Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13646760.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Hannibal_(TV), NBC_Hannibal, Hannibal_Lecter_Series_-_All_Media_Types,
      Hannibal_-_Fandom
  Relationship:
      Will_Graham/Hannibal_Lecter, Will_Graham_&_Hannibal_Lecter, Bedelia_Du
      Maurier/Hannibal_Lecter, Will_Graham/Will_Graham's_Mother
  Character:
      Will_Graham, Hannibal_Lecter, Chiyoh_(Hannibal), Bedelia_Du_Maurier,
      Alana_Bloom, Francis_Dolarhyde, Dr._Frederick_Chilton, Frederick_Chilton,
      Matthew_Brown_(Hannibal), Matthew_Brown, Barney_Matthew
  Additional Tags:
      Hannibal_Lecter_-_Freeform, Top_Hannibal_Lecter, Will_Graham_-_Freeform,
      Twink_Will_Graham, Young_Will_Graham, Bottom_Will_Graham, Hannigram_-
      Freeform, Mafia_AU, hannibal_is_a_drug_lord, will_is_an_innocent_high-
      school_student_who_manages_to_get_caught_up_in_the_wrong_crowd, hannibal
      is_lowkey_an_ass_for_forcing_will_to_stay_with_him, Consensual_Sex,
      Explicit_Sex, absolutely_no_rape_whatsoever, playing_with_feelings,
      Manipulative_Hannibal, Manipulative_Will, they_both_manipulate_to_get
      what_they_want, mafia_family_doesn't_approve, but_hannibal_says_fuck_it,
      two_boys_hopelessly_in_love, one_is_a_man_but_it_still_implies, Soft
      Hannibal, Murder, Gore, Hannibal_is_Not_a_Cannibal, will_is_a_tease, will
      graham_is_a_total_cock_slut, hannibal_doesn't_mind_that, Kinky_sex,
      hannibal_has_many_kinks, will_suddenly_has_many_kinks_too, lowkey_daddy
      kink, but_not_overwhelming, hannibal_is_an_old_fuck, Will_Loves_Hannibal,
      Hannibal_Loves_Will, these_tags_won't_work_but_whatever, Tags_Are_Hard
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-02-13 Updated: 2018-03-27 Chapters: 6/? Words: 20544
****** Little Blue Boy ******
by ourdeceit
Summary
     Alternate Universe of NBC's Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham.
     Hannibal Lecter is apart of the Lecter family, a Mafia organization
     that leads the drug smuggling business. Darko Lup is Hannibal's close
     business partner, friend, and second in command. Aside from the
     Lecter family's dealing in illegal drug transportation, Darko owns an
     exclusive club that Hannibal would prefer to have no part in. So,
     it's a pleasant surprise when Hannibal finds a lovely teenage boy
     inside Darko's club. Will, who truly had no intention of stumbling
     into a nightclub, is rather infatuated with the foreign man who
     kindly guides him out of trouble and gives him a ride home. A month
     later and they run into each other again, but in less favorable
     circumstances. The Graham family is reprimanded for lack of funds and
     stupidity. Darko says to toss the boy out with a bullet in his temple
     like his parents and Hannibal says to give him a better end.
     That end is staying with Hannibal as part of the payment for his
     parent’s foolish mistake.
     What choice does Will have but to take Hannibal's generosity?
***** Introduction *****
===============================================================================
              This is a rewrite of a previous, uncompleted work.
             Updates will be semi-frequent. I will plan to take a
              decent amount of time to write each chapter to the
             best of my ability and as closely related to the idea
             I have outlined. Hopefully, you all enjoy! Kudos and
                 comments are warmly welcomed and appreciated!
===============================================================================
                                        
***** A Smile Can Get You Out of Anything (Maybe) *****
   There was a cross hanging on the wall. The cross is the principal symbol of
the Christian religion, recalling the crucifixion of Christ Jesus and the
redeeming benefits of His passion and death. The cross is thus a sign both of
Christ and of the faith of Christians.
   Henceforth making a club an odd place to find a crucifixion cross hanging on
a wall, slightly askew from its usual position due to the frequent slamming of
a heavy door and bodies pressing against the wall, hands grasping whatever was
there in the search for hair, often knocked away entirely to be clumsily hung
up again. It was furthermore unusual to know it belonged to a sex-addict
Catholic who ran not only the exclusive club it was located in but also a drug
cartel that was the reasoning for eighteen murders and the kidnapping of three
high government officials - all of which was orchestrated by the cross’ owner.
Matthew Brown had odd tastes, but all were relatively understandable.
   The cross, however, was... perplexing.
   “Did a word get through to your fucking head?” Matthew snapped his calloused
fingers once, then twice. His elbows pressed into the glass desk, an eyebrow
expectantly raised. “No?”
   “Why do you keep a cross hanging in the office of your club?” It was an
innocent question, but one that chafed wrongly on Brown’s patience. “Do you not
believe that your God could see past these doors to what awaits downstairs?”
   “Jesus was hung on the cross,” Matthew impatiently retorted, “not God.”
Turning the question around. A defense mechanism.
   “The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit are one conjoined force in the
Christian religion.”
   “I’m Catholic.”
   “Is there a difference?”
   Matthew waved away his agitation and settled back into the chair he began
occupying only two minutes before when he called this brief meeting in session
to discuss business-related matters and not the complexities of religion. He
explained the matter of money-lending and stalkers to his friend, but his
companion was staring at the cross hanging on the wall without an opinion
muttered or giving any sign of having paid attention at all. Brown hadn’t given
it any concern. He often stared at inanimate objects as his mind inevitably
trailed off from whatever subject was at hand, and over the course of two
decades being so-called comrades-in-arms, Matthew had learned to ignore the
irritated prickling and simply plow on with the discussion. That he did, but
his remorse was slipping through.
   “Our dancers are being stalked. Does that not bother you?”
   Hannibal Lecter shrugged. It was too casual of an action coming from him, a
man who held his standards higher than standards could even reach. It spiked
Brown’s interest. He had read the man before him for twenty years and had never
once seen Hannibal appear so uninterested. “They’re your dancers,” Hannibal
replied. “I fund this humble establishment and clean up after it while you sit
here with your cheap bourbon while one of the dancers you so dearly care about
is sitting plumply in your lap.” His gaze turned away from the cross in sudden
repulsion. “Do not mistake that for jealousy.” It was an idle warning, one
vacant of any true threat. “Do you think I won’t promptly take care of the
issue?”
   “Will you?”
   Hannibal breathed something akin to a sigh. It was tired and exasperated,
though not from sleep deprivation. “Yes, I will.”
   They had known each other far before they established a business. It was
evident that Hannibal had a well-trained hand in the behind-the-scenes rather
than face-front confrontations. He didn’t enjoy the actual business aspect;
finances were not his specialty. He enjoyed the thrill of the violence that
laid beneath slithering like a threatening serpent, always ready to swallow its
designated prey. Matthew was all words and no play - Hannibal being quite the
opposite. The only way Brown could ever see the threat was in the glint of his
partner’s caramel hues; the way his eyes narrowed, traced every micro-
expression and small movement like he was deliberating on when it would be most
successful to pounce. Hannibal was always ready and always willing. That was
what made Matthew and Lecter a fitting business companionship, and what kept
their success thriving for so long.
   “How was home?” Matthew asked, a wooden toothpick twirling between thumb and
forefinger. A knowing smile played on his lips, danced around the very corner
of his mouth into a deviously sinister smirk. “I expected you in another week.”
   Lecter’s hands splayed before him in yet another open shrug. “Lithuania was
fine. The heat was a bother, as were the persistent heavy showers. I did
consider staying longer but as business was taken care of, I saw no reason to
further terrorize.”
   Brown’s cigarette-ruined throat emitted a chuckle. Terrorize was a fitting
word to describe Hannibal Lecter’s visits, however frequent they may be. “Your
sister didn’t come calling?”
   “No.”
   “Pity…” Brown mused. “I enjoyed seeing her pretty, round face.”
   “Mischa is quite fine not seeing yours, nor mine. ” Hannibal stood, the
chair sliding out from under him. His grip was ginger as he set the piece of
furniture as it was when he first entered, for he knew how particular Matthew
could be when it came up to arrangements - here, anyway. His lavish home was an
entirely different story. "I'm afraid I must be on my way. Jet lag will be
catching up with me soon enough."
   Brown's smile faltered. His hands went searching for a piece of paper
amongst the many upon his desk, fumbling over folders and loose parchment.
Finally, with a triumphant exclamation, Matthew gave the file to Hannibal.
Shoved the file into Hannibal's chest. The latter gave a single disapproving
look and turned to the door, thumb skidding over the thirteen pages that were
contained and organized beneath the compressed folder. He did not skim over it
yet, having decided that anything work-related could wait until he had gotten
at least eight hours of sleep. It was not that Hannibal had any particular
struggles with resting on the personal jet Matthew had gifted to him last year
as a birthday gift, but it was his restlessness that kept him, inevitably,
pacing back to the cooler that held his favorite celebratory drink -Armand de
Brignac Brut,rose Champagne. Nearly ten thousand in American currency, but well
worth it after a grueling week of staying in Lithuania. "You should let her
into the family..." Matthew persisted, "she might like it."
  The Mafia has controlled everything from the street corner drug trade to the
highest levels of organized government. Glorified by movies and television,
hounded by law enforcement officials, marked for death by their enemies,
mobsters live violent and often brief lives. The Mafia at its core is about one
thing - money. Still, there are secret rituals, complicated rules and tangled
webs of family loyalty and disloyalty. In organized crime, there is a
hierarchy, with higher-ranking members making decisions that trickle down to
the other members of the family that are below in ranking. The Mafia is not a
single group or gang; it is made up of many families that have, at times,
fought each other in bitter and bloody gang wars. At other times, they have
cooperated in the interest of greater profits, sometimes even serving on a
commission that makes major decisions affecting all the families. Most of the
time, though, they simply agree to stay out of each other's way because that's
what proves to be a greater interest - staying alive. The Mafia is neither a
political or religious affiliation. Because of their roots, many
Mafioso are Catholic. Part of the oath a mobster takes when he becomes a made
man, a member of a Mafia family, is that the Mafia comes before birth family
and above God.
   Hannibal Lecter never found putting his Mafia family above God to be much of
a problem, having been raised an atheist and remaining true to that inherited
belief. His reasoning that the world was simply just there - neither created by
a higher hand or some singularity that heated and became what he was walking
upon today. Matthew was a strict Catholic himself in the matter of beliefs and
not so thoroughly with his deeds, but it had always been a clashing point
between the two men. Hannibal saw Matthew's religion to be whimsical reasoning,
and Darko argued that Hannibal was simply "a stupid old fuck." Over the years,
they merely just learned to keep religion out of their interactions.
   The Mafia itself was an easy concept to understand but far more difficult to
maintain. Hannibal, now edging on forty-seven, had been in the business for
twenty years. It was a slow start. After the first two years of minor sells and
only one murder, Hannibal officially partnered with Matthew, then a young adult
that hadn't even breached the age of twenty. They clashed then more than they
did now but it was clear that they would make successful business partners, and
so they built what was now recognized as the Lecter Family - a long hierarchy
that stemmed from Hannibal Lecter, the capo. Being the head of an extended
none-blood related family was tiring in itself, but they managed to create a
system that was religiously followed and, in turn, created a decent amount of
peace between peoples. One could not top the drug-dealing business if there
were constant family wars.
