested on the swell of his stomach, thumb idly tracing small, unconscious patterns through the linen of his shirt.

The silence was peaceful. Until Hannibal shifted—too fast.

A sharp sound left him, almost too soft to be noticed. Only a faint hitch of breath and the subtle tightening at the corner of his mouth.

Will sat up immediately. "What was that?"

Hannibal, composed even in discomfort, shook his head faintly. "It’s nothing. A cramp."

He tried to dismiss it, but Will was already moving, crouching down in front of him.

“Where?” Will asked, his hands already reaching.

He didn’t wait for permission, and Hannibal didn’t offer any. His palm brushed across Hannibal’s lower abdomen in gentle and tentative touch, pressing lightly in search of the tightness.

"There." Hannibal murmured, guiding his hand slightly to the left.

Will’s thumb moved in gentle circles over the spot, slow and careful. The tension that had gripped them both was already beginning to ease—whether from false labor or simply the strain of the evening, he couldn’t be sure. But beneath his touch, Hannibal visibly relaxed.

Still, Will didn’t pull away. His palm remained in place, warm through the thin fabric, and he could feel the steady thrum of Hannibal’s pulse—alive, grounding. The faintest flutter of muscles stirred beneath, quieter now. Softer.

And then, unexpectedly, something shifted. A quick, distinct push from within. A ripple beneath his hand, light but unmistakable. Almost playful.

Will blinked, startled, his gaze snapping up to meet Hannibal’s.

"...Was that—?"

Hannibal’s mouth curved into the barest smile. “Yes.”

Will didn’t move. His hand hovered over the spot, where the sensation still seemed to echo against his skin—warm, real, impossibly intimate. It hadn’t been subtle. It was real, not imagined.

“That’s...” He began, then stopped. He swallowed, struggling to find the right word. Strange? Beautiful? Terrifying?

In the end, he didn’t choose any of those.

“That’s real.”

“Yes.” Hannibal said again, his voice quieter this time in agreement.

Will let his hand remain, fingers spreading slightly, as though he could cradle the movement without disturbing it. Another soft nudge followed, not as strong, but clear. Certain.

For a long time, they said nothing. Will’s face was unreadable, caught between wonder and something ache-deep.

Finally, he broke the silence with a question, simple and careful.

"Do they do that often?"

“She.” Hannibal smiled faintly. “More at night. When everything’s quiet.”

Will nodded, eyes still fixed on the place beneath his hand. Then, after a moment, he drew it back—slowly, almost reluctantly. But he didn’t get up. He stayed there beside the couch, resting his forearms across Hannibal’s legs, grounded and tangible.

When he looked up again, the walls were gone. There was no hesitation in his gaze now. No defenses.

"Tell me next time." He said quietly. "When she moves. When anything happens. I don’t want to miss it."

Hannibal’s lips parted slightly, caught off guard by the quiet insistence. But he nodded. Firmly.

"You won’t." He said. Then, almost timidly, his fingers reached up, brushing lightly through Will’s hair. "You won’t miss anything."

Will closed his eyes briefly, letting the touch pass over him like a promise. When he opened them again, the weight between them had shifted.

For the first time, Will wasn’t standing outside the story anymore.

He was here. In it. Fully. Here. With Hannibal.

With what would come next.

***

Florence. Five days after he acknowledged the child's presence.

It happened quietly, and it happened late.

The old rituals had faded: Sunday mornings belonged to another him. They didn’t talked about that life much, but Will knew it from the way Abigail always drew eyes—she looked, really looked—whenever Hannibal picked up the sketchbook.

Hannibal drew at night again. It was nothing like before, not meticulous anatomical studies, Greek myths or idle exercises. No longer the curated and clinical strokes of someone taming desire by transforming it into art.

These were different. Done only when Will was nearby. Always after the house had quieted, when Will sat reading or finishing tea, close but not speaking. Will noticed it one evening when he rose to stretch and glanced over. Hannibal, book set aside, had begun sketching him without hiding it. His eyes moved carefully between paper and subject, cataloguing details with quiet hunger.

“You draw again.” Will said softly, sitting back down and gesturing to the sketchbook.

“It helps with grounding.” Hannibal said simply.

Will said nothing. But the next night, he caught him again. And the next. Until it wasn’t a secret anymore, but another domestic pattern they slipped into without ceremony.

Tonight, Will shifted closer when he noticed Hannibal’s pencil pausing. He peered at the page. There was a loose, soft outline of his face. Shoulders relaxed. Eyes, however, unfinished.

"You stopped." Will observed, eyes glancing to the incomplete face.

Hannibal’s fingers ghosted above the paper. “The eyes are important,” He said quietly. "Eyes make things real."

There was no levity in his tone. Only weight. Will, who knew Hannibal better than anyone, understood instantly.

"Before," Hannibal added, "I didn’t draw them.”

He didn’t say more, but Will already felt the weight of it. Tonight, Hannibal sketched them in. Slow and deliberate, no hesitation. Will watched his own gaze come to life on the paper—softened. A portrait of being kept. No longer haunted, no longer hunted, yet still chose to stay.

Then Hannibal turned to another page, without comment. He began sketching again—this time slower, the lines tender and loose.

Will frowned faintly, watching. “What’s that?”

Hannibal’s lips tilted in a subtle smile. “A projection. A guess, perhaps.”

It was a child’s face. Not detailed yet, but the nose, the tilt of the mouth—Will blinked. It was him. Softened, younger, but unmistakably carrying his features.

He stared for a long moment. "You think... she'll look like me?"

"I want her to." Hannibal said, as if stating a fact rather than a wish. "I want to see you carried forward."

His fingers moved delicately over the paper, softening the child’s temple, shading in tenderly.

Will’s mouth tightened. Something flickered across his face—conflict, not quite hidden. The idea, on the surface, sounded sweet. Romantic. But beneath it, Will felt the old unease stirring, of legacy turned into echo. A child shaped by someone else’s outline. A child who live to keep looking at her own shadow.

His fingers twitched where they rested. He didn’t want their daughter to become anyone’s mirror. Not his. Not Hannibal’s.

He opened his mouth, something forming already. A quiet dissent, a line drawn, maybe. But then Hannibal smiled. Small. Soft. Unaware. And Will swallowed the words before they came.

They had time for that conversation. Later. For now, he let it be.

Hannibal’s fingers moved delicately over the page again, softening the child’s temple, shading tenderly. Will exhaled slowly, and when he spoke again, his voice was steadier.

"Do you have a name?"

Hannibal didn’t look up. “Mischa.” He said simply, as if it had never been a question.

Will didn’t react, not outwardly anyway. He’d known. From the moment he knew about her in the Lecter family castle, reverent and careful. From the way he’d spoken of the child as she before anyone else had. Will had seen it coming—a second chance offered to a ghost.

He sat with it for a moment. Let the silence stretch just long enough to be respectful.

Then, he said: “No.” His voice wasn't sharp, but final, no place for negotiation. “Not this.”

The pencil paused, suspended above the paper.

Hannibal didn’t argue. He only nodded once, barely perceptible. And didn’t draw another line.

—

Will already knowing what was coming.

That night, Hannibal didn’t eat much. He didn't draw. He sat near the window with a glass of wine he didn’t finish, and his hand resting on his stomach like he was listening for something no one else could hear.

Will didn’t disturb him. At first.

He stayed in the other room, on the couch with a book he wasn’t reading. Letting time move without trying to break it. The house settled around them—soft creaks, shifting warmth, a kettle that never made it to boil.

Still, Will’s gaze kept drifting. Over the page. Toward the doorway. Toward that corner of the house where silence had gathered heavily. At one point, he rose from his seat and took a few slow steps toward the hallway, his hand lifting to hover near the doorframe, fingers brushing lightly against the wood before he hesitated

But then, he withdrew, and turned back, resuming his place in silence. He wouldn't push Hannibal, but he also wouldn’t let Hannibal disappear entirely.

Abigail noticed it the next morning.

“Is he brooding now?” She asked, biting into a slice of apple, glancing toward the parlor where Hannibal had been sitting all morning, uncharacteristically quiet.

Will shrugged, already done explaining.

“Things happened.”

Abigail frowned. “And he’s just... like that now?”

“He’ll be fine,” Will said. But it sounded like it wasn't he believed Hannibal was fine—but because he wouldn’t let him stay not fine.

Abigail watched Will for a moment longer, then nodded. She understood.

But then, silence was beginning to turn into absence. Hannibal moved through the house like a shadow of himself. Ate even less than before. Spoke less. Lit the candles but didn’t stay to watch them burn. And when he thought no one was looking, he touched the unfinished sketch of the child with a quiet so deep, it was almost reverent.

Will understand Hannibal needed space, really. But space has its limits.

That evening, Will found him again—curled in the window seat, face half-lit by fading light, eyes tracking something far beyond Florence. He was drifting. And Will had learned the cost of letting people drift too long.

He crossed the room and sat beside him. When Hannibal didn’t speak, Will did.

“Don’t go too far.”

Hannibal closed his eyes for a beat. His voice, when it came, was quieter than usual. Strained at the edges, as if now he remember their unspoken rule.

“Why?” 

“You know why.” Will didn’t look away. “Because I don’t want her to live in another story that existed before she knew she was in it.”

Hannibal turned to him slowly. Something in his face cracked, like he knew Will wasn't talk about their child anymore.

He’d lived it. He was it.

Hannibal dipped his head, his closest to agree that Will could get now. 

When Will spoke, his voice rough, like it almost surprised him still. “You really want me here.” 

Hannibal met his eyes, steady and sure.

“I want you everywhere.”

That night, they didn’t speak again about the name. Or the rule. Or what had almost slipped between them. 

They simply moved together through the motions. Will petting the dog while Hannibal drawing, then they brushing teeth in silence, folding back covers, settling into bed like it was the most natural things. And maybe it was.

Will lay close, closer than usual, and Hannibal let him. One of Hannibal’s hands found Will’s wrist beneath the blankets—rested there, light as breath. He drifted into sleep faster than he ever did.

—

The next morning, Will woke first. The light was pale and watery, the kind that barely touched the ceiling. Hannibal was still asleep on his side, one hand resting lightly over his belly, his breathing even. The sketchbook sat beside the bed, where it must have been set aside in the night. Will hesitated. But then, quietly, carefully, he pulled it closer and let the pages fall open.

The drawings were what he expected, and not.

