Work Text:
They’re looking for Freddie.
Somehow, somewhere, she actually had friends, and those friends had been expecting her to check in with them on what must have been a fairly regular basis. And that’s a bit hard to do when missing a heart.
So they raised some alarms on TattleCrime, and those alarms were loud enough to get the attention of some other, more reputable news platforms, and now people are saying she’s, ‘tragically,’ I Mosti’s latest victim.
Which, although true, is a problem.
There’s documented evidence that Freddie had been trying to find the Fells before she disappeared. That, paired with her article, makes their current placement in the world extremely uncomfortable. Will reads the news, the actual news, with a feeling of loss. Their time here has passed. If they continue to stay, they’re going to get caught.
Will knew they would have to leave Italy eventually. Who they are doesn’t allow permanent placement, and if Will thinks about it, his new life has really been too much of a fairytale to last. He’s never had something this good stick around for this long, and as sad as ending this chapter is, it’s not unexpected. But since his track record of things working out for him has been essentially zero before this point, Will regards his time prancing around Florence with Hannibal and Abigail a fairly large win, however short it was. A lovely, blood-soaked win.
Will almost laughs at the word ‘fairytale’ being applied to his time here, but then he realizes it’s not too far off, if you stick to the Brothers Grimm.
He finds small comfort in the realization that, what fairytales lack in length they makes up for in sheer numbers. There are so many of the bloody, grisley tales, and there will always be more for Will, for his little family, to make and devour. There are plenty of other places in the world, other settings, other people, other monstrous roles to fill. They’ll be happy elsewhere, since they’ll be together. Ending their lives here, while a bit sad, a bit tedious, will not be a large problem.
No, the problem will be getting Hannibal to agree to end it now, rather than later, when they’ll have to sprint to some far off corner barely holding themselves together because everything and everyone caught up to them, even though they’d seen it coming miles off.
Will would much rather make their move sans pitchforks.
He wonders how he should broach the subject.
Will hears the front door close and Abigail’s voice calling for Maggie, and thinks he might want to start with her, since Abigail has proven on multiple occasions to be capable of more maturity than Hannibal and himself combined.
___________
Abigail looks down at Maggie’s head in her lap and scratches behind her ear. She supposes she knew this was coming, the minute she saw Freddie’s article.
Their place here always seemed steady, seemed solid, because they all act like it is something unbreakable, like they belong. In truth, their residence anywhere is about as stable as a soap bubble. If it’s so much as poked, it explodes.
Freddie Lounds had come at it with a needle.
“When are we leaving?” Abigail looks up at Will’s resigned face, quite resigned herself.
Will crosses his arms, leans against the door frame of her room. “That would depend on Hannibal.”
“You haven’t told him yet.”
Will runs a hand through his hair, a bit exasperated, somewhat reluctant. You know what he’s like, the gesture says. He’ll want to stay, the scrubbing of his stubble adds. He’ll want to stay as long as possible, because it’s fun.
Abigail leans back on her pillows and lets Maggie climb over her. Hannibal loves theatrics. And there’s no showmanship in simply slipping away. If he could have had it his way, Abigail is sure there would have been a much larger show upon their departure from Baltimore. Now that they’re operating on a timeline longer than a few hours, he will surely want to make up for it.
“Maybe we should throw a dinner party,” she suggests. “One last hoorah.”
Will smiles, thinks for a minute. It's a sound compromise. “You should invite your friends. Commit their faces to memory.” He walks over and smooths her hair, pats Maggie’s sprawled stomach, and sits on the edge of the bed.
They stay there, for a time, playing with Maggie and watching the Florentine sun move across the sky. Abigail savors her room and the city below, just as she’s sure she’ll savor another, but none will taste quite as sweet. This city was fresh, was the first in a long line. Firsts always hold a place higher than the rest.
_____________
“I was thinking we should throw a party,” Will starts, over coffee the next morning.