   Hannibal wouldn't consider it perfect, but it was decent.
   It just wasn't for Mischa. She needed to stay home, his home, their home.
   Lithuania was a small country along the coast of the Baltic Sea. Small, but
the most populated of the three Baltic states. It was near Russia, where
Hannibal had first met Matthew while traveling on business. He was twenty-
seven, relatively fresh to the psychology scene as he pursued a career in
therapy. He became well-known and sought after in Lithuania and Sweden and the
smaller bordering countries. When his service was required in Russia it was a
rather large step in the furtherance of his career. His new patient was none
other than Brown seeking help with his sex addiction. For weeks he treated
Hannibal as a self-care unit and even gave the man a decent apartment, stemming
from a wealthy family and able to do so, to use during his stays in Russia,
which were often extended and never inexpensive. Hannibal considered it a gift.
He treated Matthew for months and learned more than he perhaps should have
during that time, and Matthew learned much about his therapist in return. How
they became business partners in drug-trade and brothels (for a brief time) was
never quite clear; Matthew liked to argue that it was destined they terrorize
Europe together and Hannibal chose to be the more modest and rational of the
two, often arguing that it was a match made by chance. Hannibal simply believed
there was always a portion of him that was curious about the underground-
network Brown was apart of, and, fatefully, decided to divulge himself in it.
Therapy was not excluded from their friendship, but it was certainly not what
it revolved around. Hannibal was there when Matthew was feeling particularly
troubled, but he otherwise desired to keep out of his partner's personal life.
Lecter enjoyed to keep to himself and that was respected.
   Therefore, Brown did not ask Hannibal to stay for a drink, although the
offer burned at the back of his throat.
===============================================================================
    The club branched into many sectors. The upstairs portion consisted of
Matthew Brown's favored office and storage, each room organized according to
what it housed - from the more expensive brands of alcohol, chairs, tables, to
extra equipment for the performances on stage. The middle sector was the dance
floor, otherwise regarded as the center of the nightclub, which housed a vast
majority of the club's visitors. The dance floor itself lit into a show of
colors with LED floorboards that were, in their own right, a pain to sweep and
wash. However, Matthew insisted on installing them "for the effect, Hannibal."
   Whatever that meant.
   All Hannibal could feel was the thumping of feet and the heat of a hundred
bodies molding together like wet clay, sweat plastering their skin and acting
like grease as they effortlessly swam together in what, in the modern age,
people considered dancing. To Hannibal, it only looked like grinding. Lust-
filled, filthy, desperate grinding. He felt physically repulsed to be shuffling
through the crowd that managed to migrate into the halls. Men on women, women
on women, men on men - it didn't matter who the mouth or hands belonged to so
long as they could press each other against a wall and fuck each other's
tongues. It was, in every way, animalistic.
   "Take it elsewhere." The comment seemed to draw only the receiving girl's
attention, who had another girl's hand sliding beneath the hem of her cocktail
dress. The very same comment was given a second time to a different couple, but
this time the girl was unzipping her one-night-stand's pants. Neither seemed to
have heard Hannibal, that or they simply gave no regard to his authority; but,
due to his risky position, they were not supposed to know of his authority. To
them, he would have appeared as just any other man in a suit, and that was what
Darko and Hannibal preferred. It was risky to be prowling through the halls as
it was, for too many eyes were available to peer at him. Recognition was
dangerous, recollection even more so. Yet, seeing as how there was no other way
to the lower level, Hannibal was left to be cautious as he sauntered through
the halls that smelled of youth and sex. Not a favorite scent... Rather
suffocating, in fact. Hannibal shook his head as if he could get rid of it,
palm colliding with a security guarded door as he simply, only wanted to be
where he wasn't surrounded with strangers so infatuated with the looks of the
other that they would do it here until security threw them out, in public, in
Darko's club as if being sanitary didn't matter. He might have done the same in
his youth, but he had certainly and drastically grown and matured since then.
   His hand skimmed along something soft in the single instance where he wasn't
quite watching where his steps were leading him. He turned to give a rapid
threat to an invading couple and even more so to bark at the lack of security
when he, surprised and appalled, found a single teenage boy retreating to the
corner.
   "Darius!"
   The spoken name belonged to a bulky foreign-looking man, whose features were
all sharp and irritated. He had a scar leaving the end of his right eyebrow
hairless, a stark contrast to his hair that was otherwise dark and full. His
lips were drawn back into a sinister smile, amusement playing at his grip as he
outstretched his hand to the boy in a careless pointing gesture.
   The boy couldn't have looked any more bewildered. He was short with curly
brown locks and a thin build that gave him the first impression of a girl when
Hannibal only gave him a quick glance. Obviously underage. His eyes, wide and
alarmed, were a stark blue that matched the lighting pouring in through the
open door that strobed through the halls from the main room. He, unlike Darius,
didn't have a single impurity. His hands were tugging at the end of his t-shirt
in what Hannibal assumed was a nervous gesture - because Hannibal sure wasn't
making him feel comfortable. His stare could have struck through the boy's
bones. "What is this?" Hannibal asked, voice bordering from calm to anger.
"Where was your attention, if not on your job?"
   Darius looked taken aback for all of a moment but was quick to compose
himself back to the superior posture of his broad chest puffed out and his chin
held high. "He didn't sneak in. We found him lurkin' up the stairs to Wolf, so
we took him in here until Wolf was ready to deal with him."
   Hannibal nodded in a considering manner. He gave the intruder a once-over,
examining him from his worn-down high tops to his overlarge t-shirt that was a
pale gray. "You didn't mean to come here, did you?"
   The boy shook his head.
   "He didn't randomly end up here," Darius interjected, then reconsidered and
muttered an overdue "sir."
   "Club-goers do not venture into an environment like this wearing the outfit
they probably wore to school that morning," Hannibal replied. "What I do want
to know is how he managed to get in here. Care to explain?"
   "Some girl snuck me in when I asked her for directions." Though an
explanation was not asked of the boy directly, he gave it regardless. A moment
of confusion, perhaps, or the desire to clear his name. "She said there was a
phone in here but it didn't - I figured out what I got myself into and tried to
find an exit. I would have gone through the entrance but the guy that was
guarding it looked... unfriendly." He breathed through parted lips, eyes
drawing down to his dirt-scuffed shoes. Hannibal smiled. "I went to the first
door I saw."
   Darius chuckled. "Do you believe that? Some girl wanted to get into his
pants so she took him to an adult club? Kvailas berniukas." (Stupid boy)
   Hannibal outstretched his hand in a beckoning. Whether it was the welcoming
look he displayed or the fact that he looked more pleasant than Darius, the boy
approached. "Fetch our guests a glass of water, he looks parched." He expected
his command to be obeyed, and that it was by a disgruntled Darius. Hannibal
turned down the hall with the heel of his leather Armani shoes clicking against
the marble tile floors. The walls were painted black, as was the flooring of
the staircase that Hannibal strode down. The boy was at his heels, presumably
taking the title 'guest' to mean he was still wanted. "How long have you been
here?"
   "Ten minutes, I think."
   Hannibal nodded. When he reached the last step he waited for Will who,
rather casually, jump down the last three. His sneakers hit the floor with a
snap. "Hold on to my jacket, darling. I would hate to have you mistaken as a
threat, though I doubt those eyes of yours could do anything but give a
charming bat."
   Lecter's request was returned with a skeptical narrowing of eyes as the boy
pondered on the safety of following those orders. He looked at the lapel of
Hannibal's blazer first and then to the pocket, deciding that it would be best
to just hold the hem of it. It felt soft beneath his dainty fingers, like a
feather that was worth over two thousand dollars and surely shouldn't have any
hands on it at all, only to meet a fate of being showcased on a hanger in a
massive walk-in-closet inside a lavishing home. He felt like he was dirtying it
by just being near. But, truly, what choice did he have? It was to be led out
of where he didn't intend to go in the first place or have his rear-end hit the
pavement as he was thrown out. Taking the safer route seemed more logical. So,
he allowed himself to be led through a room that seemed even larger than the
upstairs portion, although that could just be the lack of people inhabiting it.
   The last portion of the nightclub was a private floor for the highest
paying, the famous, or those who were willing to pay to be away from the mass
of throbbing bodies. There was a small group here of only a dozen lounging in a
dimly-lit, steaming pool - four men holding cocktails and eight women all clad
in nothing or glittering bikinis, or were those underclothes? The boy turned
his gaze away before his eyes could entirely meet a woman's plump breasts,
although the temptation to innocently peer was certainly there. He could hear
the man leading him through the room give him an airly sweet laugh. "What's
your name, darling?" He asked. "Will," the boy muttered. Hannibal's hand
clasped around Will's shoulder in an oddly casual manner. "Not fond of women,
are you, Will?"
   He was glad Hannibal couldn't see his cheeks burn hot and red. 
   They reached another door, and then another. It took ten strides to reach
the second, the conjoined room being nothing but a screening room. Hannibal
walked past the large devices that resembled the ones at airports without a
second glance and didn't have Will go through the process, which the boy seemed
grateful for as he breathed a relieved sigh. Hannibal peered down at him in
questioning. "Claustrophobic..." Will muttered in an answer and earned himself
a smile that was only a slight pull of lips. Regardless, it was better than a
growling sneer. Then, the second door was open and they were standing in a
decently-sized parking garage with the night air welcoming them in a blistering
cold sweep.
   "I'm afraid this is where I leave you, Will." Hannibal's hand dropped from
the boy's shoulder. "I do ask that you never return here for your own safety.
If I hadn't found you your departure wouldn't have been painless; though you
might not have experienced it, Darius has quite the temper. I believe it would
best if you didn't return to this part of town entirely. We are not the only
establishment here and it wouldn't be safe for you to be caught. The last thing
I wish to happen is for some mistakenly sweet girl to pull you into a brothel."
He must have meant it as a joke, for he smiled. "I could be severely penalized
for allowing a minor inside these walls, even if I did not allow it at all."
   Will nodded in agreed understanding. He scuffed the toe of his shoe against
the heel of the other, a hand raising to sweep through his mess of chocolate
curls. "It won't happen again. I know everybody else in there isn't as nice as
you." Divinely sweet, Hannibal thought, but nothing he could have. "Thank you,
sir... for not throwing me out."
   Hannibal's frame turned as a black Cadillac pulled up to the back entryway.
It was sleek, well cared for, with not a spot of rust faltering the noir paint.
"I've arranged for you to have a ride home, as I assumed you walked. Just tell
the man driving where to take you, but please ask him to stop a block from the
location." His hand reached out into the bitter cold and Will took it. The
boy's palm was warm and clammy, perpetually thin and bony knuckles beneath
Hannibal's firm grasp. Both were eager to tuck their hands back into their
pockets. "Have a good night, Will. For your sake, I hope we never meet again."
  Will smiled. It was a sight that was as ethereal as it was natural - the way
his lips pulled upwards and his brow raised with the gesture. Hannibal returned
it in the slightest. It was a pity they wouldn't be meeting again, for Hannibal
felt he might be able to grow to enjoy the child's contagious smile and sweet
disposition - something that contrasted so greatly from the lust-filled bodies
inside or Darko's unbearable sense of humor. That, perhaps, was for another
century.