Will with the dog, head tilted, caught mid-sigh.
Will with their not yet born child, carrying her on his arm.
Will sitting on the balcony, barefoot, reading with his hair stuck up from sleep.
Will with Abigail, seated together on the public bench near the market. Her body curled slightly toward his, both laughing quietly at something unsaid.
Will. Will. Will.

As if Hannibal had been slowly building a private archive of all the ways Will had quietly rooted himself here.

But as Will flipped further, his brow frowned.

There was nothing of Hannibal. Not beside Will. Not near him. Not even touching the edges of the drawings.

And yet—

On the last page, where the graphite was still faint and unfinished, Hannibal had begun something.

Two figures. Unmistakable. Nothing dramatic like Will had thought. It was Will asleep on his side, and Hannibal behind him, half-curled, the soft rise of his stomach visible even in loose lines. His hand rested on Will’s shoulder, relaxed. 

But what caught Will’s eye was smaller. Finer. A thread, thin and faint, had been drawn looping loosely from one of Hannibal’s fingers, winding softly to Will’s wrist. Not tying them tight. It was... only linking—an extension of their choice.

Will knew immediately what it was. The one from the parting gift, and had always meant we are tied, even if apart.

But here, Hannibal had sketched it differently, not strained between past and future, death and life. Simply draped, like something lived in—like the hunger, like the dark. It was just theirs.

Will let out a slow breath, thumb brushing faintly across the sketch as though feeling the weight of it there. Then he closed the sketchbook softly. When he looked back at Hannibal, who was stirring faintly, eyes fluttering open.

Will leaned closer, voice low. “You drew the thread.” He said.

Hannibal blinked, then—without defense, without careful language—nodded.

“I never drew us before,” He murmured. “Not until now.”

Will didn’t need to ask why. He understood. Hannibal had waited until he believed Will really stayed.

Then Will reached, slow and certain to brush his fingers lightly over Hannibal’s fingers—where the red thread would have been tied.

"Draw us again later." He said quietly.

Hannibal’s mouth curved faintly. "As you wish."

Will kissed him then, brief yet soft, and settled back against the pillows.

There was no need for more words. The red thread remained—now, finally, allowed to be visible.

***

Florence. Two weeks after he saw Hannibal draw them together.

'I returned to sketching your hands today. The lines have changed—firmer now, more certain. I find the act clarifying. Observation has always suited me better than confession.'

It was late afternoon when Will saw him like this. Moving through the house.

Hannibal was unpacking. His movements were brisker than usual—efficient, but not careful in the performative way he used to be. No deliberate grace, no unnecessary pauses to let the silence stretch just so.

The dog circled around his legs, so Hannibal gave him a piece of cooked liver he made for dinner.

The dog huffed, tail wagging and tagged along Hannibal when he unpacked the stuffs. There were folded linens, soft and clearly meant for small hands. There was tea—Will’s favorite brand, which Hannibal had pretended to tolerate but had never purchased himself until now. There were biscuits Abigail liked. Turkey breast to make the dog’s treat that Will joked about once and Hannibal had quietly remembered. And at the bottom of the bag, nestled almost shyly, a small silver rattle. Elegant. Old-fashioned. Clearly chosen with care.

It was nothing, and it was everything.

Will stood there, unnoticed for a moment. Watching the way Hannibal moved around the kitchen. The way his hand lingered on the tea box before setting it aside. The way he automatically portioned things for Abigail and Will before even finishing unpacking.

Will let the realization settle, heavy and oddly tender in his chest. This was too casual to be a plan, or a manipulation. It was just instinct.

He stepped inside, quiet as ever, but Hannibal still noticed him. He always did.

"You're watching me," Hannibal observed, with only the faintest hint of amusement.

Will didn’t answer right away. Instead, he approached, fingertips brushing along the counter, stopping near the silver rattle. He touched it lightly, his eyes were on the dog by Hannibal’s side—thoughtful.

“It still hasn’t got any name yet.” Will said softly, nodding toward the dog, who had flopped down at Hannibal’s feet.

Hannibal’s hand paused on the tea box. “You said once not naming things keeps them.”

Will let the silence stretch. Then, with a faint, almost reluctant smile, he added, “I’ve been thinking about it, though. It’s probably time.”

He didn’t offer the name. The decision itself hung in the air—simple, inevitable. Hannibal only nodded once, as though that, too, was enough. Naming. Claiming. Accepting.

Later that day, Will arched his brow as he watched Hannibal called the dog by Kairos when feeding it treats, and Kairos huffed, low and happy. But he didn't protest the symbolic name, he told Hannibal to choose it, after all.

Kairos. he right moment.

Will wouldn’t have picked it himself. Too symbolic. Too unpractical. But still, he let it stand.

Because it fit. And maybe, more than that—because it meant something to Hannibal.

***

Florence. Three days after Hannibal named the dog.

That day, Will hadn’t been looking for it.

He was only searching for a clean towel—something ordinary, unremarkable. But the drawer in the guest room caught halfway, sticking with the kind of resistance that suggested more than a tangle of linens. When he gave it a firmer tug, something shifted, and it revealed more than he expected.

At the very back, nestled behind neatly folded cloth and a few forgotten sketches, sat a small, narrow box. Leather-bound. The kind of box that didn’t call attention to itself, yet carried quiet weight in its simplicity.

Will hesitated. He had never seen it before. Still, curiosity guided his hand as he lifted the lid. 

Inside was a watch. It wasn't ostentatious. Clean, elegant. Refined in a way that felt unmistakably familiar. A thin leather band, a pale watch face, gold at the edges where the leather stopped. The hands were frozen at 10:10—never set, never worn.

He brushed his fingers over the glass, light as breath. This wasn’t something newly acquired. It hadn’t been given, not yet.  It had been bought. Prepared. Intended. And, held in reserve—not during the years they’d been scattered or circling, not when they were still bracing for each other. This had waited until the shape of what they were had become solid enough to hold something lasting.

Will swallowed. The understanding didn’t strike suddenly, but settled in slowly. Warm, inevitable. He hadn’t known about this before. Hannibal had never mentioned it. But standing in the hush of the room, sunlight skimming across the floor, the quiet weight of the watch resting in his hand—he understood.

It hadn’t been waiting for the right moment. It had been waiting for the right them. 

Maybe—Will thought as his thumb stroked the smooth leather—that moment had arrived. It wasn't perfect, or flawless, but it was enough to be called real.

And when Hannibal’s voice came from the doorway, it wasn’t questioning.

“You found it.”

Will looked up. His fingers closed lightly over the watch, protective without meaning to. “You bought this a long time ago.” He said, not quite a question.

Hannibal nodded once. "Before this."

Will exhaled. Something small and sore tightened in his throat, felt like tenderness that hadn’t yet learned how to speak aloud.

“You never asked.” Will murmured, thumb brushing over the strap.

“I never thought the moment was ready,” Hannibal replied, with something almost gentle in his voice. “Not until now.”

Will looked back at the watch. Then, in the smallest, quietest gesture, he slipped the watch onto his wrist. It fastened easily, fit as though it had waited for his skin. It hadn't feel like a gift. More like a mark, quiet, but certain.

He flexed his wrist once. The leather creaked faintly. Warm now, against his pulse.

When Will raised his eyes again, Hannibal didn’t move. He only watched, but his eyes softened, and something easy—something Will now knew had waited long for this—passed between them without needing words.

Will glanced once more at the watch, feeling the subtle pressure of it adjusting to his skin. And in the silence, he thought:
Yes. It’s time.

And they left the room together, unhurried. Because now they have all the time in the world. It wasn't about urgency anymore.

It was about staying.

***

Florence. Two days since he wore their mark.

The mug slipped from Will’s hand before he realized it was wet.

It shattered against the sink—ceramic splintering in three clean pieces, the handle spinning once before falling still. Will stood there, water running over his wrist, the silence afterward louder than the break.

It wasn’t just any mug. It was the one he always used—the chipped one with the faded rim, worn smooth from months of use. The one Hannibal had once called "undignified" and never replaced.

Will turned off the tap. The pieces lay in the basin like something accidental and final. He didn’t clean them up right away.

Outside, the sky had shifted—low, swollen clouds dragging shadows across the stone streets. The air carried pressure. Waiting.

Will glanced at the clock. Hannibal should’ve returned an hour ago. When he ran errands, it was rarely more than two hours—two fifteen, if he indulged himself. But this? This was stretching into silence.

Will moved through the house. Touched the edge of the stove. Listened to the hum of the refrigerator. Every sound felt amplified against the absence.

He tried to read. Couldn’t. Tried to call Kairos, but the dog was already at the front door, ears tipped forward, tail low. Waiting too.

Half an hour passed like that—thick, uneventful and wrong. Then Will stood, grabbed his coat, and that’s when the dog’s stance changed.

Kairos smelled it first. It didn’t bark. But when Hannibal came through the door, its head low, ears tilted, something between alert and uneasy. It stepped forward, sniffed at the cuff of his pants, then backed off.

Will noticed. He didn’t say anything, just watched as Hannibal entered, calm as ever. Shoes lined up by the door. Coat folded over the arm. No stain, no mark, no blood. Yet, the scent of control clung to him. Too much of it.

Will hung his coat back on the hook, fingers brushing briefly over the worn fabric. He took the grocery bags from Hannibal without a word, the exchange quiet, almost automatic. Hannibal didn’t linger—he moved toward the kitchen, already pulling off his gloves with surgical precision.

Will stood there for a moment, the silence between them stretching a little too long to feel ordinary. Then he drifted into the living room, picked up the book he'd left open on the armrest.

He thumbed through it absently, he didn't really reading, only turning pages for the sake of movement. From where he sat, he could see into the kitchen. 

Hannibal was cooking at the stove. He always did, but not like this. His hands moved with more precision than usual. Every motion was exact, deliberate and calculated. The kind of silence that came when the mind was elsewhere. When the body followed a path out of habit because the soul was walking somewhere darker, farther.

Hannibal barely spoke during dinner. He chewed slower, eyes distant. Twice, he looked toward the window, gaze held too long with calculation. 
It wasn’t just silence. It was something he didn’t want to say. Will waited. Waited through the clearing of dishes. Through Hannibal wiping down the counter twice. Through the dog still lingering near the hall, watching with quiet suspicion.

By the time Will leaned against the kitchen frame, Hannibal was already rinsing a clean plate.

“You’re quiet today.”

Hannibal didn’t turn. “It was a long walk.”

