Chapter Text
Will Graham, study from life
James Gray, 1890
"You will never learn your place in this world, boy," the man snarled, "Until you have it beaten into you."
Little Will trembled as his trousers and drawers were lowered. He clasped his hands together and looked over his shoulder at his grandfather. He could see the self-satisfied glint in his eyes, the twitching sneer at his mouth.
"Over the back of the chair," the man ordered.
"Please," Will sniveled, tears beginning to trickle down his face. "I will be good, Grandfather. Please don't cane me."
The man grabbed the back of Will's neck and forced him over the chair. Will felt himself raise on his tiptoes, his body shaking in fright.
The sting of the cane on his buttocks and the backs of his legs brought screams out of his throat. He kicked and grasped the seat of the chair as hard as he could. The question was repeating in in his mind, even now when he lacked the courage to squeak it any longer. It only seemed to infuriate his grandfather even more.
What did I do... what did I do.
What he had done was kill his mother coming out of her. What he had done was bear the splitting image of the man his mother had married against her own father's wishes. That man, his father, had died before he was even born.
When he had finished laying swollen red stripes all over Will's pale skin, he began to run his cold fingers over them. Will trembled even more now. Grandfather pulled him back from the chair and pushed him down to his knees in front of him. He sobbed.
Fifteen years older, Will Graham tied his ascot in front of the mirror. A carriage had driven by and the driver had cracked his whip in the air, the hissing sound bringing the sting of a cane to the forefront of his mind. His hands froze on the silk of his tie and his mouth opened slightly. Blue eyes didn't see anything in front of him, focusing on a triggered memory. He could feel the hardwood floor beneath his knees, hear the sound of the front of his grandfather's trousers opening, his hand on his face forcing his mouth open.
"There's a good boy."
Will shuddered and cringed, shaking his head. He reached out and grabbed the sides of the mirror and stared into his own reflection.
You are here now, he told himself, taking in his adult features. You are grown. You are not there anymore.
Calming himself, he released his grip on the mirror and returned to tying his tie.
In a studio across town, in a middle-class district, Dr. Hannibal Lecter perused the artwork of James Gray. He enjoyed the man’s portraits but sniffed disinterestedly at his landscapes. Gray had a talent for capturing the essence of the human condition. Ever the humanist, Dr. Lecter found saccharine depictions of peaceful woodland creatures and romantic visions of cliffs and sunrises to be dreadfully dull. The arrogance in a man’s leer, the exhausted bags under a woman’s eyes, the tell-tale signs of tragedy and folly and resentment that James Gray could portray with a mark of his brush; that was a thing of great fascination.
Hannibal knew people. He had much experience with them from going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down on it. He was far older than his face betrayed.
He pulled at the fabric covering one large painting.
“That isn’t finished yet, Dr. Lecter,” Gray explained.
“Do you mind?” he asked with a toss of his head at the shape beneath the drapery.
“No. Have a look if you like,” Gray answered. “But be forgiving, as I’ve not added the final touches.”
Hannibal flung back the fabric and inhaled sharply. The painting was of a touchingly handsome young man. He had a fine, boyish nose, curly dark brown hair that framed his angelic face, and full lips that seemed nearly ready to part in a sigh. His steel blue eyes peered back at him as though imparting to him something of profound tenderness.
“Please tell me this man exists, and is not purely a figment of your dazzling imagination.”
“That is Mr. Will Graham,” Gray replied, approaching the painting. “I saw him in the square and I begged him to sit for me. I believe I have found my new muse.”
“Narcissus personified,” Hannibal mused, “I think it must be your best work. Please tell me something of the man.”
“He is unequal in compassion and empathy,” Gray said. “He came into wealth quite young, when his grandfather died. He uses most of it on charitable efforts. In fact, I believe he is paying a visit to a local orphanage this morning, and will be sitting again for me in an hour or so.”
“You’ve painted him to appear quite melancholy,” Hannibal pointed out. “Was that intentional?”
“He is a melancholy sort. I was curious about him, so I mentioned his name to another patron of mine, Lord Fermor. He knew of his grandfather, and wasn’t afraid to spill gossip to someone like myself. I fully understand the young man’s disposition now.”
“Some terribly, romantically tragic past no doubt,” Hannibal smirked. “The likes of which Dickens would find too saturnine to pen.”
Gray chuckled, “You jest, but it really is a sad tale.”
“Go on,” Hannibal prodded.
“Apparently, Mr. Graham’s mother married beneath her station and her father was furious. While she was still pregnant with the boy, his grandfather hired a man to kill his father in a duel. After that, Mrs. Graham died in childbirth, and Will was sent to live with his grandfather. Aside from having arranged the death of his father, Lord Fermor tells me that the grandfather was a cruel and vicious sort, a merciless disciplinarian, without an ounce of love for the boy.”
“Abused and unloved,” Hannibal murmured, tracing his finger over Will Graham’s jawline. “I find him even more beautiful now. James, you must let me meet him.”
The St. Bosco home for boys was an intimidating, colorless place. Will tried his best to smile at every child who looked his way as he passed out the books he brought them. He was glad that he chose ones with vivid illustrations.
The headmaster, a grim man named Kelso, liked to carry his cane with him wherever he strode. Seeing the white, slightly bent length of wood made Will’s ears burn. He tried to avoid making eye contact with him, instead focusing on getting the books directly into the hands of the boys.
They were excited. Reading material for children was a luxury. One of them stood up and dashed to a bench. Kelso reached out a long arm and grabbed the boy by his hair.
“Running is not permitted!” he barked, and thrashed the cane over the back of the boy’s legs. The child cried out in pain and Will felt a tremor come over his body.
“Stop,” he said, in merely a croak, then louder, “Stop, please!”
He stumbled to his feet and approached the headmaster.
“Please, I must ask you to stop that at once!”
The headmaster released his grip on the child, who skulked away with his book still in hand and tears staining his face.
“Discipline is an important aspect of what I do here, Mr. Graham,” Kelso explained. “Many fine sorts, privileged gentlemen such as yourselves, do not understand what must go into raising the… underprivileged, so that they do not repeat the errors of their predecessors, do you see?”
Will’s hands clenched and unclenched as he stood all but frozen in front of the man.
The headmaster bowed to the grimacing face of Will Graham and added, “I will refrain from causing you any discomfort while you are here, Sir.”
When Will climbed into the carriage, his muscles aching from tension and slammed his back against the seat, his breath came out in gasps and shudders. He rubbed his hands over his face and fell into the ensuing panic attack. The gasps emerged harder and harder from his lungs until they were more like wheezing, hacking coughs with a coppery taste at the end of them.
He closed his eyes and saw himself back in that orphanage, standing in front of Mr. Kelso. He imagined holding a woodcutter’s axe in his extended arm. At the languid speed of a dream-like state, Will swung the axe forward and buried it in the side of Kelso’s neck. The blood spurted out and flecked the front of Will’s jacket, waistcoat, and the fine silk ascot tie that seemed to hold in the rage in his throat. Time sped up once more, and now he was hacking, chopping, decapitating Mr. Kelso. His gray head rolled across the floor, picking up dust-bunnies that clung to the phlegm in his open eyes.
Will shook the image away. It disgusted him, and yet he had been able to calm down. His breathing had become regular, and nothing but a soreness in his wind-pipe remained.