  "Likewise."
***** A Smile Can't Get You Out of Anything *****
Chapter Notes
     Just so you know, Will's appearance is similar to Hugh in the film
     The Sleeping Dictionary (I imagine his hair a little more curly and a
     bit longer, though not by much). Hannibal is his clean-cut self. I'll
     insert images to help you out with the imagining.
===============================================================================
===============================================================================
 
He didn't complete the job.
   Darling. That's what he called him. Leon said to expectlittle pup because
that's what "the Wolf" called the ones who caught his eye. Will knew he hadn't
completed the job the second 'darling' was used as a title, although his mind
turned around when the man began leading him to the lower levels of the
nightclub. Will knew he was simply fucked as he rode home in a stranger's
silent car, not a dollar in his pocket and not a kiss on his cheek. Leon was,
in the least, angry. He did well in managing it, that Will had to credit him
for, but he could see it bubbling in his skin like a boil readying to burst.
Will was prepared to take the blow, especially because Bella was left at the
club without a clue as to what happened to him, and the job left undone on his
part. Bella did her task; she got him in and kept the attention off of him, and
that was all she was needed for. Will got in without a problem, without a
scratch, without his ass being kicked and thrown out. Leon shuffled out the
door the moment he saw Will enter without his mother in tow. He needn't ask to
know the scheme had failed.
   Will was alone for two hours, which extended well into the morning. He
paced, bite his nails, ruffled his hair to the point where it looked like he
had just risen from bed. It shouldn't have taken so long to retrieve Bella,
certainly not if that was where Leon went the moment he left the house. Two
hours later his mother and father returned just as he did - unhurt, tired,
worried, and angry. Neither spoke a word to him as they trudged to the back of
the house. Will wasn't even sure if his mother stripped out of her cocktail
dress before she headed to bed in low hopes if hopeful at all. Leon muttered a
disgruntled "catch you in the morning" and Will wasn't convinced that wasn't a
threat.
   He was waiting outside for the bus before his parents could drag themselves
out of bed, his one desire being to leave before they could recount the
previous night's events and see where things tilted sideways. It wouldn't
matter, anyway. They couldn't use Will again. He was seen by somebody involved
with the club, which presumably meant he was involved with the Wolf directly.
He was given a direct warning to not return to that side of town in its
entirety. Leon and Bella might not care so deeply about what happened to him,
but Will fancied his life; therefore, he wouldn't dare tread through those
doors again.
   The failed attempt was all that ran through his mind during school hours. He
didn't even think about how tired he felt and didn't stop recounting to
decipher what he did incorrectly, even as he dozed off during geography and
physics. Somehow, as if people could sense that today simply was not a pleasant
day and he wasn't in a pleasant mood, the teachers didn't prod him awake. They
let him sleep. Mr. Clark, Will's favorite teacher out of the entire high-school
faculty, even provided him his jacket as a makeshift blanket. Will, frankly,
couldn't have been more grateful.
   The kindness displayed at school did not match the environment at home. Leon
and Bella were still huddled around the table, pieces of crumpled paper
scattered on the floor as they devised yet another scheme to fix the mess they
had made. When they heard the door creak open, their heads snapped up from the
pens they scribbled with. Both muttered a simultaneous "Will," Bella beckoning
her son forth with a crisp wave of her hand. Will could see ink blotches and
briefly wondered how long they had been sitting there.
   "We'll go back in tonight," Leon said, "and do it right this time."
   "I won't do it again."
   Will seemed to have been ignored. "I'll sneak you in. Sweet talk better,
Will." Bella didn't usually pipe in during the discussions of their next plan,
it usually being Leon who gave the commentary. "Linger in the crowd this time.
I'll make sure somebody spots you and they should bring you up to the Wolf. Be
sure," she stressed, "that you catch his attention. Don't let him throw you out
again."
   It was against his better instincts to contradict his parent's plans, but
the boy shook his head in retaliation. "I won't be objectified like that.
Besides..." He nearly cowered beneath his father's gaze, but his confidence
forced him to hold his ground. Will's shoulders straightened. "I wasn't thrown
out. Somebody led me out through the back entrance. It wasn't the Wolf but he
was apart of the club. Second in command, maybe. He told me not to go back."
   "How do you know?" Leon asked. "None of us know what he looks like - just
where he is."
   "You said the Wolf would call me 'little pup' but whoever it was called me
'darling.' You also said the Wolf would be eager to have his hands on me. This
guy just wanted me out."
   Bella turned her gaze to her husband who looked equally as skeptical. They
seemed to have come to an equal agreement, one they kept silent from the only
other witness in the room. Then, without saying a word, both parents stood.
   "We'll be back tomorrow tonight."
   "Dinner is in the fridge," Bella muttered. "Preheat the oven to what the box
says and don't bother saving some for your father and me."
   Will let his bookbag drop to the floor. His algebra textbook spilled out,
along with loose papers filled with unorganized notes taken during what classes
he managed to stay awake for. "Where are you going?" He asked, but the question
wasn't answered. Bella and Leon walked directly past him and his discarded bag
to retreat their jackets, just as silently slipping them on. "Where are you
going?" Will repeated. Repeated again. His mother swiped the truck keys from
the kitchen counter. "Where are you going?"
   They left without giving an answer.
===============================================================================
   There were some days when Hannibal simply didn't have patience.
   There were days when he wanted to wrap his hands around every passerby's
throat, and other days when it was just the rude ones that got underneath his
skin like an agitating parasite.
   Today, however, was difficult to cope with.
   Two hundred thousand disappeared from the nightclub's funds - two hundred
thousand that Hannibal collected during his recent trip to Lithuania, a trip
that he did not happily embark on. A waste of time. It was only the single
thread of self-control that saved him from splitting Darius' skull open with
nothing more than a dinner knife. That thread saved Matis from receiving a
bloody end when he delivered the news early in the morning three weeks after
his last visit to the club, mere hours after he disembarked from the jet he
took to get to and from Lithuania. He wasn't in a pleasant mood then, and he
surely wasn't now. He was fit to go on a happy murder spree, certainly if that
lightened his spirits. He more enjoyed plotting the deaths of those who stole
from him. When one steals from Hannibal Lecter, they steal from the Lecter
family. Nothing, not a hair, was to be touched on his business. Hannibal was
the father of his organization, the biggest wasp amongst a hoard of minuscule
others. He had the most painful sting and it, without a doubt, would surely be
felt.
   "How does two hundred thousand go missing?" It was nearly a yell. Matthew
was less composed in the chaos of the missing money. He had been pacing for the
last hour, steps carrying him across the estate as Hannibal sat with a pen,
paper, a phone, and a gun. "Who the fuck is able to steal that much money
without it getting noticed until two goddamn weeks later?"
   "The more probable solution to our issue, Matthew, would be to aid in the
search for who the thief is." Hannibal tapped the pen against the pad of paper
in impatience. "Pacing and cursing are not going to do anything but irritate
me. How will I discover who stole from us if I'm busy beating you to a pulp?"
   If the threat was genuine, Matthew did not take it as such. "Two hundred
thousand," he repeated. "Right from under our fucking nose!"
   Hannibal ran a hand through his graying hair. He could feel his irritation
rising from the depths of where he had pushed it back so far, but he couldn't
take it out on Matthew. Brown was too valuable to upset and equally as
dangerous in his anger. "Check the records. See if there were any underground
transactions. Have somebody analyze security footage from the last month. This
wasn't a plan done on the whim. They must have visited frequently and stayed
for no longer than an hour." Hannibal stood and began collecting the receipts
he was analyzing before his patience wore too thin to even do that. He simply
needed to work in whatever room Matthew was not in. "They had to break into
your office or they would not have been able to collect the information needed.
Are you prepared to assume that this was an inside job?"
   Matthew knew what strength it took for Hannibal to even consider that one of
his own had displayed such a drastically ignorant amount of disloyalty. A Mafia
family was established on trust, a trust that was deadly to underestimate and
break. Matthew couldn't fathom that one of his men would aid in stealing from
him, for they had experienced his wrath first hand when just ten thousand was
stolen three years ago by an amateur, cocky made man. Ten months into the
business and he thought he could have it all - that he could betray Matthew
Brown and Hannibal Lecter. Matthew was sure to prove that they didn't claw
their way up to the top by scamming the ones who took them under their wing.
This wasn't a game, and that boy surely learned his lesson through Hannibal's
hand. "I know my men and they are not that fucking stupid." He could see the
tinge of disapproval settling on Hannibal's lips being pulled into a thin line.
"Look, Hannibal, I know you enjoy not being in the middle of this shit. I don't
either. You go away on the trips and I stay here to run things and in that time
I got to know the men we employed. The story of you taking that kid's fingers
and shovin' them down his throat still hasn't been buried in the ground with
the kid himself. They wouldn't turn their back on you."
   "I fed him to his hounds."
   Even Brown, with his years of experience in the art of Hannibal's anger and
irritation, grimaced. "Either way, they're not stupid."
   Hannibal shrugged on his blazer. His jaw set as he swallowed his
disagreement. He may not have been directly involved for years now, but he
wasn't foolish enough to so quickly place his trust in anyone. There were
things he wouldn't tell Matthew - a friend he had known for two decades and
worked together hand-in-hand with, for the mere fact that he didn't trust him
to possess the knowledge of what was withheld. He wouldn't be quick to dismiss
the idea of being betrayed on the inside of his sturdy walls. Darko was naive
with the trustworthiness of his men, nearly as blind as he was with women.
   "Do as I said."
   If there was a disagreement to be made, Hannibal did not stay to hear it.
===============================================================================
 
    Will had an unusual two weeks. He was quite accustomed to his father's
gloomy disposition and his mother's depressive state. What caused them to be
such a way was never known, nor told,  but it was easy to ignore when he chose
to let it be. He had tried all that he could think of throughout the years,
from doing his best in his schoolwork to applying for low-paying jobs that he
could manage to snag, to trying to not be there at all. He couldn't etch a
smile on his mother's face and couldn't get a simple 'I'm proud of you' out of
his father. But that was fine, that was normal.
   This was not normal.
   Bella hugged him two weeks ago when he came home from school the following
afternoon they up and left without much warning at all. She wrapped her arms
around his thin waist and pushed his head into her shoulder, a real, very
genuine smile making her look like an entirely different woman. Leon was gone
the entire Saturday morning to place thirty thousand in Will's college fund,
pay off their overdue mortgage, heating, and light bills, and take them on a
dinner date the following evening. Bella insisted Will order lobster, because
it's supposed to be exquisite and, in turn, expensive. Will didn't like it in
the slightest, but shoved down his personal being for the sake of his mother
and ate the lobster without a fuss.
   Leon seemed to be the happier of the three. Bella was a new mother - caring,
sensitive, observant, but she hadn't gone so far off the deep end. Leon was, in
every way, a whole new man. He finally employed himself into an actual job and
no longer fret over the next heist and who else Will needed to seduce for their
joint sake. "You saved our asses." Leon reminded Will of it as often as he
could. Will did not know how, especially after his utter failure at the
nightclub heist, but never argued over the concept and did not ask how he saved
them. The evening they left him alone at the house was one during which
something monumental must have happened, for Will was well aware they never had
the money to pay off all three house bills at once. Certainly, he knew, to
lease a new truck on top of it all.