Hannibal raises an eyebrow, lowers his mug because Will has never suggested anything of the sort.
“An anniversary party, even. If we want to make a spectacle. Pass around the lovely box our gift came in.”
His tone is wry, and he’s smirking now, trying for casual.
“A lovely sentiment, Will. Show everyone in Florence how far we’ve come.”
“We’ve come very far.”
“Mmmh. Does this have anything to do with the search for Miss Lounds?”
Will looks momentarily startled, like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but quickly recovers with an expression that reads like he expected this to happen. He most likely had.
“You’ve seen the news.”
Hannibal nods, once. He knows what Will is leading to, knows he’s trying to break the suggestion gently with the cushion of a performance. It’s amusing - endearing, actually. Thoughtful. Will would much rather slip away like smoke, like steam, but he’s offering up an exhibition instead. One last chance to awe the Fiorentini with who they are, something Hannibal is, admittedly, partial to.
He is somewhat less partial to leaving. Hannibal knows they have to move on, but how soon this needs to happen, however, is up for debate. Will has always leaned on the side of extreme caution.
“I make an effort to be up to date on our situation. I do not believe it to be quite as dire as you think it is.”
Hannibal pours himself another coffee, smiling at Will. “But I enjoy your idea of a party. I’ll start planning immediately.”
He can see frustration bubbling up under Will’s skin before it completely dissipates with an almost inaudible sigh. Hannibal offers Will the carafe, and he drums his fingers on the counter before raising his mug to meet the lip.
_____________
Will finds Abigail later that afternoon.
“We’re having a party.”
She sits up, sets her book down and looks at Will expectantly. Will sighs.
“It’s in two weeks. I’d tell you to start packing your things, but that might be a bit premature.”
Abigail leans back again, picking up her book with a knowing smirk. “You never actually asked, did you? You’re so wrapped around his finger you’ve got no choice but to stick your feet in your mouth.”
Hannibal hadn’t given him the chance to speak, but if Will is being honest with himself, he hadn’t really tried. Will stares at Abigail, responds at length. “Not so much wrapped as fused.”
She stares back. “We’re all fused. Melted into a great big amalgam.”
“Individual decisions are difficult to make when your mind is mixed so thoroughly with others.”
“Doesn’t that mean he should’ve agreed with us? Since we’re all so homogenous.” Abigail chuckles. There’s a playful smile on her face and a lilt in her tone, a bright glint in her eyes.
They all share that same glint. A familial trait, one could call it.
Will raises his eyebrows, lets out a short laugh. “Either way, there’s a party, and he wants us to go shopping with him on the weekend.”
It was a bit of an afterthought on Hannibal’s part, the requirement of new clothes, and in it Will had heard faint signs of acquiescence. Hannibal would want to make a last meal something special.
“So the amalgam is in agreement, then?”
Will sighs again, but it’s with a smile this time, and turns to leave her with her book. “I hope your friends like ginger.”
“The spice or the hair color?”
Will shrugs. “Both.”
______________
Abigail watches the light flicker through Concetta’s window, curtains turning it yellow and warm. Everything around Concetta is cozy, like spring sunshine. Her house is bright and quaint, her family sweet, the bed Abigail is lying on is covered in warm pillows.
Abigail is not cozy. Her life and her home are all sharp lines and choking black, everything viewed through a crimson filter. When her name was Hobbs she used to despise the lack of softness around her, used to crave Concetta’s kind of life. She holds a certain appreciation for it now, an odd type of nostalgia for something she only ever pretended to have and no longer wants or needs.
That is not, has never been, who she is. She was not built for an apple pies and picket fences. She was built for things inhuman, on the outside, and now that she’s not alone there, she is happy.
But it’ll still be odd, shedding the skin she’s worn for a year. Abigail Fell is soft like Concetta, and far more comfortable than frail and frightened Abigail Hobbs. But this time she knows her skin isn’t real, so she doesn’t panic at it’s death. She wonders who she will play next, if her new suit will be as silky and loveable as the Fells’.