Will said nothing. He watched Hannibal set the plate aside. Dry his hands slowly. Still not looking at Will. So he stepped forward, just enough to narrow the space between them. “Something happened.”

Hannibal didn’t answer.

“You won’t say,” Will said, his voice steady. “So I’m going to ask.”

That made Hannibal still, Will didn’t fill the silence. He let it hang, thick and waiting. After a while, Hannibal said, without turning.

“Someone followed me.”

Will’s eyes narrowed. Hannibal, already rinsing the knife, placed it into the holder and pushed it away, as if bracing for the violence that might follow.

“You wouldn't like it, Will.”

Will arched his brow, leaning against the sink. “Try me.”

Hannibal’s fingers curled tighter against the edge of the counter. His back was rigid, unmoving, but Will could see the war in that stillness. The flicker of breath caught just under his ribs. The silence stretched too long to be dismissive, too short to be cowardice.

When Hannibal spoke, his voice was low. Carefully placed. “I killed a man today.”

His hand pressed more firmly against the counter now, bracing.

“He followed me, didn’t look like a tourist.” He continued, his voice steadier but distant. “He stared at me after he died. Like he didn’t expect it.”

He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t try to soften the confession. And yet, Will saw it—that fraction of doubt before the words came. That quiet moment where Hannibal considered keeping it buried.

“So,” Will mimicked his movement, palm resting near Hannibal's. “this happened because your hormones make you paranoid?”

“Will.” 

That, Will knew, was a warning not to press further.

“Hannibal.” 

They looked into each other’s eyes for a long time. Neither looked away. And Will thought, absently, that Hannibal wasn’t hiding it now—the side he didn't let surface for months. 

But his lips were pressed too tight. This wasn’t Hannibal threatening. It was something more vulnerable. He was bracing for whatever could happen here—what Will didn’t know, and never got to know.

Something that didn’t belong to this moment, but hung behind his eyes all the same.

And Will, without understanding why, thought suddenly of the scar Hannibal had written in his journal. A detail he'd never asked about. A wound he'd never bore. A scar he’d never seen.

He didn’t speak again. Only stared at Hannibal for a long moment—long enough for the weight between them to shift, subtle yet irreversible. Then, slowly, Will stepped away.

Hannibal didn’t stop him. He didn’t move. He just turned slightly—enough to watch Will’s retreating back. His eyes followed Will like a man witnessing a slow eclipse. But he didn’t reach for him, didn’t say his name. Maybe because he knew better. Or maybe because he didn’t trust his voice not to betray him.

Will took his coat from the hook by the door. The fabric felt too heavy in his hands. As he pulled it over his shoulders, he could still feel the air Hannibal left behind—warm, stifling, threaded with silence.

He opened the door. The cold hit him instantly, like a slap, a blade. The wind carved across his face, needling through the space between his collar and skin. Still, he didn’t look back. His steps were steady, slow. Each one deliberate, as though grounding himself in the motion.

Outside, the city was hushed, frozen under a clear sky. Will walked to the bridge, the cold gnawing at his fingers.

He lit a cigarette with stiff hands. But he didn’t inhale. He just held it, let it burn between his fingers. The tip glowed faintly in the dark, a quiet defiance against the wind. Smoke curled and vanished into the air like breath he couldn't take in.

He didn’t look into his shadow anymore, not like he once had.

But its trace hadn’t disappeared just because he refused to see it. It was still there—in Hannibal’s slower movements, in the way he held himself with restraint, with patience that felt unnatural. Learned. Inherited.

Hannibal had been changed. Changed by another version of him, undeniably. They had marked each other—permanently. Carrying the scar in their daily lives, whether or not they spoke of it.

The cigarette had burned itself down. Will lit another with a quiet flick, the fire catching like memory. He held it between his fingers. Let it burn again.

This time, he closed his eyes.

And suddenly, and he was in that raining day again. The one where he had chosen not to go with Hannibal.

He stands now—in his mind’s eye—at the threshold of Hannibal’s dining room. The air is unnaturally still, but his skin crawls with ghosts.

There’s no blood on the floor. He lowers himself slowly, hand brushing the polished floorboards. There’s no stain, no warmth, no viscera. But in his mind, it’s all here.

Abigail. 

He gave him a rare gift—and kept it hidden all this time.

He stands in the silence of the house, and it came as a feeling—a rising pressure in his chest, like drowning. That moment comes again: her face, pale and trembling, stepping out from the shadows. Alive. Real.
He swallows hard, feels the echo of her weight in his arms. She fell into his. Blood soaking through his shirt. Her blood. Her last breath against his neck.
Hannibal threw her at him. Like a parting curse. Like a cruel reminder of what he couldn’t protect.

He wanted him to hold her—just long enough to feel it. The failure. The grief. The guilt.

And then—

An arm wraps around him. Hannibal’s palm presses lightly against his back. A gesture almost tender, comfort, if it were anyone else.

He held him like a lover. Like a mourner offering solace.

And gutted him instead. Right there. In that spot.

Will exhales, a slow, shaking breath. His hand hot from the burning cigarette. He leaned back against the guardrail, heart hammering from comprehension. From grief, that didn't announce itself all at once. It seeps in quietly. Like water under a locked door.

It didn’t happen…because that he was there. 

He lit another cigarette and inhaled this time. The burn at the back of his throat was grounding. He looked down at the watch on his wrist—

sleek, familiar, intentional. A quiet weight against his skin. Something solid to return to.

Hannibal had prepared this. Chosen it. Hidden it. He could have given it to the other him—the one that completed his dream—but instead, he had tucked it away in the farthest corner of the drawer.

Reserved. For Will. 

It had to mean something. 

Will crushed the glowing cherry against stone, the ash scattering like dust in the wind. He didn’t light another. The ritual had served its purpose.

But he didn’t go back yet. The air at the apartment still held the raw sting of everything said—and unsaid. And Will wasn’t interested in pushing either of them too far, too soon. Some wounds needed air before they could close. He would return when Hannibal was asleep. When the nicotine had faded from his clothes, and the cold no longer clung so sharply to his skin.

Will walked through the bridge, didn't look back. 

This choice had lived in him for a while—quiet, waiting to be tested.
And this... this was only that. A test. To see if it held. And it served its purpose.

Whatever between Hannibal and the other him, unfinished or not, resolved or forever suspended—it wouldn’t change this. 
Will was sure of that. And now, he was walking back toward something he had chosen—eyes open, aware of its damage, and willing to meet it anyway.

He returned when the moon was high in the southern sky, its light was pale and silver, brushing softly against the windows.

Will stepped inside with practiced care, moving quietly, mindful not to stir the hush of the house. He hung his coat slowly, each motion deliberate, almost meditative. He reached for the light switch, his fingers brushing metal—

And froze.

Hannibal was on the couch. His hand rested on the cushion where Will usually sat. The place he usually read, while Hannibal rested nearby.

He looked up. He didn't cry—but his eyes were rimmed with red, the faint shimmer of dried tears tracing down his cheeks. He looked... open, quietly undone in a way Will hadn’t seen before. And in that expression, Will saw a man who had stayed exactly where Will might return. And believed, in some deep and hidden place, that he wouldn’t.

Will should have felt disturbed. Or angry, maybe. At the secrecy. The lack of trust. The paranoid. 

But watching Hannibal still sat there—quiet, dignified, wearing grief like a second skin—made something else twist in Will’s chest. 
That he loved him, in his own way, even in his doubt.

Hannibal’s eyes held his, unblinking. His hands clenched in his lap—but he said nothing. And in that silence, Will moved first.

“You shouldn't be here.” Will said, voice rough with smoke and something he hadn't name. He walked toward the couch, gaze catching on Hannibal’s bare feet pressed to the cold floor.

“Where is your sock?”

Hannibal opened his mouth, barely—some useless reply forming—but Will didn’t want it. Not the explanation. Not the defense.

“Come to bed.” He said instead, soft but immovable.

And Hannibal did. He was already lying on the bed when Will returned to the room, adjusting the temperature with the familiar twist of a dial. The hum of warm air began to fill the space.

Will didn’t look at him at first. He moved with quiet purpose, folding his shirt over the back of the chair, toeing off his shoes with slow precision. It was only when he turned toward the bed that Hannibal spoke. The words came quiet, but sharp. Sudden. Like the crack of something splitting beneath the surface.

“I could end this,” Hannibal said. “If you want.”

Will paused. He hadn’t said anything. But still—Hannibal had seen it. And now he was offering to step away from it.
The back of Will's neck prickled from the weight of it. The offer, the truth inside it.

His voice came low, rougher than he wanted. “What makes you think like that?”

Hannibal didn’t answer right away. His eyes searched Will’s face, for his expression, maybe. Then his gaze flicked toward the door, a flicker of old instinct—as if one wrong move might send Will running again. 

Will saw it. And instead of speaking, he turned, crossed the room, and locked the door. Hannibal watched him return, something in his posture relaxing in that subtle way he rarely allowed himself.

“You don’t like that the chapter hasn’t been closed entirely.” Hannibal said, voice low, but not accusing.

Will shrugged. “I don’t.” He didn’t see the point in denying it. “But I don’t see how that means we have to end this.”

There was a pause, the kind that opens like a wound. Then, Hannibal's hand rested on the rise of his belly.

“This thing,” Hannibal said eventually, “is a constant reminder, Will.”

The gesture wasn’t soft. It was almost clinical, almost surgical—as though he were identifying a weight to be removed, not a life to be nurtured. And something about that made Will’s spine tighten.

“You would look into her face,” Hannibal continued, “and see what we couldn’t have. Every time.”

There was no resentment in his voice. Not toward the child. Not even toward the circumstance. He spoke with the steadiness of someone prepared—someone who, if Will so much as nodded, would perform the operation on himself.

Will stepped closer. He understood. He really did. Hannibal’s fear had caught up with his curiosity. And now he was no longer dissecting Will’s choice—he was bracing for it. Bracing for the moment Will chose to leave. And he would give up everything, even this, if it meant Will would stay.

“Maybe I will.” His voice unreadable, but in it, a decision was made.

Hannibal opened his mouth. He looked like he wanted to explain, or argue, or fold another layer of logic over something Will had already accepted.

But he didn’t get the chance.

Will reached out, his hand curling around Hannibal’s jaw—gentle, but final. A touch meant to hush, to stop the spiral before it began.

“Take your clothes off.” He said.

Hannibal froze. His lips parted, words beginning to form, but Will just shook his head softly.

“I’m not asking you to explain.” He said.