   Bella decided to have breakfast for dinner, a concept Leon loathed.
"Breakfast should be breakfast, and dinner should be dinner. Waffles are not
dinner, dear." Leon made it sound like the idea of it was too appalling to
bear, and Will, who couldn't recall the last time he honestly thought anything
his father said to be entertaining, laughed from the next room at the dinner
table. He was setting the usual three places - or what was usual now - and
heard his mother laugh too. Dear. Leon wasn't one for pet names almost as much
as he wasn't one for breakfast at dinner. Will couldn't help but sigh in
agitation. He should be happy - he had every reason to be; still, his parents'
sudden happiness was like a tapper on his own mood. They kept the cause of
their joy hidden for him... Perhaps they wouldn't if he only plucked up the
courage to ask why.
   "One or-" The question was interrupted by a hurdling scream that
unmistakably belonged to his mother. Will dropped the knives held in his fist
at the mere shock of it splitting across the room. Leon yelled something the
boy couldn't quite hear - Will, out... He dropped beneath the table. There were
moments to be courageous and others to be the coward underneath the table. Will
could kiss and tell and never second-guess himself, but the gunshot made him
quiver. He questioned who it hit first, then who shot the gun. It wasn't Leon -
they had gotten over those quarrels years ago and came to terms that neither
were able to provide. Will remembered those. Leon would have screamed his
frustrations first and Bella would have been sobbing, but there was none of
that. He could hear someone speaking in the opposite room. The conversation was
spoken by foreign voices that both belonged to men, one deeper-voiced than the
other. Will's head hit the table as another shot spit the hardwood floor, his
mother's surprised scream echoing after it. "Stop!" Leon. One of the foreigners
laughed at him and Will sucked in a breath, expecting a fist to collide with
his father somewhere and to hear the sound crack throughout the entire house.
There was nothing but continued speaking.
   "Se află trei. Găsește băiatul." (There are three, find the boy) It sounded
Russian, Will thought, and decided that whatever they said couldn't have been
an encouragement to cower out from beneath the dining room table. He was not
given a choice, however, as the collar of his shirt was pulled. It wrapped
around his neck with a firm twist and pressed into his larynx, creating the
sensation of his very throat being ripped. Will's hands immediately went to
clutch at his throat but he found that the collar of his shirt was impossible
to simply tear with his trembling hands. Then, just as he was considering
giving up at clawing at what and who was choking him his knees hit the floor
with a painful crack. Bella crawled to her son's side out of concern, but Leon
barked at her to stay back. "Movement will only agitate them," and he wasn't
wrong. One of the four men standing in the room shifted to clutch Bella's
wrists behind her back.
   "Dad-" Will breathed the name, though the whisper was far too choked for it
to be heard coherently; regardless, his father's head craned to the side to
give him a look of warning. Leon was peculiarly calm for having a gun to the
base of his skull. "What - What did you guys do?"
   "That's what I would like to know," a distinctly foreign man interjected,
"How the fuck did you three idioți (idiots) pull off this stunt?"
   Neither Bella or Leon decided to recount the details of whatever it is they
had done and Will did not because he was just as rightfully clueless as the one
questioning. He looked expectantly at his father, then to his mother, and when
both his parents did not speak a word Will decided to intervene on their
behalf. The man was not looking any more patient than he had before. "What
stunt?" He asked. A hand curled into his hair and yanked his head back. Will
hissed more out of fear than pain. The hand belonged to the one who was
seemingly in charge of the intruding party. "We haven't' done anything!" Will
insisted. "Tell him, Dad."
   Leon's head snapped back and his gaze focused back on to the floor. The man
tsked in disappointed and pressed the barrel of the gun closer to the top of
Leon's skull. Will watched the trigger. "Oh, yes, Dad. Tell me exactly what you
and your two scorpii (bitches) did to earn my attention." The safety pulled
back and Will partly expected to have Leon pour the details of the heist to the
one putting a gun to his head; on the contrary, Leon stayed silent even when
the gun's barrel moved to press into Will's temple. The boy's eyes squeezed
shut until stars were imprinted into his darkened vision. Bella made a sound
and the man looked at her expectantly, chin inclined and his gaze piercing
through her hesitance. "Do as I said before a bullet goes through your little
pup's head."
   Will felt his blood chill. It wasn't the threat - no, he hardly heard that.
The man could feel his captive tense beneath the threat and must have assumed
it was that, for he laughed coldly and pressed the barrel further until Will's
chin was nearly touching his chest. If he was to be ended, it was to be brutal.
It was two words that made him feel nauseous and dizzy, two words he was warned
about before but never heard. Little pup. The nickname his next theft victim
was supposed to use on him two weeks prior during an unsuccessful scam. The two
words he was expecting then and forgotten until now. "I can't fucking-" He was
seething, fists clenched at his sides as he was continuously forced to stay
away from his father's shameful gaze. Bella cried, whether because of the gun
to her son's head or the fact that her secret was now realized, Will did not
care. She was apart of it. "You... Kept it from me. Bought all of this and
didn't me why or how and now - Jesus, you tried again."
   "And we did it!" Leon was proud and it was evident in the exclamation. Bella
cried a little louder. "Your mother and I did it and we used it to pay off
everything. We were going to set aside some and put the rest in a safety
deposit as your college fund. But Bella, your mother, she must have said
something to someone." She didn't disagree, but she didn't stop sobbing long
enough to do so. Will felt that she was pathetic, but loathed his father's very
existence furthermore. "We wouldn't have gotten caught."
   "Shut the fuck up!" The stranger yelled, the command being directed towards
Bella. She was quieted with a hand over her mouth, but her cries were only
muffled. The stranger - the Wolf - looked ready to begin using the weapon he
carelessly flaunted. "You stole from me and you thought it would go unnoticed?
Your curvă (whore) was seen by a friend of mine. If you're going to steal two
hundred thousand from someone, plan a little more fucking thoroughly." Will
swallowed a thick lump of alarm. He wondered, briefly, if he had heard the
numbers incorrectly, but there was no mistaking it. His parents stole two
hundred thousand from one of the most powerful international corporations. They
stole from the Wolf and that would not go unpunished, that Will knew. "You are
fucking stupid, that you are. I'm going to put a bullet through your wife's
head first, then your son, and let you suffer as you watch them die for
nothing." He spat on the ground and Will flinched. "I'll take my time on you."
   Someone from behind cleared their throat. If he was able to, Will might have
turned to see where the sound originated from; however, in his current
position, a move of his neck would have the possibility of being seen as a
threat. Will stayed still, for that was all he could do. He felt the gun move
then had the pressure of the barrel removed entirely. The boy's gaze flicked
away from the floor as the sound of shoes clicking against the tile sounded,
these steps lighter than the others.
   "Și nici măcar nu ai sunat?" (And you did not even call?) He didn't look,
but he knew it was a new voice added to the mix of company. "Tu îmi iei poziția
și nu mă suni, rușinos." (You take my position and do not call me, shameful.)
The steps sounded closer, only the matter of a few feet away from Will who
still remained crouched on the ground out of reverence to their stronger
position. He doubted he could have hurt any of the men in the room, and
therefore did not try. "So this is Leon, Isabella, and William Graham. The trio
that has caused so much trouble." The stranger, still unnamed, sounded oddly
amused. It was a great contrast to the Wolf, who appeared to be seething with
an unquenchable anger. Will found his calm to be even more unsettling. "I must
admit, I thought you would be more impressive."
   "Impressive or not, we stole from you," Leon retorted, "so don't undermine
us."
   The man cocked his head to the side, a wide smile playing on his lips. It
looked purely sinister and although Will did not pick up his gaze to see it, he
could hear it in the man's voice. "Proud, are you?" The man's shadow moved in
the glare from the light above, allowing Will to know that he had crouched down
in front of Leon. Will could hear the irritation now. "Would you be so proud if
it meant the life of one of you?" He hummed. "I wouldn't kill you, no. Death is
too good for you, though I won't stop my friend from bringing you to its
borders."
   "You want to know how we did it." It was a statement more than an inquiry,
though Leon's voice momentarily shook with the fear that pushed up his throat
and through his stubbornness. It was a desperate attempt to sway the man to
give them more time, perhaps to find a way out or for Will to seduce every man
in the room out of killing them. There was a moment of silence before the man
mumbled a disgruntled "yes" and Leon perked up excitedly. But, he was swiftly
interrupted before he could speak a word to explain the details of the heist.
"I'm well aware of how you did it, and well aware of why. Why you acted in a
moment of foolish desperateness is beyond me, but I can look past it and find
sympathy for one of you."
   "So you won't hurt us?" Bella asked, her voice hiccupped from her previously
uncontrolled crying. Will could only assume that it was the man's calmer
disposition that had given her control, despite his threats of pain to be
endured. "Any of us?"
   That same smile pulled at his lips and Will felt his stomach churn. "I will
hurt you, my dear, make no mistake of that." He watched her hopefulness crumple
as quickly as it had built. "I said one of you," he continued, "and that one is
certainly not you or your spouse." He turned, then. Will flinched as new
contact gripped his chin, pulling his head up from its shameful and fearful
bow. His quiet calm melted away in a pool of deeply colored caramel orbs, ones
that were half-lidded and seemingly dazed. Will's own blue eyes were wide and
alarmed, but even his trembling frame did not seem to perturb the one keeping a
hold upon his chin and, regrettably, his gaze. "Hello, darling." It was a coo
in the way it rolled off the man's tongue, just as silky and deceptive as the
first time Will heard it. He doubted it held the same kindness as it had
before, and he did not expect to find himself unharmed in the wake of two
powerful men's anger. The man was not showing it, but it was certainly there
crawling beneath his skin. "Funny I should meet you here after our last
encounter. I remember telling you to stay out of trouble."
   Will whipped his head to the side in an attempt to free himself of the man's
hand, but it was to no avail. The grip only tightened. "You're the one causing
trouble," the boy retorted, "and hurting me."
   As if it was a shock, the man removed his hold entirely. Will shrank back
against someone's legs - whose, he did not know, and the cruel laugh from
behind did not stir him. "I know you had nothing to do with this, darling. I
won't say the same for your past, but I know you were not involved in this
theft." If the knowledge was meant to be comforting, Will did not react so.
"You were at school the past two weeks, and if you were not at school you were
working in the boatyard, and if you were not there you were enjoying yourself
with Beverly Katz. Lovely girl, she is, and quite informative. You walked home
every evening and found your parents here every night - aside from two. They
were gone for two days." He paused, took a step closer, and was only the matter
of six inches from Will when he decided to speak again. "Would you like to know
where they were?"
   Despite himself, Will nodded. He couldn't pretend that being blind had
stirred an agitation in him, nor the discovery that they had stolen again. He
understood his parent's reasoning for leaving him unknowing of where the sudden
money had come from and, if he asked, would have said the lottery. He knew
better, so he never did as. Being blind had both saved him and damaged him, for
he knew he could have stopped the situation before it ran this far if only he
had known.
   Bella stirred. A smack sounded throughout the room but Will did not look.