She’s not sure if she will actually miss Abigail Fell, but she feels a spike of loss settling in her abdomen nonetheless.
Concetta shifts on her chair, and Abigail turns her head towards the sound, watching her friend’s lip quirk in humor over what she’s reading. The spike drives itself deeper, spilling regret and longing into her gut.
When she was with her biological father, Abigail saw herself only as bait. Friendships weren’t real for her, and this one shouldn’t have been either, but Concetta was genuine and open and somehow Fell’s love for her slowly leaked all over Abigail’s real heart. It’s flooded her, and with her departure looming overhead, there is a small, desperate need to let Concetta truly know her, to peel herself back and close the gaps that she doesn’t want to be there but knows need to be. Abigail should not, but picks at her seam anyway.
“Have you ever heard of Hannibal Lecter?”
Concetta looks up from her laptop. Her expression holds concentration and vague recognition at the name.
“The name sounds…. familiar. Who is he?”
Abigail responds to her question with another: “What about Freddie Lounds?”
“Abby what- oh! The reporter! The missing one! But what does the guy Hannibal have to do with her?”
“Freddie wrote an article about him. She thought he was Il Mostro,” Abigail answers simply. She wants Concetta to notice the familiarity in her tone, but all the same hopes she doesn’t. Her seam has pulled a stitch, and something dark and hissing slithers to the surface.
Concetta frowns at the name, stays quiet.
Abigail continues, in an even voice, staring at the ceiling. “He’s supposed to be back. They say there’s two of them now. Freddie Lounds thought it was Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham. She published an article about them and now she’s gone. She paid for what she did...”
She trails off, takes a deep breath, and gouges at an aging wound still open in Concetta’s chest. “Luca was murdered when I Mostri woke up.”
When Abigail looks over, there are tears welling in the corners of Concetta’s eyes.
“Why are you saying these things?”
Abigail ignores her, pushing forward and ripping more of her threads. “Does it scare you? Knowing they’re out there?”
“Abigaille, you are scaring me!”
Abigail stares at her wide eyes and white knuckled hands a moment, then faces the ceiling again, pulling her fraying edges back together.
“Sorry. I read about it the other day, and I was just wondering.”
They’re silent for a while, but it’s a different kind of silence, full of unease. It slowly drains out of the room with the setting sun, and when it’s gone a while later, Abigail sits up.
“My parents are throwing a dinner party in two weeks. Do you want to come?”
_____________
Will brings up the subject of relocation again, once the tailor has left them. Abigail is eating lunch with friends, new dress already fitted and ordered.
Hannibal sits in a leather armchair in the corner of the dressing room, watching Will adjust the waistcoat of a new suit.
“You give people much more credit than is due, Will. Their minds perceive almost nothing compared to yours.”
“It’s not hard to connect the dots, Hannibal.”
“This is assuming they want to connect those dots. Most are much more content living in their chosen ignorance. They hear a noise in the dark and turn the other way.”
“We’re making an awful lot of noise.”
Hannibal stands, walks over and runs his hands along the lines of Will’s shoulders, his waist, looks at him through the mirror. Will looks vaguely displeased.
“We can afford to make a bit more.”
Displeasure quickly makes way for exasperation. Will turns to face him. “What happens when we make too much? What then?”
Hannibal plucks the jacket from the hook next to the mirror and holds it out for Will, who lets himself be dressed despite the impatience in his movements the disgruntled set of his mouth. Hannibal smooths his lapels, admiring, and continues in a calm voice.
“You’re letting yourself become too concerned with knowing where this will all lead. It is much more beneficial to see the outcome rather than worrying over predictions.”
“Hannibal, we don’t have the luxury of fucking around with law enforcement! This isn’t Jack, this isn’t the FBI, though it could be if we’re stupid enough to let it get that far.” Will’s voice is on the rise, ringing around the dressing room.