And Hannibal obeyed. He unbuttoned his trousers first. The ones Will had once told him were too stiff, too formal for comfort. Then his hands moved to the hem of his sweater—and paused.

Will saw the hesitation settled in his shoulders.

“Do it.” He said, softer now. “You don’t need to protect me from it.”

Hannibal let the fabric slide upward, over his ribs, and then he was bare. When it was done, he looked at Will—not meeting his eyes,  but studying his mouth, his brows, as if trying to guess the reaction before it came.

Will didn’t speak. He let the silence answered it. 

Then, he said: “Look into my eyes.” He waited for Hannibal’s gaze rise to meet his before continued:

“What do you see inside? Tell me.”

Hannibal didn't answer. And somehow, still, he had the audacity to look wounded—as if Will was the one hurting him now. As if asking him to speak was more unforgivable than all the times he hadn’t trusted Will enough to speak, even when Will kept choosing to stay.

Will held his gaze. “Tell me what you see. Don’t think. Just say it.”

Hannibal’s throat moved with a swallow, the kind that had nothing to do with words—a gesture of restraint, of hesitation pulled taut. His voice, when it came, was unguarded. Bare, like the rest of him.

“Grief,” Hesaid first, the word leaving him like breath. “Sometimes. For what hadn't been us.”

He paused, then continued, softer now.

“And expectation,” Hannibal said. “You expect honesty. From me. From yourself.”

Each word landed carefully, as if they might shatter in his mouth.

“Recognition. You see me—clearly—and you’re still here.”

Will’s jaw shifted slightly. He didn’t smile. But something softened around his eyes.

Then came the pause, longer than the others. He closed his eyes, gathering the final word with care.

“And... want.” He said finally. 

“Sounds about right.”

He reached out then—slowly, deliberately—his fingers grazing the skin just above Hannibal’s navel. The air between them thickened with attention, with intention. Will’s hand traced along the curve of Hannibal’s stomach—the soft rise that had once unsettled him. For what it meant. What it held. What had been kept from him. What another version of himself had left behind.

His touch followed the line of skin warmed by breath and blood, pausing where a faint pulse moved just beneath the surface.

A heartbeat.
Not only Hannibal’s.

“This,” He murmured, after a a long silence, “was never what I imagined for us.”

Will didn’t explain himself. He only leaned in, pressing his lips gently to the skin where his thumb had rested. Hannibal watched him, unmoving. His breathing had changed, like each inhale was being measured against something he couldn’t name.

And it struck Hannibal then, deep and certain—this wasn’t Will trying to forgive him. He was simply refusing to look away. That he was allowed to love what he hadn't created.

Hannibal’s voice came quietly. Measured. Like each word had to be weighed before it left him.

“II thought if I showed you only this side of me,” He continued. “This peace might last longer, and grow strong enough before I reminded you of the rest.”

“I know.” Will said, almost right away. Like it had never stopped living inside him. “I won’t ever forget who you are.”

Hannibal closed his eyes.

“The man who played the FBI like puppets,” He added after a pause. “Who sat across from me while I lost myself—and never said a word.”

“Who...kept our daughter from me.”

Will looked down again, to the curve beneath his hand. His thumb moved slow and thoughtful across one of the faint lines stretching the skin.

“And now,” He said quietly,  almost to himself. “scarred by the other me.”

Hannibal didn’t flinch. He only received it. The truth of it. The weight. And after a long moment, he nodded slightly, his voice hoarse: 

“In protecting this, I left you outside of it.”

Will didn’t say anything.  But his hand stayed. That was answer enough.

Hannibal’s voice was quieter now. Raw.

“This... wasn’t my intention.”

Still, Will said nothing—knowing this, was the only apology Hannibal was ready to give. He only lifted his head, met Hannibal’s eyes—and leaned in, pressing a kiss to his mouth.

“I’m ready,” He said, voice low against Hannibal's lips. 

“Let me in.”

Hannibal’s breath caught—quiet, sharp, but unmistakable.

And then he nodded, whispered into their kiss:

“Yes, Will.”

***

Florence. Four days after he said he want to be chosen.

'Kairos has taken to sleeping beside the folded cloths. I haven’t discouraged him. There’s something reassuring in his vigilance—a quiet reminder that some instincts, once awakened, do not fade.'

Hannibal hadn’t broken his word.

He let Will in—not all at once, but consistently. He’d stopped hiding his discomfort. His shifts. His craving.

They weren't the gentle hungry for sweets or sour or salt like other people's. It was the pull, deep and cellular. Demands that came from somewhere beneath reason—things his intellectually rejected, but his body now insisted on.

It began with small things.

A piece of pizza—homemade, inelegant. The crust uneven—which Will helped, the cheese too thick, and doused with too-sweet pineapple. A thing Hannibal would once have refused to acknowledge, let alone eat.

But he ate it now, but not with pleasure or indulging. He ate with focus, with restraint, as if enduring it was a form of discipline.

Will didn’t tease. Didn’t laugh. He understood this wasn’t about food. It was about Hannibal choosing to be seen as something closer to animal than curated control.

So Will sat with him at the table, elbows loose on the wood. He watched. Occasionally offering conversation in fragments—just enough to keep Hannibal tethered when discomfort flickered through his eyes.

Eventually, Hannibal swallowed hard, the movement deliberate, like he was forcing the instinct down before it could rise. And then he said, his voice level but cold:

“It was never truly about the pineapple. It was about the impulse—and my failure to restrain it.”

His tone was clinical. Cold. Like he was dissecting himself from the inside out. And Will understood what he meant. It wasn’t the absurdity that threatened Hannibal.
It was the surrender. It was allowing himself to be absurd. To want something beneath him. To want it anyway.

So Will only nodded. His voice came quiet, even, unshaken.

“It’s okay.”

But Hannibal’s jaw tightened, the muscles flexing just beneath the skin. His fingers curled a little too tightly around the crust, and Will could see it—he didn’t believe him.

So Will leaned forward slightly and repeated, firmer this time: “I said it’s okay.”

Truth was, he kind of liked it—the craving. It made Hannibal feel real. Fallible in a way that didn’t diminish him but made him human. Not that he’d ever admit it.

From the corner of the room, Abigail made a face and muttered something under her breath—somewhere between mockery and disbelief. The kind of thing teenagers said when people acted romantic without admitting it.

Will didn’t say anything. He honestly didn’t see this as romantic—at least not by any normal definition. He just reached for another slice and took a bite, eyes still on Hannibal.

It wasn’t good. Even Kairos would’ve walked away if it wasn't hungry enough. But Hannibal kept eating. And this time, the tension had eased just enough. His shoulders relaxed, his movements less forced. Not enjoyment exactly, but something close to comfort.

And for Will—for now—that was enough.

But of course, Hannibal didn't think that was enough.

It happened two nights later, just past midnight.

Will woke to cold air and the shape of absence beside him—blankets pulled back, sheets gone cool. His hand reached instinctively, searching without thought, and found nothing but the faint imprint left behind.

The house wasn’t quiet, though it tried to be. Somewhere down the hall, something moved—careful. Drawers opened. A fridge. The low hum of the space stretched thin, like the house itself was holding its breath.

Will didn’t turn on the light. He pulled on a sweatshirt and let the silence lead him.

In the kitchen, the refrigerator cast a pale glow across the floor. Hannibal stood in its open light, braced against the doorframe like a man unsure if he meant to take something—or keep himself from it. One hand clutched a vacuum-sealed package. The other was tight around the edge of the door. He was too still to be calm. Too focused to be detached.

Will paused at the threshold, watching him—the sharp line of his profile, the hollow in his shoulders, the tension coiled through his posture. The absence of sleep.

“What are you doing?” He asked, voice quiet.

Hannibal didn’t turn. His grip on the container shifted, tighter. Raw meat. Pork, Will hoped—but he couldn’t be sure. Not at this hour. Not with that look in Hannibal’s eyes. This wasn’t just hunger. It was memory, muscle-deep and dangerous. A craving not only for flesh, but for a part of himself he had been keeping buried—for Will’s sake, for all their sakes.

Will felt it in his stomach, an old knowing. The look. The calm before storm. The ache curling beneath it.

“I want to eat it,” Hannibal said eventually. Then, after a breath, quieter still: “Raw.”

The word landed between them with more weight than it should have. Wrong in a quiet, dangerous way, for what it meant.

Will stepped forward, careful with the space between them.

“Put it down.”

Hannibal didn’t move. His body stayed locked in place, but not resisting. His breath hitched, barely audible, and for a second Will wasn’t sure which way he’d go.

So he came closer. Close enough to see the tremor in Hannibal’s hand. Close enough to lay his own gently over it, to offer something grounding. 

Their eyes met at last, and Will saw it clearly: the hunger, the want, stripped of elegance armors. Raw, exposed. Something animal in its grief.

“You miss who you were,” Will said, offered only understanding. “But you’re not alone with it now.”

Hannibal blinked slowly, like the thought hadn’t fully formed until Will gave it shape. For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then, gradually, Hannibal reached forward and closed the fridge. The soft seal of the door clicked echoed like a breath finally let go.

Will took the package from his hand and set it aside without looking. He didn’t ask what it was.

“Come back to bed.” He said.

And Hannibal followed—quiet, barefoot, and raw in a different way.

***

Florence. One week since he knew about the midnight craving.

The craving hadn’t vanished, but it had quieted. Dulled down into something manageable, something Hannibal no longer had to wrestle with in the dark.

Will could see it—less in what Hannibal said and more in what he no longer hid. The midnight hunger had returned less since, but Will still carried the weight of it behind his eyes. Some nights, Hannibal was quiet—carefully so, as if sound itself might betray him. Other nights, he sat at the table with shoulders held too still, as though bracing for violence that never came.

Once, Will had found him in the hallway with silent tears on his face, the barest evidence of something he couldn’t hold in anymore. And Will, unsure whether words would help or only harden it, had simply stood with him until it stopped.

It was exhausting sometimes, this kind of understanding. Trying to read the pauses, to guess at the shape of the hurt between breaths. Will didn’t always get it right. He didn’t know if he could always pull Hannibal back from wherever he slipped. And that scared him, more than the craving itself ever had.

The morning after the worst of it, Mara had smirked over coffee and asked, “Rough night?”

Will hadn’t denied it. It had been rough, in a way that went beyond sleep. But it wasn’t the kind that frightened him anymore. It was the kind people lived through. And Will had decided—cautiously, quietly—that he could live with that.