"They were staying at a motel a mile away from my home. They trespassed onto my
grounds and stole what was inside the property." The man stood. "It was quite
rude. So, as you can imagine, I am going to demand the two hundred thousand be
returned to me and, just to repay the crime done unto me, I am going to steal
from you."
   There was a moment in which all three of the guilty party was left in
bewilderment to decipher the exact item that would be taken. Then, Leon shook
his head and Bella began to cry once more. There was nothing more that he could
steal, for they had nothing but what was bought with the money they stole. He
didn't have any desire for it; if anything, it would be returned to recoup the
money lost. He was looking for something more prized than any house mortgage or
a new truck. He wanted something valuable to the ones who stole from him.
   "Wait outside, William."
   It was contrary to what his head was screaming, contrary to reason and his
very values, contrary to what his mother was screaming from behind and contrary
to what his father was arguing against - but Will did as he was told. When the
front door fell to a close, so did a bullet.
 
***** Toleration *****
Chapter Summary
     Will is introduced to his new home, and to his captor. Nothing is
     sweet, but it shouldn’t have been expected to be.
   It was the same car he had taken weeks ago, how many he could not exactly
recall. He recognized the feel of the seats in their genuine leather, hardly
used and barren of stains or dirt or the markings of use. The windows were
streakless, the cupholders empty, the speakers behind his head quietly playing
chapter seventeen of Relic, which allowed Will to know it was the same driver
that had taken him home upon explicit orders. D'Agosta was cussing. It reminded
him of the brute that dragged him into the car by the collar of his shirt and
Will, who remained to be in a dazed state of shock, decided to be upset about
how stretched the collar of his shirt was rather than the unknown state of his
parents. The brute had laughed, something cruel and malicious, said "you'll get
a new one" and slammed the car door shut. From then on, it proceeded to be a
relatively silent ride.
   The driver did not speak and did not comment on any of the happenings in the
book he was listening to. Will was not interested. There were few times when
his breath hitched during the unexpected bump in the pavement, to which never
grew into anything more. The driver did not ask if he was alright, if the one
time he bumped his head on the roof of the car hurt, or if he wished for the
audible novel to be muted. Whatever he wanted was put into oblivion, but the
background noise of voices settled into a comfortable atmosphere and the
occasional bump was enough to keep him awake and alert, no matter how much of a
haze he appeared to be in. Where he was headed, however, was left to his
imagination. The back windows were tinted so darkly that he could see the
shadows of trees and nothing more; the shield between the next level of the car
and his was separated by a plate that left him with the sight of black plastic
and nothing more, leaving him entirely unaware of the final destination and
clueless as to what was to happen to him. There was no clock, no watch, and he
left his phone on the kitchen counter. He did not know how long they drove, but
that it was quite some time before they appeared to have come to a halt. Will
thought he heard a garage door close, the buzzing insistent before it
disappeared entirely. Then, his gaze flicked up from his palms to the face
turned to him.
   "What do you want?"
   They were at a chain restaurant, about two cars from the window. The
driver's face was not unkind but did not imply that he was willing to wait for
Will to deliberate on what looked appetizing. Will muttered a careless "I don't
care" and it seemed to be good enough, for the driver turned back around and
pressed faintly on the gas pedal, carrying them forward to order.
   He did not listen to the meals that were requested and did not eat until
they had driven for what felt like an hour. He did not know how much time
passed, for the black screen was up again and he had not thought to glance at
the clock while it was down for those brief moments. The first mistake, he
thought, the second being neglecting to take the chance to knock the driver on
the head and run his way home. The idea of it seemed easier than actually
pursuing and doing it. They stopped for gas twice, one time being the single
other occasion in which Will received a bottle of water and was allowed to use
the restroom with a close eye standing outside the door. He should have kicked
the driver in the knees then, or scream that he was being kidnaped, or stolen a
phone and called the police. Or his father. Or his mother. Were they alive?
Probably not.
   The car ride resumed. He did know what time it was now, due to the clock
above the cashier's desk. It was four in the morning. Will calculated that he
had been in the car for ten hours since he abandoned his parents, which meant
he was two states away from his home. The air felt different - he was
suffocating on it. He guessed they were on the southern border of the states.
At this time of the year, it would have been colder in New England, but it was
hot and stuffy and particularly uncomfortable. Will didn't like the south. He
hated Louisiana then. Was that where he was going? No. He asked and received
that much of an answer, no matter how vague and undetermined it sounded.
Silence resumed.
   His stomach was growling again. His palms pressed into his stomach as if he
could silence it, and he imagined having the pancake dinner his mother had
made. He didn't enjoy pancakes much.
   He was unsure of how much longer they were driving but assessed, based upon
how long the ten hours felt, that two more hours had passed. He was beginning
to run out of things to imagine, lines in his palms and loose threads in his
jeans to count, scenarios of escape to dream up in a tired and hungry haze
before the door to his right finally opened. He was hit with the smell of gas.
It was overpowering and made his head throb. A dozen cars were lined up, some
being worked on in the early morning hours, some unattended, Will's being
pulled forward to join the line. He watched with his head craned to the side as
the trash from his belated dinner was tossed out, and then his chin was grabbed
and his gaze was torn. It was not the driver's hand but another's more rough
and calloused that yanked him back to attention. Three steps up and they
reached a door that led to a corridor, that led to a far-too exquisite mud-
room, that led to an entryway.
   The floors were almost all marble or ceramic tile. One room split into a
darkly colored wood but such a view was blocked by a closed door. The walls
were white or gray, nothing eccentric in color or showing any sort of
personality. The decor was an art of some kind, whether a painting or a stone
bust of some historical figure. Antiquities were scattered throughout, but the
walls upon walls of books were what truly caught his eye. As they passed in
hurried steps Will caught authors such as Poe, Dante, and Homer. Whoever lived
here had a taste for the arts. There was a box full of tickets from operas upon
one table, all in foreign languages from what Will could see of the top layer
that covered many beneath. Whoever it was enjoyed traveling. Will could breathe
a sigh of relief, for he assumed that meant whoever lived here was gone often.
He would not have to endure their constant presence, and such an assurance was
a comfort.
   “You sleep here.” The door was twisted open by the man who had driven him
here, who looked like he was living on caffeine and 5-hour energy drinks. Will
nodded in understanding. He wouldn’t have to sleep with them. Another comfort.
“Clothes are in the closet,” the gruff man informed, “and the bathroom is next
to it. Shower and dress within the next hour.”
   Even if he wanted to ask what he was required to pamper himself for, he
could not. A stiff knock to his knee by the toe of a boot had him stumbling
into the bedroom, catching himself before he could fall, and cursing under his
breath as he knocked a vase of roses to the floor. It did not break, to his
great luck, but spilled the water and the roses to the floor.  He was
scrambling to collect the flower vase as the door slid to a close.
   “Hannibal’s taste is becoming bland.”
   The vase shattered as it dropped from his surprised hands. Will flinched as
the ceramic cracked into four separate pieces, chips of it burying into the
carpet. It was nearly to the table before the voice spoke, monotone and quite
clearly exasperated by the new presence, scaring Will as he thought he was
finally alone.
   A blond woman sat on the edge of the bed, a glass of wine held in one hand,
the other resting on the crimson fabric of her dress upon her thigh. Will’s
expression was indecipherable. One of her pale, brown eyebrows rose
incredulously, her gaze falling on the broken vase and rising to the boy’s
eyes. She did not appear pleased. “Well, clean it up,” she pressed, “the roses
will die, otherwise.”
   “Who’s Hannibal?” Will inquired. He half expected to find his question go
unanswered, but the woman’s voice spoke around the rim of her glass. “The man I
should assume quite recently killed someone you know,” she replied. “Parents?”
Will nodded. “Hannibal is your kidnapper, then.”
   Will had a name to associate with a face, something he feared he would never
receive. Then, without thinking before asking, Will asked: “did he kidnap you?”
   The woman laughed. Why he did not know. She pursed her lips, thin and
painted a shade of red to compliment the dress she wore, and shook her head.
Her curls bounced with the action. Will decided she was pretty; a bit rude,
perhaps, but pleasing to the eyes after looking at nothing but the interior of
a silent car for possibly twelve hours. "Kidnap is not the term I would use to
describe my predicament." He saw her smile, if only just briefly. "Yours, yes.
Now, clean up. Your kidnapper is not pleased by..." Her eyes skimmed him from
head to foot and Will found himself shifting, uncomfortable but blushing
underneath her gaze. Then, after a moment, she chose to discontinue the thought
and resumed to tasting her wine. Will was intelligent enough to obey, even if
she was kind enough to not force him. Her posture was suggestive enough that
she wanted the process hurried, perhaps to fill her glass or to leave his
company entirely. Will presumed it was both, and so he stuffed the neglected
roses into the ice-cold water sitting on the bedside table, what the woman had
grabbed before deciding wine was more on call for the situation. A new boy. Not
even the whole storage of wine could prepare her for the next handful of
months.
   The bathroom was nothing less than what Will expected. All white, gray
accents, pristinely clean, a bathtub large enough for three. The water need not
heat for minutes at a time like at his home, but spurt hot water the moment the
knob was turned. Will's hand retreated as the pour of water felt too hot,
stinging his fingertips. It was a process before he found a temperature that
would suit him and combat the enveloping warmth that spread throughout the room
and the warmth that heated his veins as he could feel eyes lingering on him,
even as he shed of the shirt that he had worn for two days now. She wasn't
wrong to state that it wouldn't please Hannibal, as Will doubted it would
please anybody. He was a teenage boy, unable to shower for two days, locked in
a stuffy car - it was putrid.
   He was more than glad to slip into the water. The woman was gone now,
wherever she may be unbeknownst to him, and he found himself uncaring of the
fact. He heard the bed shift just as his thumbs hooked into his jeans and had
assumed she left at that moment to respect his privacy to an extent. Then she
was back, heels clicking against the tile. Will found himself staring at her
legs, long and slim and golden, thighs disappearing beneath the hem of crimson.
She seemed to not notice the moment of indecency or chose not to care. Will was
not daring enough to steal another glance, but cautious enough to focus on
letting himself have some decency, as much as one could get while nude in a
bathtub barren of suds and color. The woman did not seem intent to spare him
another glance, though, as she laid his clothes in the sink. Dark washed jeans
and a white tee. Simple, conventional, what he would have worn on any other day
to school. Surely more expensive, he thought, but ordinary enough.
   "Dinner will be served in fifteen minutes. I expect you to be on time. Ask
Matis to guide you there."
   "You're leaving?"
   The woman glanced back to him. She pushed back a curl and Will wondered if
it was a flirtatious or an unconscious gesture. "I must welcome Hannibal,
although I am sure he would be glad to see you first. Hurry. He won't
appreciate it if you are late."
   Will decided to obey, if only because she was too pretty to disappoint.
 
===============================================================================
 
    Matis was the man who drove Will to the establishment he was housed in now.