“We have a family, Hannibal. Moving three people under scrutiny is a lot harder than moving one, or even two. Abigail doesn’t deserve to be put through whatever the hell this is that you’re trying to pull.” Will jabs him in the chest with his finger, yanks the suit jacket off and begins to undress.
“I believe she would benefit from the experience, whichever direction it proceeds.”
At this, Will whirls around, shirt open and waistcoat hanging, and Hannibal can’t help but be amused. Will opens his mouth, but Hannibal strides over and places two placating hands on his shoulders.
“The tailor will be back soon. We should continue this discussion at home.” He dots Will’s cheek with a swift kiss, and hears Will shove air out through his mouth. He’s not pleased, but temporarily sated.
The tailor comes bustling back in a moment later.
___________
The “discussion,” Will discovered later, was not truly a discussion. It was, mainly, Will trying to shove reason into Hannibal at an ever increasing volume and decreasing coherentness, while Hannibal refused to be reasoned with. Will should have expected it, since that’s usually how their disagreements go, but he’d been hopeful this time, because Hannibal has no illusions about what they should do. The issue is that what they should do, need to do, does not align with what Hannibal wants to do.
Hannibal is very used to doing what he wants. Unfortunately for Will, this usually involves throwing anything remotely boring out of their obnoxiously large apartment windows.
Every aspect, every moment of Hannibal’s life must be interesting, or he will make it interesting. And, Will admits, simply taking their leave and rooting elsewhere is remarkably dull.
A certain amount of fanfare Will can accept, but lines must be drawn.
He thought he’d drawn a pretty reasonable line with his suggestion of a party. One last ostentatious event, where the remains of their gift would be put on display along with themselves, beneath the thinnest of veneers; the crime they are being hunted for both in the spotlight and swept under the rug. It would be subversive, poetic, romantic even - the kind of gesture Hannibal thrives on. It would be a good place to call it quits.
He’d tried to make these points, and Hannibal agreed with him on every one except the last.
At that point Will had thrown his hands in the air and given up, which led to him being here, on the balcony, freezing.
He’d forgotten his coat inside. But he’s childishly stubborn, sometimes, and he’s been out in lower temperatures in nothing but his underwear back in Wolf Trap. At this moment Will values his pride and his point much more than being warm.
He hears Maggie whine from the other side of the door and he almost goes back inside, almost, but Hannibal seems both completely unchanged by their argument and ready to continue if need be, and Will is about 3 pretentious, accented words away from throwing them both over the railing.
Another twenty minutes pass and the door behind him opens, sending tendrils of heat curling around him. A blanket get draped over his shoulders and a hot mug placed in his hands. Warm fingers brush hair behind his ears, holding them there to heat his skin.
Will leans into the touch instinctively.
“It’s generally hard to relocate while suffering from hypothermia, Will.”
Will eyes him suspiciously. “It’s marginally better than being arrested.”
Hannibal frowns. Will knows he’s being immature.
“You’re acting like a child.”
Will draws the blanket closer around himself. “So were you,” he says simply, looking over at the hand now resting on his arm.
Hannibal stares at him, still frowning. He turns, taking the untouched mug from Will’s hands and dragging Will with him.
“Come inside,” he says, firm. He’d probably carry Will if he protested, so Will just lets himself be manhandled through the door and to the couch. Hannibal once again hands him the mug, and sits across from him, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands on his lap.
They’re silent for a long time, Will sipping his tea and feeling his extremities burn with the quick change in temperature. Hannibal continues to stare at him, expression somewhat soft around the edges.
Will places his mug on the coffee table when he’s finished, drums his fingers on his knees and thinks of where to start.
“You need life to be interesting.” It’s a statement of understanding.
“Yes. But I’m afraid that is impossible for me now without you. It is also an outcome I may have to face if I allow us to be reckless.”
Something warm blossoms in Will’s chest, having nothing to do with the tea. “I’m sure if we got separated you’d occupy yourself somehow.”