But this night had come and gone without event. Only plates scraped clean, low music still humming softly in the other room, and the kind of night that slipped between fingers unnoticed, less braced.

Will only realized something was different when he came back from rinsing dishes. Hannibal wasn’t moving about the house as usual—tidying, checking windows, turning down the lights. Instead, he had settled on the couch, half-reclined, one hand resting over his stomach in a gesture too still to be idle. His thumb moved in slow, absent-minded circles, like he was soothing something beneath the skin.

Will paused in the doorway, watching him. "You’re planted tonight." He observed, voice light but curious.

Hannibal’s lips curved faintly. "She's restless." He said simply, his hand shifting slightly as though in illustration. "Quite energetic today."

Will stepped closer, almost without thinking. "Yeah?"

He didn’t wait for permission—they’d passed that point long ago. He sat beside Hannibal and laid his palm gently over the curved swell, fingers spreading instinctively to feel.

It didn’t take long. 

A sharp little kick met him. Then another. Firm. More eager. Like she recognized the his presence and was pressing into it. Will nearly pulled away. Instinct, a twitch born from years of rehearsing detachment. But then Hannibal looked at him—waiting, no coaxing. And Will let the impulse pass, let the contact stay.

He huffed, almost a laugh, eyes flicking up in mild amusement. “She's really going for it.”

“Always worse at night.” Hannibal mused, his voice edged with fond exasperation. “I think she likes your attention.” 

Will didn’t say what struck him then—that the child already reminded him of Hannibal in that specific, relentless way. That same demand for presence. For recognition. Instead, he shifted closer, folding the hem of Hannibal’s sweater up just enough to bare the skin beneath—pale, warm, faintly flushed. He watched, transfixed, as another ripple moved beneath his palm. A kick, a turn. The baby shifting as if restless to be felt. To be known.

Something tugged in his chest.
Like watching something that once should’ve been distant become real.

Will's thumb smoothed once, slowly, across the skin. Then, in a voice almost too casual to offhand—but too steady to be accidental—he murmured,

"I’ve been thinking about names." His hand paused its slow movement.

He understood the weight of that too much—to offer a name that wasn’t a placeholder for grief. To not burden this child with a memory she could never live up to.
Mischa was Mischa.
This was someone new.

Hannibal stilled faintly. His eyes shifted, reading Will’s face with quiet care.

"You have?" He asked, mild, but attentiveness in that way he always was when they stepped into vulnerable spaces.

Will didn’t look at him. He kept his gaze on the movement beneath his hand—the gentle, shifting shape of someone not yet born.

“Yeah.” He said, after a moment. “Nothing stuck, but… I guess it’s time.”

Then, after a pause, he added softly, "I want she to have her own name."

He faltered there, searching for how to say it without saying too much, without making this conversation raw like the last time. But Hannibal understood anyway, he nodded.

Will’s fingers flexed lightly—tapped once against the skin with something startlingly close to affection. He said finally, softer now:

"Eleanor." 

Hannibal blinked. The name seemed to settle, soft and certain, between them.
He understood what Will had chosen. A name that carried light, not legacy or shadow. Whole in itself. He repeated it once, tasting it.

"Eleanor." He said it once, almost to himself, like tasting it.

Then he nodded. “It has strength, and grace. There’s something almost mythic to it.”

Will nodded, eyes still on the gentle rise and fall of Hannibal’s stomach.

"Yeah. Feels right. Feels... like her."

Not a name to bury the past. Not another ghost to chain them. Eleanor. Someone new. Someone theirs.

Hannibal didn’t speak right away, but his hand drifted to cover Will’s. Their fingers threaded, loose and steady—an unspoken answer.

"Thank you." Hannibal said quietly. 

Will leaned back, just enough to shift his arm behind Hannibal’s shoulders. He drew him in until their foreheads touched, a quiet meeting of breath and understanding.

"She wouldn’t get a normal life." Will muttered after a moment. “We wouldn’t stay in the same place too long.”

"No." Hannibal agreed.

Will’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile—more a quiet concession.

"But I think I can live with not-normal."

Hannibal didn’t answer in words. He only pressed closer, and between them, the baby kicking softly, already a presence neither of them could—or wanted to—hold at arm’s length anymore.

And in the quiet that followed, nothing more needed to be decided.

***

Florence. One week since the child was named.

Will came home earlier than usual that day.

The sky outside still held the pale tint of a late afternoon, Kairos greeted him at the door with a slow thump of the tail, rising only half-heartedly from the mat. The house was calm, but noticeably emptier than he expected.

He dropped his keys into the dish by the door and listened. No clatter of pans. No scent curling from the kitchen. The silence wasn’t hostile, but it lacked presence. Odd.

Abigail looked up from the couch, where she was folding laundry with casual precision. One earbud dangled, the other still in place.

“He’s still at work,” She offered, like she already knew the question. “You know him.”

He only nodded, but something in him tightened.

That night, after the dishes were cleared and the lights had dimmed to their usual amber hush, they sat together in the quiet. Will waited until the quiet stretched long enough to speak into.

“Have you ever considered,” He began, casually enough, “how much you’ve been working lately?”

Hannibal looked up from the iPad resting in his lap, his gaze calm, head tilting slightly in thought.

“At the library,” Will continued, “then home—cooking, cleaning, managing the house like it’s a test you’re being graded on.”

Hannibal offered the faintest smile. “I find routine soothing.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

There was a pause, then Hannibal set the tablet down with deliberate care.

“I prefer staying active,” He said smoothly. “It keeps things balanced.”

Will didn’t argue, not then. He let it pass.

But two days later, Hannibal was halfway through wiping down the dining table when Will caught the shift. It was minute—only the faint tightening of his knuckles, the breath pulled short—but Will saw it anyway. He knew the tells. He knew the difference now—the line between normal fatigue and something else. Something that hurt, even by Hannibal’s standards.

He didn’t speak immediately. He walked over instead, each step measured.

“You alright?” 

His tone was calm—casual, even—but there was too much precision in it. A quiet tension beneath the surface.

“Yes, Will,” The answer came a little too fast. Hannibal’s gaze didn’t quite hold his. “Just a moment of tightness.”

Will’s voice dropped in pitch. “That’s not nothing.”

“It passed.”

Will exhaled through his nose. His jaw shifted, eyes narrowing with quiet weight. He watched—calculating, tense. Ready to press the issue but choosing, for now, to hold it.

After that, he watched too closely. Stepped in too quickly. He took things from Hannibal’s hands before they were fully lifted, steered him toward chairs with light touches that felt more like commands than care. His concern didn’t wear gentleness. It came clipped, precise, impossible to ignore.

Abigail noticed.

“He’s not going to like that.” She said one evening, under her breath while rinsing washed fruits.

Will didn’t look up from the tray of fruit he was slicing. “Not everything that happens is to his liking.”

But even under Will’s persistence, the pain came again.
And this time, it didn’t pass.

Hannibal had been crossing toward the bookshelf when it struck—sharper now, deeper. It stopped him mid-step. His hand moved to his side, fingers curling inward, posture going stiff and straight like he could will it away.

Will was across the room before Hannibal could hide a thing.

“Sit down.” His voice left no room for protest.

“I—”

“Sit.”

Something in his tone cracked—not fully anger yet, but a rupture in control. It wasn’t gentle. It was protective, urgent, and...afraid.

Hannibal, without another word, obeyed. He eased into the chair slowly, every gesture deliberate.

Will crouched in front of him, one hand steadying Hannibal’s knee, the other moving to his side with firm touches. His eyes moved over Hannibal’s body like a man cataloging harm—already knowing what he’d find, but needing the truth of it confirmed.

“You don’t get to lie about this again.” He said, stripped of pretense. “Not to me.”

Hannibal opened his mouth—but Will cut him off with a look.

“I mean it.”

His voice was raw, rough. There was no rage in it. 

“I know you want control. I know you hate being treated like you’re fragile. Trust me, I’ve been there. But if something happens to you—" His voice broke slightly, then steadied again.

"To her—because you were too proud to admit it hurt, I’ll never forgive you.”

The heater clicked on in the background, a low hum filling the silence between them.

Then, slowly, Hannibal reached out—his hand settling over Will’s. There was no apology. But the weight of the gesture said enough.

Will let out a slow breath, his head dropping just slightly forward. 

They stayed like that: hands joined, breath slowing. And this time, neither of them pretended it hadn’t happened.

—

The next day, Will came home early again—earlier than planned.

The house was quiet, wrapped in the gauze of late-afternoon light drifting through the curtains. Shoes were lined neatly by the door. Hannibal’s coat hung where it always did. And in the reading chair, he sat—already home.

He wasn’t tidying. He wasn’t cooking. He wasn’t arranging the room like it needed soothing.. A book lay open in his lap, untouched. His hand rested in Kairos’s fur, moving in slow, idle strokes. The dog didn’t stir.

They didn’t speak of it. But something had shifted. Eased.

Will didn’t hover this time. He didn’t watch every step Hannibal took, count his breaths or reach first for every object in his hands. Instead, he moved through the house with quiet familiarity, putting away groceries, sorting mail, starting the water for tea.

And Hannibal let it happen. He didn’t rise to correct or control. He remained in the chair, letting his body rest without resistance.

So Will didn’t try to solve it. He simply let the quiet hold between them.

***

Florence. Two weeks since Hannibal let himself rest.

Their life wasn’t perfect.

Not in the way people liked to imagine peace—tidy, effortless, free of sharp edges. It still held tension, still stretched with silences that ran too long. Hannibal’s need for control hadn’t vanished—it simply softened at the edges, made room. Some days it still pressed against Will, tested his patience in quiet, deliberate ways. And Will, for all his clarity now, still had moments where he questioned if this could hold.

But they made it. They had learned each other’s weight again, and how to carry it—unevenly, sometimes, but always together. 

Tonight, dinner had been simple. They ate shoulder to shoulder, knees pressing lightly beneath the table, speaking in soft, half-sentences. The kind of language only they could parse.

Afterward, Hannibal had returned to the couch, easing himself carefully down. The pregnancy shaped how he moved now. Will had watched, head tipped against the doorway.

It still amazed him, sometimes. How easily Hannibal allowed himself to be known now. To be seen.

And maybe that was why, when Will moved toward him after cleaning up, he did so without hesitation. He sat beside Hannibal, thigh pressed to thigh, and let the quiet hang. Hannibal shifted faintly, just enough to lean into Will’s space. To meet his eyes.