He was kind, more than expected to be, and had a more sincere disposition than
the rest. He was not bitter towards Will, pulling on his shirt, calling him
names, whispering meaningless threats behind his back. None had truly done so,
but it was a fantasy whirling in his imagination. He found himself glancing
behind his back with each sweeping breeze that poured through the numerous
cracked windows, never finding a direct figure, but assuming they were lurking
somewhere. There was a man standing at select doors and it reminded Will of the
Queen's guards, with the way they stood. If they were slouched, Matis' order
corrected the slackened reverence. Still, even his commands sounded like a
father only trying to correct his child; he might as well have been, for none
of the men or women standing guard acted bitter or displeased. They only
obeyed, much like Will.
   He was led to the door that broke off from marble to ebony wood. The double
doors opened with a slight push of a hand, nothing too rough against the tinted
glass. A kitchen was revealed - marvelous and excellent and made for a true,
dedicated chef. There were appliances the boy had never seen before, never
known were needed or necessary, and ones that were basic enough that even his
simple mind could recognize and name. The fridge was at least two times larger
than the one at home. Everything was new, save for the special appliances that
looked ancient but clean. Everything was sleek. Will felt like he was standing
in a palace made for a king.
   "I hope the drive here was not miserable."
   Hannibal appeared in the kitchen, evidently lurking in the pantry that
contained all of his spices and grains. He was holding two bottles when he
returned, one bottle containing a fine powder and the other housing a dozen
leaves of some kind. The label was too small to read and Will, befuddled and
entranced, all the same, did not ask. The boy shrugged. He did not know what to
say for the ride had not been pleasant in its drowning silence, but not
miserable as he had suggested. Will had nothing to do but stare at the floor
and count the specks of dirt from his shoes but he supposed it was better to be
alone than to have the barrel of a gun pointed into his skull. He assumed his
fate was better than the one his parents had received, but, truth be told, he
hadn't thought about them since he left. Shock, perhaps, or the absence of them
being so accustomed to that their lack of presence hadn't quite settled. He had
been given fair treatment since his arrival, so he had no reason to miss their
poor care and poorer housing. It would settle in time, but it was not now.
   "It was fine," he replied. "May I ask where I am?"
   Hannibal's gaze lifted. It was still odd to think of him as Hannibal, but
refreshing as well. Calling him 'mysterious man' had grown dull over the few
weeks he had flown across William's mind like a fleeting idea. "You could, and
did." Hannibal retrieved a knife, the task of chopping chunks of steak being
uptaken as he busied himself. "But you will not receive the answer you are
looking for."
   The legs of a stool scrapped against the ebony flooring. The sound did not
faze either male. "May I ask why I am here, then?"
   Hannibal momentarily stopped. He looked curious if anything. His head was
tilted ever so slightly, his eyes narrowed suspiciously with no underlying
accusation beneath. He was surveying. "Most would have themselves locked in a
bedroom, begging to go back home; here you are, seating yourself in my kitchen,
asking where and why, but not when."
   Will was seated, positioned in the middle of the table, directly across from
his captor. Somehow, in some way, he met those caramel eyes without any trouble
at all. He smiled, even. "Are you going to give me a reason to do just that?"
   The chopping resumed. Will heard each time the blade came into contact with
the bamboo cutting board and watched as the meat split beneath the force, the
methodical action of Hannibal sliding each inch long and wide piece of meat
into a separate bowl; never cutting his fingers, never making a piece
drastically bigger or smaller than the other, never struggling in the task. His
fingers were slick with the bloody juice, embedding into his nails, coloring
his skin pink. His hands appeared rough and calloused from work. Soft, still,
in the bed of his palm as he turned the knife over with a swift twist. He made
precision look effortless. "I have offered you a bedroom, my home. I'm making
you dinner. I bought your clothes. If my hospitality is mistaken for arrogance
I will consider it an offense, as would any. Greater, still, because that turn
of events would damage the friendliness between you and me." He spoke without
malice. "The only offense I believe I could have made was assuming you are not
vegetarian. Nothing here is vegetarian."
   "Well, that would be a damper on our relationship." He saw the teasing cross
Hannibal's mind, then saw it turn into something more serious. Will reiterated.
"No, I'm not. You assumed correctly." Hannibal nodded. He began to speak, a
single word managing to pass his lips before he was halted by an interruption.
"Would you consider this friendliness?" The boy asked. Hannibal looked deeply
wounded, whether by the interruption of the inquiry he could not tell. Both
seemed likely. He must not get interrupted by any of his employees. "I would be
stupid to beg. You would disregard it, tell me I had no choice, and my only
resort would be to beg again. Then you would be angry and I have the most
daunting feeling that I don't want you angry at me. This is not friendliness.
I'm tolerating you because I know I have no choice. I would be dead before I
could leave the property."
   The meat was cut and beginning to soak in a marinade. The unnamed leaves
were next to be under the blade to be diced. The rise and fall of Hannibal's
wrist were quick but no less precise. "Were you tolerating me at the
nightclub?" He asked, and his voice sounded distantly reminiscent. Will was
satisfied to know he remembered. "I assumed you were thankful but, then again,
you were playing a well-done facade of innocence. I mistook you for a lost
boy."
   "No, you saw that correctly."
   "Lost because he despises what he must do, or lost because he does not know
what is right?"
   There was a brief silence, one that only was broken by the faucet turning
on. "Neither."
   Hannibal's back was turned away. Will watched his spine curve with each
swipe of a soapy cloth against the used bamboo, disinfecting it from the harms
of uncooked meat. It was left on a rack to dry. Hannibal was wiping his hands
on an unlikely apron when he turned back around to face the boy. "You are here
because you and your parents stole from me. Deny it as you might, but it is
true. Your parents have received their punishment, and this is yours."
   Will's chin pressed into the heel of his palm. It was prickly, asking for a
shave. His facial hair still grew in weirdly, and so he never let it grown out.
"Being kidnapped from my family," he confirmed. "Taken away from home, leaving
my parents behind."
   "No, I believe you wanted to leave home. Your international college
applications said as much. France is quite far from Virginia and your parents
could never cross the border, not with their records. You didn't choose France
because the country is as beautiful as it is said to be. You wanted to leave
your dear parents behind." Will would not admit it, not in a lifetime, he was
aware that every mere assessment was, undoubtedly, correct. Hannibal would not
let it be. "Staying here is not your punishment."
   "Then what is?"
   "Learning to tolerate me."
   Crude. Will spun on the stool, pressing his back into the edge of the
counter. He couldn't look at Hannibal, not now, while he tried to gain some
sense. It would be irrational to attempt to leave. Hannibal had a knife in hand
and impeccable precision. He would, Will did not doubt, use it if he must. "I
won't learn if I don't want to, but I won't stay here forever."
   "Why won't you?"
   There were dozens of answers Will could have given and several he was
tempted to give. He could lie, tell a partial truth, but honesty seemed more
appreciated in this household. He would learn to conform to that much. "I don't
find you that interesting."
   "You will," Hannibal replied. It was said so simply that there was no room
for questioning its meaning, of its honesty and truthfulness. It sounded
confident, and it irritated the boy. "Ask Matis to retrieve Bedelia, please.”
   A second time he obeyed without questioning, even if just to receive a
moment without Hannibal looming over him. He was too arrogant, too falsely
kind. Will hated the false calmness he displayed, like nothing irritated him
and nothing ever would. No matter the insult, no matter how frequent, he would
not order Will to be dead. Death seemed more welcoming than where he was now
and he longed for it with open arms, hoping Death’s arms were ready in return.
A peaceful end sounded better than living the rest of his days out here,
beneath the authority of an ignorant peacock.
   It was quite simple. He hated Hannibal.
 
===============================================================================
 
   Dinner was a silent affair. Bedelia du Maurier, as she revealed herself to
be, was a woman of few words. If she did speak it was towards Hannibal, who was
enthusiastic in return. He offered smiles and kind compliments to both persons
in his company and even without the enthusiasm in return, he appeared
unbothered by the silence.
   Will ate in determined silence. He fought the urge to compliment Hannibal on
the meal, unlike how Bedelia had. He swallowed resolutely. There were few times
when he would catch Hannibal’s gaze lingering there like a magnet drawn to
another, one more reluctant than the other. It was a handful of minutes before
Bedelia decided she had had enough, when each of three were nearly finished
with their meal and not as unwelcoming of conversation as when they first sat
down.
   “So, have you spoken to your guest?”
   Hannibal swallowed and Will shifted. “I have,” the older male replied,
“while I was preparing tomorrow’s dinner, as tonight’s finished. Would you
prefer red or white wine with steak?” He was so agonizingly oblivious to the
look Bedelia was giving, but Will understood it was entirely purposeful. “I
always thought white complimented it well, although the red makes for a
delightful pop of color.”
   “White is fine…” Her fork clicked against the plate. Will was still silently
eating. “I can assume that our predicament has been discussed, then, and the
party is absent of… bitterness?”
   “Are you planning on fucking me, then?” Will blurted. His grip on the
utensil was tighter than necessary, his tone sharper than it should have been
and his filter entirely wrecked. “If you just plan on keeping me? You’re not
locking me here without some buried intention.”
   Hannibal looked to Bedelia as if asking if this particular conversation was
welcomed and the woman only gave an exasperated nod, resuming the meal before
her. Hannibal took up his glass, deliberately slow as he swallowed his wine,
more so to set the glass back down. Will was defiantly patient. “I do not plan
on sharing any sort of intimacy with you, whether it is welcomed or forced. As
I said in my kitchen, you are only here to learn to tolerate me. My treatment
will not change no matter how much you grow or lessen to despise me. You would
be a fool to persist in your bitter hatred when I have and will give you all
you need. You have no reason to hate me.”
   Bedelia must have seen the mistake. Hannibal must have seen the boy’s blood
boiling in the midst of his anger. He could have, if only he looked. “I have
every valid reason to hate you. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know where my
parents are or if they are even alive. I’ve abadoned my home and everything
with it to run away with you - a pompous bastard who acts like he can pluck any
child and act like it’s his. You are a fool-“ he spat, “to believe I will do
anything but hate you. I won’t ever stop hating you.”
   There was a moment in which not one in the party of three chose to spoke.
Will was seething, Bedelia determinedly keeping herself away from the argument,
and Hannibal was pondering in what could not be mistaken for anything but
distressed shock. It angered the boy furthermore to know that Hannibal thought
there was any chance at all that they could flourish into a friendship. How
could they? “Hate is a strong word,” Hannibal finally muttered, “to describe
something miniscule.”
   His fork clanged against the half-eaten plate. It scratched against the
ceramic, leaving an ugly streak. Hannibal looked at the marking without any
clear emotion, a mix of so many that it was impossible to decipher if it was
solely anger or surprise. Will stood in silence for all of moment. Waiting.
Waiting for some outburst, to be yelled at, to be pushed against a wall and to
have his life threatened or taken away. Nothing came.
   “Hate doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
   If he had looked back as he abadoned the dinner table, he might have seen
the look that merely flashed across Hannibal’s face. The look of faint
betrayal, of surprise, of hurt, but also the determined mindset to turn hate
around and manipulate it into something grand and unmistakable and genuine.
   He was going to make Will love him, no matter what it took.
***** Forgiveness Sought *****
Chapter Summary
     Will and Hannibal begin to experience domestication, or something
     close to it.