“No occupation would sustain me.” Hannibal says this simply, as if it is the most obvious thing.
Hannibal shifts to the front of his seat, leaning forward. “I refuse to be apart from you, Will. You occupy too much of my mind.”
Will mirrors the position. “We’re an amalgam,” he says slowly, in agreement. It’s not a revelation, by any stretch. They’re completely overlapped, almost one entity, and to be separated now would destroy them.
“You have never ceased to be truly remarkable, in all our time together. I would like to continue to see all of the ways you can make me adore you, more than I thought possible.” Hannibal’s expression is fully open, and Will is still in awe at their mutual exposure, how easily they lay themselves bare in raw emotion for the other.
They’re silent for another while, staring at each other, Will turning Hannibal’s words around in his mind and letting the honey-soaked phrases drip down and fill him. He plays with the edge of his blanket, and his next words come out soft and low.
“I love you.”
“And I you.”
A pause. Then: “We should leave that night.”
“Where do you wish to go?”
Will does not really care where they end up, as long as he has his family. It could be a place as fancy as this, as otherworldly in its ancientness, or it could be quaint and low in its social standing. He’s never indulged in the extreme opulence Hannibal is used to until this past year, and he could easily give it up, retreat back to simplicity if it meant staying whole and complete. The place doesn’t matter, never mattered, only the people.
“Anywhere.”
___________
“This is...strange.”
Abigail tugs lightly on Maggie’s leash, pulling her away from the small child cooing at her muzzle. Maggie whines, missing the attention. “What’s strange?”
“I am finally seeing your home. You are my friend a year and I have never been there.”
Abigail shrugs in response, deflecting. It’s not that Will and Hannibal had ever told her not to bring her friends home, it’s that Abigail didn’t want to. Part of her wanted to shield them from the hooks over the threshold. Something else, something deeper, held her home on high ground, a temple, where she and her family strip themselves bare. Any false skin must be adorned only for ritual, doing so for anything less is akin to desecration.
“It’s nothing special, really.”
She ignores the desire to show Concetta that this is a lie.
Concetta seems like she wants to pry, but decides better of it. She always did have more tact than Luca.
“I am still excited,” she says with a smile, after a pause. “You have to help me choose a dress! How fancy can I be?”
Abigail laughs as Concetta clings to her elbow.
“Very fancy. My parents are wearing full three-piece suits.”
“One of them always wears suits, Abby.”
“True. The other one doesn’t, though, only sometimes.”
“Maybe if I tell my little brother this he will not want to come.”
Abigail smiles wide, laughing again, and listens to Concetta’s animated voice, savoring the weight on her arm.
_____________
Will stretches out beneath him, off-center but flush against his skin. Hannibal is practically dead weight, content in his position and almost asleep. Will’s breath huffs out warm and sated, though there is a pensive rumble in his chest.
Hannibal curls the arm around Will's chest a bit tighter. His lips moving against Will's neck as he speaks, having nuzzled himself between jaw and shoulder.
"Something on your mind?" Hannibal says into the skin there.
"I was wondering how many bedrooms we're going to have."
Hannibal raises an eyebrow, an indulgent curve to his lips, but the expression is lost in Will’s hair behind his ear.
“How many would you like?”
“I mean, ‘how many of these lives are we going to get together?’”
“All of them, I hope.”
“Would you want to live old?” Will cranes his neck, turning his gaze from the ceiling down towards Hannibal.
Hannibal shifts up onto his elbow, leaning over Will and studying his face. There are lines on his forehead, a furrow between his brows. The genuine curiosity in his eyes thinly covers the kind of worry that settles over a person when they think too hard about something. Hannibal wants to smooth out those lines.
“The age to which I live is not the concern so much as how I live to it. Having you with me in only one instant is more fulfilling than if I were to live to 100, without ever having known you. I could die tomorrow, and I would have lived enough.”