“What?” Will asked, brief, but without defenses.

Hannibal didn’t answer right away. Instead, his hand came up—tentative, careful—and brushed along Will’s jaw. Fingers threaded through his hair with the kind of care that wasn’t hesitant, only deliberate. The touch was like... studying.

Will held still, letting it happen. Letting Hannibal trace him like something fragile and beloved. Like relearning something he had been afraid to reach for before. And when Will leaned forward slightly, meeting the touch, Hannibal’s thumb smoothed along his lower lip in slow movement.

Will caught it lightly in his teeth. The tension between them changed, as naturally as breath turning shallow.

“You can kiss me, you know.” Will said, barely above a whisper.

Hannibal’s lips twitched, almost teasing. “I thought perhaps... you preferred it slower now.”

“You’re carrying ours.” Will said simply. “Slow’s not on the table.”

With that, Hannibal surged forward, their mouths meeting with more urgency than grace. Still, it wasn’t rushed. Their lips pressed, parted, pressed again—slow and deep and without destination.

When Hannibal shifted closer, Will welcomed him, pulling gently until Hannibal straddled his lap. Their mouths kept moving, but slower now. Less desperate. Will’s hands slid along Hannibal’s back, up his spine, pausing where tension knotted just beneath his shoulder blades.

Hannibal’s own hands mapped Will in turn. Over his shoulders. Down his arms. Across his chest. Fingers brushing over scars and familiar curves without judgment or hesitation. Like he wanted to know all of Will, like he wanted to consume him.

Will made a soft noise when Hannibal’s palm smoothed low, beneath the hem of his shirt to rest with warm against his stomach.

Hannibal drew back slightly to look at him. “You’ve lost weight again.” He murmured, and it was almost fond.

Will huffed, breath warm against Hannibal’s cheek. “Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not,” Hannibal murmured. He leaned in again, lips brushing lazily across Will’s. “I am studying the subject.”

Will snorted against his mouth but didn’t pull away. Instead, he let himself be studied. And when Hannibal’s hands returned to roam—slower this time, deliberate—Will responded.

He leaned back slightly, catching his breath. Hannibal didn’t chase the kiss, didn’t press for more. He simply held Will’s gaze—steady, unguarded in a way that still caught Will off-guard.

“You’re different tonight,” He said quietly. “What changed?”

Hannibal tilted his head, lips still parted as if he meant to respond—but the words didn’t come right away. Will saw it then: the flicker of hesitation, not quite doubt, but something close.

“Tell me.” He said, voice even.

Hannibal’s eyes dipped, then returned. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, intentional.

“I’ve been thinking we should leave soon. Somewhere quieter. Less traceable.”

Will didn’t react immediately. His body held still.

“Why?” He asked, voice tipped with dry amusement. “Someone catch your paranoia again?”

“Not yet.” Hannibal replied evenly, clearly ignored the tease. “But staying in one place for too long invites attention. And with my body—less free than it once was—caution requires more than it used to.”

Will was quiet, too quiet. 

“You didn’t think I’d agree.” He said after a moment. “So you waited until we were like this.”

There was no accusation in his tone—only the worn edge of someone long accustomed to Hannibal’s timing.

“I must admit,” Will added, quietly, “at this point, I can’t even find it in myself to be angry.”

Hannibal reached out then, laying his hand gently over Will’s. The gesture was careful to not coaxing.

“I only wanted to make sure.”

Will let out a dry breath—something like a laugh, but thinner. “That’s comforting. Really.”

Hannibal didn’t flinch. His thumb brushed once across the back of Will’s hand.

“My body craves you, Will. So does my mind. You’ve made a place inside me.” He said. “I want your agreement, yes. But more than that, I want your nearness.”

Will exhaled but didn’t look him right way.

“I can find work with the dogs anywhere,” he said at last. “I’ve done it before."

Then, his voice dropped a note deeper.

"You didn’t have to lead me toward the answer. You could’ve just asked.”

A flicker passed through Hannibal’s expression—remorse, maybe. Or something shaped like it. Then he nodded, once.

“I trust you, Will.”

But Will didn’t echo it.

“We’ll go,” He said. “But next time, trust me to say yes before you start making it harder to say no.”

—

It wasn’t discussed urgently—just surfaced in quiet, practical moments. Between meals, during long walks. When Abigail wrinkled her nose at the humidity curling through the Florentine nights and muttered, “I won’t miss this. Somewhere cooler wouldn’t be the worst idea.” It was half a joke, but not entirely.

She was the first to say it out loud, the one to give the idea shape. Hannibal agreed, he simply tilted his head, as if already imagining somewhere with mist in the mornings and quiet evenings that didn’t press against the skin. A place fit for Eleanor—secluded, composed, untouched by crowds or climate that made his body feel slower than he liked.

Will hadn’t offered much. Only said, when it circled back to him: “Wherever you go, I go.”

He didn’t care where, really, not as long as the move wasn’t about hiding from him.

In the end, they chose Lucerne.

Abigail approved for the lake and the charm. Hannibal for the silence and order. Will didn’t protest. He only watched how the decision settled in each of them—and quietly accepted it, even before it had been finalized.

Hannibal, of course, had already started the paperwork. When Will found the folder tucked into his desk drawer the next week—everything stamped and categorized, appointments made with quiet precision—he didn’t comment. He just leaned against the doorframe and looked at Hannibal for a long moment.

Of course he was ready.
He always was. But this time, he hadn’t decided alone.

***

Florence. Almost two weeks since they chose where to go.

It started as nothing.

Will came over late. Abigail was already upstairs, muttering about readings and that “Kairos is the only one here who respects my sleep schedule.”

Hannibal had offered him wine, but Will waved it off. He was relaxed tonight—soft in his jeans and a faded old t-shirt, legs stretched out on the couch like he owned the place. And by now, in the ways that mattered, he did.

Hannibal poured himself a glass anyway. He didn’t sit right away. Instead, he moved through the room with that quiet ease he always carried—touching small things, adjusting the flowers, turning a page of an open book left face-down. Not that it needed doing, but because his hands missed the ritual. Missed control and being needed.

Will watched him, eyes tracking each idle motion, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re restless.” He said, voice lazy but certain.

Hannibal glanced over, eyes dark with something Will hadn't know yet.

“A little.” He admitted. He lifted the glass to his lips, rolled the wine gently on his tongue, then made a sound—soft, more for the shape of absence than for any pleasure in the vintage.

“I miss hunting.” The words came simply. No warning, no provocation. .

Will kept his tone light, nonchalant. "Maybe later," He said. "When things are stable."

That night, when Hannibal finally lay still beside him in bed, Will stayed awake.

He listened to the rhythm of Hannibal’s breathing, even and deep, felt the faint twitch of muscles beneath warm skin. The house was quiet, folded in on itself, but Will’s mind kept staying open, alert.

He thought about their life—about the version of Hannibal who slept beside him now, calm and curved inward like a man softened by time, shaped by something close to love.

And he thought about the edge still resting inside Hannibal—the one still there beneath the surface. The one that stirred when being pressed in too tightly. 

If Hannibal wanted to kill again, Will wouldn’t lie to himself. He wouldn’t pretend it meant nothing.
But he also wouldn’t accept it—not if it was aimless, not if it came from boredom or control. Not if the blood was meant only to fill a pause in the day.

He could live beside this man, this sharp and beautiful creature. He could love him with all his shadows intact. But only if the darkness meant something.

Hannibal shifted in his sleep, breath catching before evening out again. Will looked down at him—quiet, unreadable. His hand, heavy and warm, rested on the soft curve of Hannibal’s stomach.

After a while, Hannibal stirred. Blinked himself awake.

“You’re watching me.” He murmured, voice rough with sleep.

Will didn’t move. “Go back to sleep.”

Then Will let his head fall back against the pillow. Closed his eyes, but he didn’t sleep. Not for a long time.

He lay there thinking. This peace wouldn’t last, he sure of that. It would change, it would shift. But he wouldn’t run from it when it came. Wouldn’t fear it like he once had.

If it returned, it would meet him on his terms. It would have to earn its place.

—

The morning came like breath drawn slowly.

Soft light crept through the curtains, the house was quiet. No clatter of Hannibal in the kitchen, no scent of coffee brewing before Will woke. Only the hush of shared breath and the familiar weight of warmth between bodies.

Will surfaced slowly, not yet fully awake, half-aware of a subtle shift in the bed. The kind of movement born not from restlessness, but discomfort. He blinked his eyes open. Hannibal lay on his side, curled faintly, one hand pressing lightly to his feet. His expression hadn’t changed—composed, calm—but his breath had. Slightly off-rhythm. Uneven.

Will’s voice was a low murmur.

“What’s wrong?”

There was a pause, then Hannibal answered, thick with sleep, unusually soft. “Ankles.”

Will didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let his hand drift under the sheets, finding Hannibal’s leg by touch. He slid down slowly, until he was level with his feet, eyes still only half-open.

He tugged the blanket away, his fingers curled around an ankle, lifting it just slightly to inspect. The skin was pale and faintly puffy. Swollen. Tension lived there in the joints and tendons, silent but unmistakable.

Will exhaled through his nose.

He tugged the blanket back gently and pressed his thumb along the bone, careful but firm.

Hannibal flinched at the contact, barely—more in surprise than pain.

“It’s worse in the mornings.”

“Shh,” Will said, still half-asleep. His voice was low, rough around the edges. “Let me.”

He began to work in silence. The touch was slow, almost absentminded at first—more instinct than intention. Like tending to a dog with a thorn in its paw, gentle and deliberate. His thumbs circled across swollen tissue, searching for the knots beneath skin, coaxing them loose.

Hannibal’s breath shifted, softening. A longer exhale, his body easing with it.

Will adjusted, moving lower to cradle the soles of his feet in his palms, pressing along the arch. One of Hannibal’s legs twitched faintly, a reflex, then relaxed again.

“You’re still in bed,” Will said after a while, voice groggy. “That’s new.”

“You were warm,” Hannibal replied, like it explained everything.

Will hummed, not quite a laugh. His hands kept moving, drifting up along Hannibal’s calves now. He hadn’t meant to go further. But then his palm slid higher, over the dip behind a knee, and he felt Hannibal shift slightly, opening under his touch. A quiet yielding.

Will stilled, his hand still resting there, finally fully awake. Hannibal’s eyes met his, steady, dark with invitation.

“Go on, Will.” He said softly.