   He did not eat, no matter how appetizing any meal that was passed through
the door appeared. He declined each dinner invitation with the complaint of a
headache, a half-truth to mask his insufferable need to keep himself alone. He
strayed from the very idea of being in anyone's presence, like a snake hissing
at a predator. He did not want company, had no desire for it no matter who it
was knocking on the door, did not ask for it, disregarded it, and loathed his
being wherever it was that he was contained. He felt, rather begrudged, like an
animal wrongly caged. Put on for a show, kept behind thick bars that were the
people standing before his door, listening to his every movement for the
opportune moment to enter with the next invitation, whatever that may be. He
declined, and declined, and declined, and declined again. He tore the paper
with the intricate script, the name Hannibal Lecter, a time and a meal and a
promise for civilization. Will wanted to burn it along with the room and the
entire house and everyone in it and he wanted to run, barefoot as he was,
across thousands of miles to reach his home where his bed, his belongings, and
his parents were. He wanted to go to school for the first time in his life and
live his miserable life, join his parents in the next unsuccessful heist,
wallow in the pity of it, and pray for a better day tomorrow. He did not want
to be here. He did not want to be in the bedroom he kept himself captive in. He
did not want to be in Hannibal Lecter's home.
   For three days he refused to eat. Three days he cried endlessly, buried in
the duvet, curled up on the bed, wishing to be anywhere but there. His head
throbbed, his skin burned, his eyes felt heavy and tight and strained. His
stomach growled in a command to eat the plate of food on the bedside table and
still, with all of his stubbornness burrowed in his heart, refused to listen to
the needs of his body. He smelled, had tangled curls, felt like sandpaper at
the touch. He hoped that being as putrid as possible, completely unbearable,
that he would be freed. Such an end was far off, if anywhere at all. Hannibal
was more patient than any man, and just as cruel.
   Bedelia du Maurier, the blond woman he first encountered upon his arrival to
the Lecter mansion, never did ask of his well-being, therefore never bothered
to check in. Will would not have let her enter, regardless of how confusingly
kind and bluntly honest she was during their first encounter. It was not she
that Will desired to ward off with his stubbornness. He had no desire to be
seen like this, helpless and hopeless, considering using one of the six pillows
to suffocate himself. She would be disgusted. Forever put-out by him,
constantly remembering what his colorful cheeks looked like when they were wet
with salt, how his nose ran, his ears pink with exhaustion, eyelids hardly able
to stay open and awake.
   He was tired and he was drained, and he did not take notice of the bedroom
door opening without invitation during the fourth day.
   "Take this, please."
   Will shrank into a ball, pulling his knees to his chest. The duvet was up to
his chin, wrinkled and smelling just like him, like sweat and tears and four
days without showering. He was beginning to consider a bath and was moments
from taking one before Hannibal Lecter came striding into his room, two
colorless pills on his palms and a glass of lukewarm water in the other hand.
Will could not tell if he was apologetic, disgusted, repulsed, or sympathetic.
He did not open his eyes and could not tell the sound of his voice alone. He
hoped Hannibal was angry, prepared to kick him until he was bloodied and
bruised and tossing him out. No such thing came. The bed dipped with added
weight and an inch of skin became visible, skin that was touched by fingertips
that felt like the brush of a ghost - afraid to touch, of the reaction contact
would draw. If Will wanted to pull away, and he did, he was too weak to cower
away. His limbs were sore and his lungs stung too terribly to utter words of a
commanding departure. Hannibal knew, regardless, and simply didn't care enough
to respect it. At any other time, yes, but not now. Will needed someone even if
he refused to accept it.
   "Take it," Hannibal offered again. "Your head is pounding and I know it is.
Put your pride aside for just a moment and accept my help. Then you may hate me
all you would like." The medication was taken in one swift gulp. Will did not
offer a look at the hand extended but blindly felt for the two oval pills and
swallowed the water that was offered. It soothed his flaming throat and he
drank again, gulp by gulp, obscenely loud but uncaring of the fact. Hannibal
offered to fill the glass and Will shook his head. "Would it be foolish to ask
you to eat?"
   Will considered. Just for the sake of being a pesky annoyance, he shook his
head again and hid his head beneath the duvet. It was pulled back in that same
moment, down past his shoulders, then his hips, until it was shed entirely.
Still, Hannibal had not risen from the bed. He touched Will's temple with the
back of his hand and his expression was purely dismayed, unsatisfied for
various reasons but each going unspoken. Will pushed it away and turned on to
his opposite side, back turned to the figure looming beside him and breathing
something similar to a sigh of exasperation, just his name, William. "I
understand your bitterness, I do. You have every validated right to despise my
very being and nothing can stop you from viewing me as the Devil himself. I ask
you, Will, and just this, that you consider my intentions. Think of your past
life and its mistakes, and how all of it has been swept away."
   "My parents were not a mistake," the boy interjected. "They... You took me
away from them because you are inhumanly cruel."
   Hannibal's palm burned against Will's back even through the layer of
clothing between skin and skin. Will wanted to shy away from it and burrow
himself so far that not even Hannibal could reach to pull him out. Somehow, he
felt locked in place. "They had you stealing. Your parents made you into a
thief and never felt any remorse for it. You stole for them and what did they
do with the money, Will, for the past decade?"
   That familiar sting returned, burning and threatening. Will shook once,
twice, and swallowed his response of deepest hatred. He could not tell who the
hatred was towards, for the line between his parents and Hannibal began to
blur. "I don't know," he admitted. "I don't know."
   The palm ran the course of his spine, from the nape of his neck to the small
of his back. It caught every convulsion and every breath, whether choked or
steady or somewhere in-between. It read every emotion without being told and
without needing to look. It felt the moment Will began to cry and consoled him
through it, never ceasing its soothing course. "You were looking to get away,
Will. You needn't be anything but the innocent boy I encountered in the club. I
am willing to accept that image if you are. Life could be simple here if you
would allow it." The boy pulled the sheets to his mouth, wet lips pressing
against the fabric. Hannibal reached to push back the facade of unkempt curls
and find the blue eyes that had done nothing but cry and view with a scornful
image overlaying every aspect of the home and its inhabitants. Hannibal desired
to make it anew. He would, in time, with the right choice of words and enough
understanding. It was simple to understand that Will was torn on where he
desired to be, who he wanted to cling on to because he needed someone to latch
onto. Hannibal was offering himself as plainly as he could. The boy's parents
were miles away and perhaps that was deliberate, for Hannibal was as selfish as
any. Selfish and cruel, yet just as capable of kindness. "I have no intention
of harming you. I wish to offer you a life full of opportunities unhindered by
poverty or incapability. I would be honored to have your acceptance - your
tolerance."
   Will leveled his breathing - he had to, to piece together his thoughts. He
heard every word plainly in its offer, an offer so obvious that there was no
chance of mistaking it. There was no underlying catch. Hannibal wanted to
provide. He did not want to take Will's purity away, or harm him, or make him
suffer for his numerous crimes. Hannibal was willing to give him what he wanted
with the sole intention that Will no longer locked himself away and slowly
brought himself to an end through self-inflicted malnutrition. He wanted meat
on the boy's bones, an education swirling in his mind, imagination coursing
through his veins, sparking creativity and life and replacing the dull ache
that inhabited him always. There was nothing cruel about it. It was all and
everything Will wanted, vacant of his oblivious parents, and vacant of the
hardships his parents presented. It was the greatest piece of generosity Will
had and would ever receive and even through his sickening hatred, he could not
let his pride keep him from living a life he did not deserve.
   "Think about it, darling." Hannibal's weight left the bed. Will's figure
shook a final time and Hannibal let his fingers untangle from the curls, hand
outstretched in an open offer to join him. "Bathe for awhile. It will relax you
and then you and I can have a delightful breakfast if you so choose to join
me."
   Will turned. He picked his head up from its bashful slouch and could see the
momentary change in expression, pride, and happiness to something sorrowful. He
was tempted to combat the expression with a meaningless assurance that he was
alright, but in the next moment, his head was pressed against Hannibal's
abdomen, hands sliding through his hair again, a quick apology fluttering past
both man's lips. It was not Hannibal who pulled him near, but Will who
hopelessly fell seeking an embrace, just the comfort of arms and of lips to
assure him that he was and would be, eternally, alright. Hannibal gave him
that, entirely incapable of telling the whole truth that he would always be
alright, that this new life would constantly be perfect and he would never find
himself missing his parents so terribly, but muttered that it was fine, that he
was fine, that he could and would adjust. It was a painful turn to abandonment
when he was the one always abandoned, like some sick revenge. Will would miss
Bella and Leon and Hannibal knew he would, but it was not impossible to forget.
Enough pampering and enough care could make his parents just a fleeting memory,
as gone as quickly as a leaf in a breeze. There but far, carried away, to be
rotted into the ground and gone entirely. It would take time, but they had
enough of it to make it possible.
   "I'm acting like a child..." The boy muttered, his voice muffled against the
blazer of a suit and rasped from its lack of use.
   Hannibal sucked in a breath, deep and slow and Will's head rose and fell
with it. "You are a child, therefore you are entitled to have your moments." He
hummed and swallowed a smile. Quick progression, faster than he had expected.
"It's understandable. Don't fret over it."
   Will retreated quite suddenly and Hannibal was clutching on air. His hands
fell to his blazer, pulling it straight, adjusting it to how it should properly
fit. There were five wet blotches on the fabric but he disregarded them as
quickly as if he hadn't noticed them at all. Without a beckoning or a command
to follow, the boy trudged behind, watching as Hannibal turned on the bath,
hand stretched beneath the flow of water to test its temperature. He was as
particular as Will, reaching for the knob to adjust the amount of cold several
times until it was satisfactory. He turned to the smaller figure behind him and
offered a smile, a loose gesture to the filling bathtub. "What would you like
for breakfast? Or brunch, I should say."
   "Food."
   Hannibal laughed. It was loose and airy and not at all cruel. "Quite
specific. Well, do you enjoy eggs? That will narrow down the list
significantly." Will nodded, the simplest of responses. "Miss du Maurier should
return within the next hour. Take as long as you would like, and I will have
your meal prepared, hot, and waiting."
   Will's mouth opened as if to speak, but nothing uttered from him. He shook
his head and turned to the tub to watch the rippling water as it progressed to
fill, once again free from the hindrance of soapy suds to cling to his skin.
Then, as if Hannibal was capable of sensing his thoughts, he leaned over Will's
should and poured a cap full of a yellow liquid into the stream of water, where
the beginnings of bubbles began to form. The room began to smell of honey
momentarily and Will found himself leaning over the edge, watching as it filled
the blanket of a white cloud, emitting an aroma so pleasing that he felt his
headache slip away - with the aid of aspirin, of course, but surely from the
benefit of something pleasant as well. He was eager to dip his sore limbs into
its enveloping warmth and never retreat from it even if he began to look like a
prune by the time Hannibal came searching for him. Will had always taken
showers, whether a bathtub was available or not; it was a default, to do what
was quick and save what was possible. A shower seemed more logical in the
aspect of conservation, but he supposed something such as that was minuscule
here. Hannibal lived in a lavishing mansion and had the funds to pay a water
bill or two, free of the worry of using more than he could afford. Will
wondered, partially, if things were always so simple for him. He wondered if
Hannibal ever experienced poverty and truly understood the hardships of it but
he assumed not, for if he had the bundle of an income that Hannibal surely had,
he would conserve it more wisely. Rent an apartment, focus on keeping bills
steadily paid, rarely spending that which he need not. The artifacts, the art,
all the books he couldn't possibly have had the time to read. Or did he?