Will hums, closes his eyes, smiles a bit in agreement. “Mmmh. Everything is divided now. Before you and after you.” That same unspoken concern still colors his reply.
“You’re worried there will be a new dividing line.” Hannibal has watched Will closely since the news proclaimed Freddie Lounds a tragedy, and there’s been something churning in him, anxious and somewhat bereaved. Mourning a loss that has not yet come.
Will opens his eyes. “We’re going to get caught. Maybe not now, but someday. We’ll all be caught, or we’ll be killed.”
“We may be. La polizia could be outside the door tomorrow.”
Will glares at him. “Thanks.”
“I’m not going to sugar-coat a distinct possibility, Will.” Hannibal rolls onto his back, keeping their legs tangled. “However, given my experience, and yours now too, if we continue to be careful, we may never meet with that end.”
They’re silent for a while, and Hannibal can tell Will wants to say something about his distinct lack of carefulness in trying to remain in Florence, but decides better of it. Long enough passes that Hannibal believes him to be asleep, and he’s drifting off as well, but then Will’s voice breaks the soft silence.
“You’ve made sure Maggie is part of whatever plan you’ve come up with, right?”
_____________
The dinner is in two days. The staff is hired, supplies purchased, meat marinating in the refrigerator. They’re packed, but not obviously so. No one visiting would be able to tell they are going to disappear. Much of their more extraneous things they will leave, taking essentials and what they value most.
Will walks around the apartment a few times, committing every corner to memory.
There will be plenty of other homes, but this was their first. This was their beginning, and Will wants to save it.
He stops at the counter, where Hannibal is sorting the responses to invites and compiling the guest list. A fair amount of people are planning to come, and the thought of that makes Will smile. Hannibal deserves for their last show to have a substantial audience.
Will leans over Hannibal’s shoulder, watching. He pictures the guests filing through the door, in twos or threes, milling about, sending their congratulations to the married couple and enjoying the food.
They would be all so oblivious, if Abigail glided past the door, locking it on her way, as Hannibal played the piano in the background. The majority would not stir until the second, or the third, body dropped silently onto the floor in front of Will, blood spilling out of deep gashes in their necks.
They would all try to flee, then, once someone noticed, but something in the wine would be making them sluggish, make Hannibal’s speed seem inhuman as he slipped through the throngs, leaving corpses in his wake.
The three of them would slaughter them all, together as a family, quickly and viciously. They would arrange the bodies in a grand design, something beautiful and terrible, and they would emerge from the scene bloody and elegant, closing this chapter with one last act of art.
Will shakes his head, dispelling the vision. It’s enticing, but impractical. Slaughtering a chunk of the high-profile Florentine population would be extremely detrimental to their relocation plans. He re-focuses on Hannibal’s pen, and notices it’s no longer moving.
Hannibal stares at him, a hunger in his eyes, and Will raises a skeptical eyebrow.
“Just a thought?”
He goes back to writing in his neat, looping script. “Only a thought,” he placates.
Will hums and pulls a bar stool closer, and they sit in silence as Hannibal writes, dispelling synchronized thought after thought into the grey afternoon light.
____________
Abigail sits in front of her vanity, staring at her face and contemplating how this will be the last night that Abigail Fell will exist in the world.
“Abigail Fell is dead. Or, she will be, by the morning.”
She turns around, smiling at Hannibal standing in the doorway of her room, still wearing his apron. He shares his words with those of a lifetime ago, when the name Hobbs still clung to her skin.
This death would not be quite as drastic. She has no illusions, this time, that Fell is who she really is.
“Long live Abigail.” She doesn’t give herself a surname; surnames have only served to hide, to tie her down.
Hannibal smiles as well, fond and fatherly, coming to sit next to her on the bench and staring into the mirror with her.
“You look lovely. A very becoming young woman.”
There’s pride in his voice, and Abigail brightens at the tone - she wants him to be proud of what she’s become.