So Will did. His hand moved again, slower now, deliberate. Up the inside of Hannibal’s thigh, tracing the shape of muscle beneath warm skin. The give of it, the tension easing. The new curve that hadn't always been there.

He looked up, meeting Hannibal’s gaze. It was already there—waiting for him. Their gazes locked. Hannibal’s lips parted slightly. His breath had quickened, uneven with something deeper than anticipation.

“Come here.” He said, almost a whisper.

And Will went. He leaned in, brushing his lips along the edge of Hannibal’s jaw—tentative at first, thoughtful. Almost shy in its care. Not practiced, but sincere.

“I want to taste you.” He murmured against Hannibal’s skin. His voice was hoarse now, filled with a hunger that felt new. “Let me.”

Hannibal paused, his pupils darkening in the low light as understanding sank in. Will had never asked like this before. Never so open. Never this willing. Wanting.

“Will—” Hannibal began, already unraveling, but Will silenced him gently—lips brushing his throat in a promise.

“I meant it.” He pulled back just enough to meet Hannibal’s eyes—earnest, exposed, stripped bare. “I want to learn you. All of you.”

His hand drifted lower, fingers curling gently beneath the swell of Hannibal’s belly. The contact was light, and something in Hannibal gave. His composure cracked, just barely, but it was there. A flicker of vulnerability in his expression, his eyes fluttering closed, hips tilting instinctively toward Will’s touch.

Without speaking, Will coaxed him down against the pillows, easing him back with quiet certainty. Hannibal allowed it, reclined now and open, his body soft with surrender and the weight of late-term gravity.

Will kissed down his stomach—slow, damp kisses that grew more deliberate with every inch. He moved lower, hands parting Hannibal’s thighs with steady hands.

“Relax.” Will murmured, though his own fingers trembled with wanting. “Let me try.”

And Hannibal did. He sank deeper into the mattress, breath uneven now, mouth parted in anticipation.

Will lowered himself, hesitant at first. His lips ghosted over Hannibal’s arousal—already flushed, heavy with want and need and the sensitivity that came with his state. The first taste was cautious. The next, deeper—hungry. But he moved too quickly, grazed where he should have softened, and Hannibal hissed at the overstimulation.

“Sorry,” Will muttered, flushing.

But Hannibal only smiled faintly, hand coming to rest against Will’s hair.

“Easy, Will,” He murmured. “And slower. You are not rushing prey here, Will.”

Will huffed—half-chastened, half-amused—and adjusted. His mouth returned with intention, this time letting his tongue flatten, his lips soften, his cheeks hollow just slightly. He learned as he went. He listened with his body.

And Hannibal responded. His thighs trembled under Will’s palms, breath catching on every stroke. The tension that once held his spine straight now melted down his frame, his hips rolling in loose, helpless rhythm. There was no mask left. Only the quiet unraveling of a man who no longer had to guard himself.

“That's right.” Hannibal breathed, his voice thin and wrecked.

Will pressed further, until he couldn’t anymore, then used his hand to caress what his mouth couldn’t reach. It wasn’t polished. Not even fluid.
But it was devoted. Beautiful in its own way.

He pulled back briefly, eyes flicking up—wild, needing.

“I want more." He asked, breathless. "Can I—?”

He was already reaching, slicking his fingers. Hannibal’s gaze darkened with the permission given with approving.

“You may.”

Will moved with care. His fingers circled first, teasing gently until the resistance softened and gave. When he slid inside, slow and deliberate, Hannibal tensed—then exhaled, easing open around him.

“Okay?” Will asked, voice low, barely audible.

Hannibal nodded, his hand rising to rest over the curve of his stomach, grounding himself in the fullness of sensation—Will inside him, and life growing within.

Will set a rhythm, not perfect, but earnest. Mouth and hand moving in tandem, building slow tension. When his fingers curled just right, Hannibal broke—his cry raw, keening, pulled from somewhere untouched.

His hips jerked, one hand clutching Will’s hair, the other still holding his own belly as he spilled, breath catching on the edge of too much and not enough. Will didn’t pull away. He took all of it—mouth softening into slow licks as the tremors faded, one hand still stroking through the aftershocks.

When it passed, he lifted his head, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, eyes alight with something wild and tender.

“You feel... different,” He murmured. “Softer.”

Hannibal gave a breathless laugh. “Pregnancy changes many things, Will.”

Will moved up slowly, crawling over him until they were face to face. He didn’t rush it. He leaned in and pressed their foreheads together, the moment hanging warm and close.

“I like it,” Will whispered. His fingers were still inside, slow now, lazy with affection. “I want more of this. Of us.”

Hannibal’s gaze softened, lids heavy, mouth open but speechless. He reached up and touched Will’s cheek.

“You have me. You always did.”

Will kissed him then—deep, searching, tasting everything they’d just made together. And when they finally parted, breathless and steady but still echoing with need, Will whispered against his lips:

“Next time.”

Hannibal only hummed, pleased and pliant now, as Will eased him back against the pillows—already thinking of next time.

—

They rarely spent a night apart since. There were nights when books lay forgotten between them, spines cracked open like doorways never walked through. Nights when hands moved instead of words. When they memorized each other’s bodies with attention. Like learning a language that deserved to be spoken slowly.

Abigail rolled her eyes constantly. At the way they sap for each other—her words. At the way Will left his socks near the stairs, his toothbrush in wrong places. At the way Hannibal no longer corrected him. At the way they took up space together without noticing they did.

Still, despite the warmth that had settled, not everything had softened cleanly.

Will, even now, sometimes sat too long by the window when night fell, his fingers tapping restless patterns along the table. There were moments when Hannibal caught him staring at the spaces between things, like he still remembering the months that should have belonged to them and didn’t.

Grief didn’t leave. It only learned to sit quieter at the table.

Hannibal sometimes fell back into old habits. He still rearranged Will’s scattered notes without asking. Still corrected the way Will held his knife at dinner. Still worked around the house too much if Will wasn't there. Still tried, now and then, to shape the day just so, as if control could guarantee contentment. 

But now, Will only gave him a look. Quiet, patient, grounded. Always stayed to remind, even when Hannibal's slip disappointed him. And Hannibal simply nodded, and let go.

And somewhere in the middle of all that life, Hannibal wore clothes that fit again—no longer soft silhouettes, but shirts that clung and curved. The line of his stomach was unmistakable now, and he smiled softly when Will’s eyes caught on it. He spoke of cramps without apology. Let Will fetch the water. Let Will listen.

Sometimes, Abigail saw it happen—those small moments where Will let Hannibal get away with too much. A glance too soft, a correction unchallenged, silence given where a reprimand might’ve landed before.

One evening, as they cleared the plates together, she leaned over with a smirk and said quietly,

“You’re spoiling him.” She said while glancing into the living room, “He used to be terrifying. Now he just looks smug.”

Will glanced at her, unsurprised. “He’s pregnant.”

Abigail raised an eyebrow. “He’s still Hannibal.”

He let out a small breath—something between a laugh and surrender.

“I know.”

She studied him a second longer, then shrugged. “Just don’t forget who started winning.”

Will looked down at his hands, then toward the other room, where Hannibal moved slowly, methodically—reaching for a book as though nothing in the world had ever slipped from his grip.

“I haven’t.”

A moment later, Hannibal returned to the couch, settling with quiet ceremony into the cushions. He opened the book with care, then reached for the small plate beside him—roasted figs and soft cheese, something Will had left there earlier without comment.

He ate slowly, absent-mindedly, like a man still learning how to receive.

Abigail watched from the kitchen doorway, one brow raised.

“Yeah,” She muttered to herself, low and amused. “Definitely spoiling him.”

—

There were moments, where Will thought about their future, about what they would make and unmake when the pregnancy was no longer. About they would travel to another places, not staying long at one place. About how this would be decaying into something darker, but now Will wouldn’t run from it. Because decaying wasn’t the end or losing now, it was continuance.

It was not perfect. But it was theirs.

The journal stayed in their bedroom now. Tucked between two books on the second shelf—neither hidden nor on display. Will hadn’t written in it in days. Hannibal hadn’t added a line since he believed Will stayed. Since he let his actions spoke for his words.

They didn’t need it anymore. But neither moved the journal.

It stayed where it was—like a lighthouse long past the storm. A reminder of how hard it once was to speak, and how worth it had been to learn.

***

Florence. The First Night.

There were moments—small, almost forgettable—when the façade slipped.

It happened on an ordinary errand. Fresh bread. A wedge of cheese. A new blanket for the cradle Hannibal insisted he wasn’t obsessing over. They were crossing a narrow street, shoulders close, steps matched, when it happened.

A man brushed past too quickly, shoulder knocking into Hannibal’s with careless force. No apology. Just a muttered complaint, dismissive and half-formed, tossed over his shoulder like litter.

Will saw it.

The way Hannibal’s spine straightened. The way his chin tilted

enough to expose the gleam beneath his civility. That flicker of something old and practiced, coiled beneath the skin.

The predator hiding behind the domestic skin.

Will lifted a hand—light, not to restrain, but to ground. His palm touched Hannibal’s arm.

“Don’t,” he said.

To remind him—the hunt was theirs to choose now.

Hannibal turned slightly, eyes cutting sharp through the moment. Testing. Measuring Will like he had so many times before.

But Will didn’t flinch. His gaze slid briefly to the round swell of Hannibal’s belly, then back to his face. He tapped his finger twice against the sleeve of Hannibal’s coat and murmured, “Not for this. Not now.”

The moment stretched—tight, charged and somehow familiar. Then Hannibal’s mouth curved, something closer to reluctant amusement. He exhaled, long and slow.

“No,” he agreed. “Not now. I want us to do everything together.”

Will’s hand drifted down, brushing lightly over Hannibal’s wrist before they moved forward again. Nothing visible changed. But beneath the surface, it hummed between them—quiet as a pact.

Hannibal hadn’t grown tame. Will hadn’t become his echo. But they had become aligned.

And that alignment carried into the night.

The balcony door was cracked open to let in the cool spring air. The house was dim, quiet, softened at the edges by low lamps and distant city hum. Will was brushing his teeth when he heard footsteps downstairs—slow, pacing. Restless.

He came down barefoot, hair damp, shoulders loose. Hannibal stood by the glass doors, spine pulled taut, hands clasped behind his back like he was keeping himself from shattering. The light from the street cast long shadows across his face.

Will leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. “You’re brooding.”

Hannibal didn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed on the glass.

“He was rude,” he said finally. Flat. Inevitable.

Will made a low sound in his throat. Not disagreement.

“You wanted to kill him.”

A slight tilt of Hannibal's head. "Briefly."

Will approached, slowly. His bare feet silent against the cool floor. He came to stand beside Hannibal, close enough that their shoulders brushed.

"I told you not to." Will said, not chiding. More... curious. "Did you want to anyway?"

Hannibal turned his head then. His eyes—usually soft these days—were sharp in the half-light. Something old still lived there. Still thrived.

"Wanting and acting are not the same," Hannibal said quietly.

Will gave a slow, crooked smile. "No. But wanting matters."

The silence stretched between them again, deeper this time, a quiet acceptance of the truth.

They stood like that for a long moment, neither speaking. Then Will's hand came up. He traced the inside of Hannibal's wrist lightly with his thumb. The gesture was gentle, but the words that followed were not.

"You don't protect me from that side of you," Will said. His voice was soft. Honest. "Not anymore."

Hannibal's breath hitched faintly, but enough that Will saw it.

"Now you know me—truly know me," Hannibal said, almost inaudible. “And you stayed.”

Will's thumb brushed lower, just once, pressing against the pulse point. “Yes.”

Hannibal looked at him, truly looked. And something shifted in his face—the urge of not just to be close, but to be consumed by being seen.

"Good." Will’s murmured. "Because I see you, and I still want you."

The words landed like a tether between them. Drawing them tight. Hannibal leaned forward first, resting his forehead against Will's, breathing him in. Will's hands slid naturally to his hips, steadying him there. 

They stayed like that, quiet and aligned, until Will murmured: “Is it hormone that make you clingy like this?”

And Hannibal had said—more a statement than suggestion: "Come to bed."

But his tension ebbing. 

—

It didn’t start with a kiss.

It started with a shirt half-hanging off Will’s shoulder, and Hannibal’s gaze settling there a moment too long. It started with Will seeing that look, putting the shirt aside and stepping forward, and saying—just above a whisper, almost like a dare, “What?”

And Hannibal—already tired of silence, already burning from restraint—said, low and certain, “Come here.”

The rest came fast. Fumbling buttons. A belt half-caught in its loop. The awkward scrape of denim pulled too quickly. Will laughed once, breathless, when his foot snagged in Hannibal’s pants and nearly took them both down.

But Hannibal caught him with his steady hands and firm grip.

“You’re flushed.” He said, brushing the back of his knuckles along Will’s cheek.

“I’m trying not to lose it before we get to the bed.” Will muttered, breath shaky.

There was no teasing after that. Hannibal kissed him—hard, messy, with teeth and tongue and all the desperation they’d been holding back. It wasn’t a kiss meant to be ended. It was the kind that devoured and stayed.

Clothes hit the floor in clumsy, uneven drops. One sock never came off. Will didn’t remember the lights were still on. They made it to the bed in pieces. Hannibal on his back, Will above him, his hands spread across bare skin, scars, and the soft swell of Hannibal’s stomach.

“You okay?” Will asked, fingertips grazing the curve of it.

Hannibal nodded. “Touch me.”

And Will did. He leaned down and kissed just below Hannibal’s ribs. Then lower. And lower still.

He was no longer clumsy like the first time. He knew what Hannibal liked. When to hold. When to flatten his tongue. When to take him deep and steady until Hannibal’s hips bucked up, needy and unguarded.

“Will—” Hannibal gasped, fingers tangling in his hair. “Yes.”

Will groaned at the sound, rutting against the mattress for relief, but never breaking rhythm. Not until Hannibal’s voice broke on a gasp, his belly rising tense against Will’s lips, his release sudden and overwhelming. Will stayed through it, swallowing, grounding him with slow licks, hands steady until the tremors passed.

When he crawled back up the bed, Hannibal pulled him into a filthy slow kiss.

“Your turn.” Hannibal said, voice rough. “Lie back.”

Will shook his head. “No. I want to try something else.”

Hannibal blinked—then exhaled, nodded: “Okay, Will.”

Will helped him straddle his lap, guiding Hannibal’s thighs around him, steadying the weight of his belly with gentle hands. Hannibal’s palm braced on Will’s chest, the other anchored across the curve of his stomach. And God—Will shouldn’t have felt this aroused, this desperate—but the sight of Hannibal like this, heavy with what was theirs, made him ache.

“You're soaked.” Will said, breath catching when his fingers came away slick. But there was no complaint in his voice.

He gathered it into his hand and pushed it into Hannibal, preparing him with practiced ease. They’d tried this before—fumbled through the wanting—but never made it this far. Never pushed past the edge.

Because they couldn’t last that long. Will once joked their need to consume each other exceeded what their bodies could bear. Hannibal had only pretended not to be amused.

Now, Will tried to go slow. Patient. But he barely managed two fingers before Hannibal stopped him—his own hand slicking Will’s length with a rough, needy stroke.

“Enough, Will.” His voice was urgent. “I need you now.”

“A minute—”

But Hannibal didn’t wait. He sank down onto Will’s cock in one unbroken motion—no warning, no pause.

“Fuck—” He gasped, voice sharp.. “Hannibal!”

Above him, Hannibal moved without hesitation, hips rolling with purpose, the soft curve of his belly bouncing between them—unashamed, beautiful, utterly in control.

“I would advise you to be quiet,” he said, voice calm even through his breathlessness, “or Abigail will hear us.”

“Oh God—slow down, Hannibal.” Will’s hands clamped hard on his hips, trying to still him. It took effort. “Your belly. Please.”

“It will be fine,” Hannibal said, dismissive and eager. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted you.”

“Really,” Will muttered, deadpan, panting. “No idea at all.”

But he took control again—slow at first, careful. Only for a moment.

Hannibal met every thrust with a low, wrecked moan, his rhythm demanding, each drag of skin stoking something deeper between them.

“Harder,” he gasped. “Don’t hold back.”

“I can’t,” Will choked. “You’re—God, Hannibal—you’re too much.”

Hannibal leaned in, bracing himself with a hand beside Will’s head, their foreheads nearly touching. His hair was damp. His breath came fast and shallow. His belly brushed against Will’s stomach with every roll of his hips, and Will couldn’t look away.

“You’re not going to hurt me,” Hannibal whispered.

Will closed his eyes, jaw tight. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.” Hannibal kissed him then—slow, deep, steadying. “I’m a qualified doctor, Will.”

Will let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, hands sliding up Hannibal’s back, finding the tense line of his spine. He kissed him back—messy, hungry, their tongues dragging against each other with the weight of everything they couldn’t say aloud.

They found their rhythm again. Slower now, but no less desperate. Hannibal rocked down to meet him, and Will met him halfway—again and again, until the ache sharpened into something else. Longing, maybe. Fulfillment, finally.

“You feel…” Will gasped, voice breaking off.

Hannibal’s breath stuttered. “Say it.”

Will met his eyes. “You feel like home.”

That shattered what control Hannibal had left. His head dropped to Will’s shoulder, mouth brushing his neck as his hips stuttered, rhythm lost. The sounds that left him were unguarded, raw—need made audible.

“My dear Will,” He murmured. “Will—”

“I’ve got you.” Will whispered, holding him tighter, thrusting up with more strength now. “Come for me.”

And Hannibal did—with a broken sob that cracked through his chest. His body trembled, slick with sweat and release, as pleasure took him over. Will held him through it, feeling every pulse, every tremor, until he could no longer hold back himself.

He came with a deep, rough groan, fingers gripping Hannibal’s hips hard enough to bruise. But Hannibal only kissed him—his jaw, the corner of his mouth, the space just below his ear.

“You’re loud.” He murmured.

Will huffed out a laugh, breathless. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Hannibal said. “I would never want you to hold back.”

Will’s fingers drifted across the swell of Hannibal’s belly—no longer hungry. He let his eyes close, breathing in the weight and warmth of the man above him.

He wasn’t dreaming anymore.
He was already home.

Later, as the house fell still again, they stayed tangled in sweat-damp sheets, Hannibal’s head resting against Will’s neck, breath syncing to breath. Neither of them spoke.

Only resting in what they’d finally claimed.

***

Florence. The End of the Beginning.

The next morning, the room held the scent of sun-warmed skin, of sleep and dust and the slow breath of two men who no longer had to run and hide.

Hannibal stirred first. The sheets were tangled low on his hips. Will lay curled against him, one hand on his chest, breath deep and even against his shoulder.

He didn’t move—not for a long time. He only rested there, palm splayed across Will’s back, feeling the quiet thrum of life. Of presence.

When he rose, the light had shifted—gold now, reaching long across the floor. He blinked against it, sat up, and caught sight of the leather journal resting on the dresser. Left there, untouched. A relic of their former selves. They didn’t need it anymore.
They spoke aloud, or they didn’t. But they stayed.

He reached for his pants, where they lay in a heap, half-folded on the floor. Behind him, Will stirred.

“Where’re you going?” Came the voice—low, thick with sleep.

Hannibal smiled—small, private, meant for no one but the morning.

“Breakfast. Go back to sleep, Will.”

“Mmkay, darlin’.”

The word hung for a moment. Familiar. As though it had never belonged to anyone else.

Hannibal paused at the door, hand pressed lightly to the frame. He could have let it pass. He could have treated it as nothing.

But he didn’t.

He turned back. Will lay where he’d left him, the blanket creased, the shadows of the morning still on his face. He looked more himself than he ever had—scraped down to something honest, no longer bracing for loss.

Hannibal crossed the room. Sat on the edge of the bed. Leaned down and pressed his lips gently to Will’s temple, a touch more vow than kiss.

"I’m here." He whispered. 

Will hummed. Not fully awake, but he reached—fingers brushing Hannibal’s wrist, just to say: I know.

When Hannibal rose again, Will had already softened back into sleep.

Outside, Florence stirred. The bells began their slow conversation with the light.

Hannibal brewed tea in the hush. Set three cups on the table without thinking. One for himself. One for Abigail. One for Will, already waiting—the spaces between them no longer hollow, but simply lived in.

There were no declarations. No declarations. No final words.

They had been predators. They had been preys. They had been ghosts.

Now, they were simply... together.

This wasn’t innocence. Or purity. Or redemption. This was the after. Where they stayed.

And when Will's voice floated again from the bedroom—soft, lazy, already smiling—calling out Hannibal with the kind of ease only belonging could bring, Hannibal answered.

This was only the end of the beginning.