“Is this the part where I make a speech about how I’ll always be your little girl?” She says this fondly, no bite but with a bit of humor.
Hannibal chuckles, moving to stand behind her. “Some parents want their children to stay as innocent and unknowledgeable about themselves as possible. I have never wanted that for you.” He brushes a stray hair from her face, fastening it and the freshly curled pieces at her temples into a large clip he plucks from the vanity. His hands are soft and gentle, and remind her of when she was little, and her father would comb her hair.
“So I guess that wouldn’t really apply.”
He smirks, twisting the clipped ends up in an elegant knot, draping loose curls over her shoulders. “For a multitude of reasons.”
Abigail laughs, then falls silent, turning to look at him. “I’ll always be here, though. We’ll always be family.”
Bursts of affection fire off in her chest, with a deep sense of belonging she’ll never let go and isn’t quite sure she’ll ever stop marveling at.
Hannibal cups her chin and presses a light kiss to her hair. “Yes, we will.”
They’re quiet for while, Hannibal reseating himself on the bench. Abigail leans on his shoulder, content in her role as daughter.
Hannibal speaks first. “Your friend Concetta is coming. I would love to meet her.”
“She wants to meet you too. She’s very excited.” Her tone takes on a sad edge. Hannibal hears it instantly.
“Are you excited?”
“Yes.” It’s an honest answer, but not the full one.
Hannibal nods, understanding. “She is important to you. You want her to see you, before you leave.”
Abigail remains silent. She’d been trying without success to convince herself it would be better to leave Concetta unperturbed, with sweet memories of her fake skin. But she’s reached far beyond that skin, and Abigail wants her to see it being torn off. Abigail will never be satisfied leaving her friend in blissful ignorance.
Hannibal pats her hands folded in her lap, comforting. “She will, in a way.”
He stands with another kiss to her head, and Abigail smiles softly as he leaves.
___________
Their guests greet them with congratulations, Abigail taking their coats. She tells them conspiratorially that the party was her idea, and that her dad - yes the younger one - is a bit embarrassed by the whole ordeal. She laughs as she sends them Will’s way.
Hannibal holds Will’s hand and accepts the well-wishes with grace. They float through the crowd together, high above it all, and watch as their guests gossip and dine and do not understand what any of this means.
Before Will the world was shadowy and dim; a fog full of small, dull creatures. Hannibal existed almost on another plane, large and in full color and clarity, and completely alone. He’d never thought much about it, until another being appeared vibrant and bright and able to see the world as he does. Will is a beautiful and otherworldly thing, beyond the scope of anything Hannibal has ever encountered.
Everyone in this world is tiny and disconnected and blurry and blind. They will always be blind.
Someone to his right compliments him on the food. Will nudges him with his elbow and smiles, and Hannibal thinks of the sun, and how easy it is to lose one’s sight.
Later, Will twists his ring on his finger and tells a guest that he’d never really connected to anyone like he had with Hannibal.
“It was kind of a shock to my system,” Will says, in a faraway, almost shy tone. “Like the first time I wore glasses.”
Will looks at him, speaks with his eyes. Everything was clear, and everything made sense, for once.
The noise of the room tries to press in on them, but it hits a wall and fails.
_____________
Evening turns to night and guests start to leave. Abigail sees Will and Hannibal talking to Concetta’s parents out of the corner of her eye. Concetta’s little brother, tired and strung out, is hanging on his mother’s arm. They’re about to leave.
She leans her elbows on the balcony railing and looks up at the light-polluted sky; only a few stars are visible, the brightest of them. The view is much better in the wee hours, when the city finally sleeps.
Breath leaves her lungs hot and makes puffs of vapor in the cold air. Concetta buttons her dress coat up even further.
“Thank you for inviting me to stay, Abby! I love sleepovers.” She clasps her hands together excitedly, waving goodbye to her parents through the doorway.
Abigail waves too, small and somewhat brittle, before turning back to the still bustling streets bathed in yellow.
“Have you ever wanted someone to know something about you, but you can’t tell them? And it doesn’t bother you, until you realize they might not be in your life forever. Then you need to tell them. But you still can’t.”
Concetta rests her champagne flute on the railing, and her face falls in concern.
“Whatever it is, you can tell me. And I will not be going any place. I will always be here for you.”
Abigail smiles, rueful and sad. “Not everything about me is exactly pleasant.”
Concetta opens her mouth to protest, but Abigail cuts her off. “You should drink that, before it goes flat.” She points to the flute in Concetta’s hand.
Concetta side-eyes her, but lets the subject drop, for now. “Your dad does have great taste in drinks.”
She downs the rest of her glass and spins the stem between her fingers, watches it sparkle until her eyes droop. She clutches her stomach.
“Abigaille, I take back what I said about your dad and his drinks.”
Abigail feigns concern and grabs Concetta’s shoulders. “Are you ok?”
She shakes her head as well as she can, legs wobbling. Her words slur and her english fails, and Abigail helps her onto a lounge chair, sitting beside her as she fades out of consciousness.
Abigail smooths her hair as the last strings of awareness begin to snap, leans down and whispers in her ear.
“I Mostri lives here. And we are three of a kind.”
Concetta drops her glass and it shatters on the concrete, her eyes are wide for a second before falling closed, and her head lolls to the side. Abigail stands, looking down over her, and imagines another world in which she would wake to the deserted slaughter of everyone they'd invited, where she would remember everything with brilliant clarity and truly understand those words.
But in this world she will wake to an empty apartment, confused and jumbled, and only the vaguest feeling of unease. Abigail will be long gone.
Still, the knowledge will be there, deep in her subconscious, and someday Abigail hopes it will claw its way out and Concetta will see and understand.
Abigail looks at Concetta’s face for several minutes, rooted to the spot, already feeling her loss. Its stings less than before, though, and she fishes a small vial out of her coat pocket with a grateful expression. Hannibal had given it to her with a knowing smile and a hand on her shoulder, and whispered “5 drops only,” into her ear.
She’s revealed herself, and the missing weight lets her breathe right again, but there’s still a hitch, somewhere inside, and Abigail realizes she wants to leave Concetta with something to be remembered by.
Not a scar. Hannibal would leave a scar. Abigail touches her neck absently, running her fingers over the formal choker and remembers her scarves. She still wears them, has a drawer full. She runs inside and finds one the color of sunshine.
She ties it to Concetta’s wrist and drapes a blanket over her to fight off the night’s cold, squeezing her hand and holding on for a long time, before she has to leave.
______________
They go to another city, and another, and another, and they do this for years, always evading capture. They move around the world like smoke, toxic and unstoppable, seeping through every inevitable crack in laws and morals.
They become legend, unreal, the shroud of folklore and fairytale surrounding them like a shield. They have names in almost every language, and Hannibal comments to the raised eyebrows of his family that this world has turned them into gods.
They send Abigail to school, and she grows up, and there are long stretches of time where she leaves the nest and makes her own names. She always returns, and always with stories trailing behind her like bloody streamers. Will and Hannibal greet her with proud smiles and she falls into a happiness she never quite gets while away.
Sensationalist nonsense reaches them from the states, eventually. There’s a new string of murders that are not theirs, though the hype and Chilton’s new book make everyone believe they are. It’s wrong, his book, and the news, every word of it, and Abigail mentions offhand that she hasn’t seen America in a long time.
Chilton’s death is truly something to behold, elaborate and beautiful, and the message it sends spins the country into a tizzy. Will laughs as the media feeds the frenzy, and jokes that it’s a shame Freddie Lounds is missing out on the best opportunity she would have ever had.
Hannibal cooks dinner as he always does, kisses Will on his cheek and smooths Abigail’s hair, and they watch the world together as it burns under their feet.