   The boy discovered that he was alone, Hannibal having disappeared during
that branch of thought. Will shed of the clothes he had been given, of the tee
and the boxers that hang too loosely on his hips, and did not hesitate to
plunge himself into the bath no matter how far the waterline crept. He was
under, running his hands through his hair, holding his breath until his lungs
hurt. When he surfaced he was not quite alone but had Hannibal Lecter unfolding
and hanging a towel near the tub's edge at the ready for when he decided he had
basked long enough. Will looked up, water clinging to his lashes, and expected
to see Hannibal walk back through the doorway to wherever he often went, or to
his kitchen to cook the promised meal. Instead of any such thing, Hannibal
pulled the wooden stool near to the edge of the bathtub behind the child's head
and seated himself upon it. Will sank further into the water. He was incapable
of deciding if he desired to have the man's presence near or far and if he
appreciated the company or desired to sulk in solely his own company. Even if
he asked, he thought, Hannibal would think of some excuse. The water was to his
chin, fastly filling, and Hannibal leaned well over him to turn the flow off
completely. It was steaming but it was comfortable, furthermore when hands
found his hair a third time.
   "Is there anything you would like, Will?" The question was presented in an
earnest manner, just as Hannibal's fingertips soothed into the bottom of his
skull. Will would have purred if that was not so far beneath him. His single
thought was, simply, my parents. He told himself no, that he needed to get
along, and that the honest answer would only upset. When Will did not answer
Hannibal did not see it as a sign of stubbornness. "Do you enjoy reading?"
   "Yes." Will slouched against the hot tub and felt Hannibal's fingers pull.
His hands, thick and veined as they were, were lathered in a generous layer of
soap and working the suddy liquid into his chocolate locks of hair that, rather
desperately, needed a trim. His hair did not grow particularly fast, but it was
beginning to become too much. Curly as it may be, it made him look five years
younger and, being a teenager, was not always a good thing. “Anything but the
books that make it to be a chick-flick. John Green has been crossed off my list
since the day I was born.”
   “What of the old, respected pieces?”
   “What do you mean?”
   Hannibal wrapped the longest curl around his index. “Poe, Dante, Homer,
Petrarca, Tasso… Shall I go on?”
   Will’s eyelids fell shut in peaceful harmony. Hannibal’s palm cupped to
collect water, pouring it over his hair, always timid to keep it from his eyes.
Not a drop passed his temple. “I don’t know. I’ve never read them. Never
thought to.”
   “It is the classics in literature that are the easiest to enjoy. Dante has
many great writings of love that are complex enough that it is not always a
predictable utcome, such as that which he wrote to Beatrice.” A sixth pour,
behind his pink-tinted ears. “I gained an appreciation for literature when I
was young. It’s best to start out during youth in many things, and arts is, to
me, one of the most vital. The human race would be nothing without arts but an
automical, blank page.”
   “Are you always poetic?” Will asked. Hannibal couldn’t have feigned
incredulity even if he desired to. “No,” the older replied, “if that is what
you consider poetry; in which case, I have no choice but to introduce you to my
favorites.”
   Afternoons full of sitting in bed, listening to a foreign accent recount the
tales of names too difficult for Will to even attempt to pronounce seemed
rather appealing, more so than sulking in bed with a pillow so stained with
tears that it would never dry. The boy nodded in agreement, not too eager but
not uninterested.
   “Dine with me and I’ll take you out to the pool, and you can listen to all
the poetry you would like.”
   A promising offer. One he was not so quick to refuse - one that he did not
decline at all.
***** Calla Lily *****
Chapter Summary
     Confronting certain feelings and new ideas. Some lowkey pinning.
     Discussion of sex, nothing explicit, but desires are heavily implied.
     Excited for the next chapter so I do plan to procrastinate on other
     things to write the next chapter. Probably will want to use another
     dose of caution then.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
   The vast house provided little comfort. There were certain hours in the day
when it was too loud to venture through a door, or too quiet to appease him to
want to explore past the caging walls of his gifted bedroom. It was not a
matter of being stubborn, of proving a point by keeping himself locked in the
room, but a certain fear of not belonging anywhere outside the room. Of the
people behind the doors, of what they would say and do, if he would be welcomed
or ushered back in to truly be trapped in the bedroom's depths that, when
pondering inside it for days, began to seem too small to fit his even smaller
frame. Just turning the doorknob seemed an impossible task. Crawling from the
bed, bathing, drained his very being of the energy it needed. His company was
kind enough to offer dinner inside the bedroom, understanding of the challenges
wandering past it presented. There was never a push, never any convincing line
to guide him into the halls, or a forceful tug on his hand with nails
scratching into his skin with the effort. Hannibal Lecter tolerated it, even
allowed it. He never asked Will to leave the room, and surely never commanded
it. Everything was, quite simply, up to him.
   It was mid-morning when Hannibal was usually away doing some kind of
business that the man knocked on the door, then let himself in. Will was
reading one Dante's writings that were one of the many novels Hannibal brought
in from his many bookshelves, La Vita Nuova. He was only a few paragraphs in,
just barely to where he began describing what little of a relationship he had
with Beatrice when Hannibal presented the idea. The boy was slow to draw his
gaze away from the page and slower to respond. When he did not, Hannibal
repeated. "Would you object to joining me in Paris next week?"
   It was sudden - too sudden. Will blinked, fingers moving to close the novel
as it clung to the last pieces of thread holding it together, and breathed a
dumbfounded "what?"
   "Paris," Hannibal said a third time, though with no less patience. "I will
be on business for a few days there. I thought you would like to join, rather
than staying here alone."
   Will shifted, just slightly. The sheets moved with him. "I can't go out of
the-"
   "Do you think, in my area of business, that I am incapable of obtaining a
satisfactory passport?"
   Will embarrassedly cast his gaze down to the book. The cover was peeled at
the edges, giving the appearance of it being centuries old. He wondered where
Hannibal found it. "I need my parents signature to leave. That seems
impossible, considering..."
   "I obtained it."
   Will gingerly placed the book on the bed. Several of the pages were loose,
some slipping past the cover. He figured he shouldn't have been touching it at
all, constantly afraid it was on the verge of crumbling into ashes in his
unsteady hands. "Do I want to know how?"
   "I asked," Hannibal replied, "and they gave it."
   "Did you hurt them for it?"
   It was given in the most innocent manner possible, and Hannibal felt
something within him churn as the boy's blue orbs turned up to him, brows
pulled and his forehead wrinkling with it. He looked too young to be concerned
if his parents were harmed at all, but despite it, there wasn't any guilt
burying itself within Hannibal. He felt nothing and did not try to portray a
guilt he did not feel. "No," he answered simply. The boy did not seem to find
when the signatures were acquired to be important and so Hannibal did not offer
the time and date. There was a silence that spread between them as thick as a
braided fish line, just as impossible to break. Will's fingers skimmed the
surface of the book, feeling the peeling paper, over the words La Vita Nuova,
translating to The New Life. This was his new life - timidness, loneliness,
parentless, a sense of not belonging. Hannibal must have seen it turning the
rusting clogs in his head for he attempted to provide some comfort with that
warming, and yet terribly timid, smile. Will was not looking to catch it
pulling at his company’s lips.
   “May I give my thoughts on the idea?” Will shrugged, and Hannibal pursued.
“I would enjoy your company and I feel that it would benefit you to be
elsewhere. I do not wish for this house to feel like a cage to you, Will."
   He could see Hannibal's mouth open to continue speaking, perhaps to follow
the direction of convincing him with sweet encouragements to venture out of the
bedroom. Will did not wish to hear it, not now when he was rather enjoying the
quiet and Dante's writings. There was not anything outside of those four walls
that seemed remotely appealing. He went out with Hannibal once and that seemed
enough; and so, his interruption came as a surprise. "It's not the house," he
interjected, "I can get used to that."
   "Then what is it?"
   The boy's head turned away, taking his cold gaze with it. Hannibal hummed a
sound of disapproval, although his neutral expression betrayed it. He took a
step forward to the bed and Will heard it, but chose to act as if he had not.
Hannibal said his name once, another time after a moment of silence, and then
waited a full minute as silence spread before them to say the child's name
again but with a different tone, something more harsh and firm, like a whip to
his skin - "William."
   "I don't like the people." The admittance was swift thereafter but choked as
it gurgled up his throat. Hannibal stiffened, and as did the boy. "They have
guns and God only knows what else."
   "They carry them to protect you, and that is all."
   "Were they protecting me when I had one to my temple?" It was a snap.
Hannibal appeared as if he had been slapped, if only just momentarily, and
faltered a whole millisecond before he was able to regain his cool and
collected composure. Will was sharp and his gaze could have cut through the
thickest ice like it was nothing but parchment against a freshly sharpened
blade, clean and swift and potentially disastrous. He looked purely angry, the
type that was vacant of righteousness but the deathly look that was meant only
for the sake of cold revenge, to ravage whatever was in his path, Hannibal
being the end of it. It was a look that made the child seem evil, not the
vulnerable boy that had cried for days because of the loss of his parents, but
as if he wished to crush the world and every person in it. Will felt the
spreading coldness and crumbled, shoulders slouching, his gaze falling back
down to his lap, to the sheet that covered his pale knees. "Sorry..." He
muttered. It sounded heartbroken as it fell from his lips that trembled with
either anger or remorse, something indecipherable in that very moment as he
seemed so torn between what was right to feel.
   "Will." Hannibal smoothed out the rumpled bedsheets before he seated himself
near the boy, but far enough away that William would not feel the need to cower
away like proximity was poisonous. The contrast was great. Will unfurled from
the sheets and crawled down to the edge of the bed where his company sat to sit
beside him, thigh to thigh with Hannibal, yet so timid that his hands were
shaking with the effort to keep himself as effortlessly calm as Hannibal. It
did not matter how sleep deprived or rested he was, or how accustomed he was to
Hannibal's shifting presence, he could not rid himself of that sense of being
unwanted. It made him feel repulsed at his own self as if he needed to look
like he was worth thousands to be equal to the other when he looked the
opposite. Hannibal never seemed to mind - he did not, not at all. He offered
his hand, palm up, fingers splayed, and not a moment passed before Will took it
into his own. The boy's palms were in a cold sweat, his grip tighter than
necessary and just as shaky, but it was firm and trusting. "I cannot ask my
people to rid themselves of weapons. I need you to understand what they are for
but also the boundaries that I have limited their uses to allow." His thumb
skidded across the thin knuckles of Will's hand. "My employees will be as kind
as I am to you. Have I tried to hurt you?"
   Ashamedly, almost, Will shook head. His hand retracted, leaving it bare.
   "Come to Paris with me." The insistence returned. Hannibal was daring to let
his hand wander, fingertips hardly resting on the boy's knee. "It will do you
good. There's much to see in France; we needn't limit ourselves to Paris."
   Will turned his chin up. The look of pure, unabashed innocence made
something in Hannibal unfurl and blissfully flutter. It was sickeningly sweet.
Hannibal felt as if he was stuck in a pool of honey, drowning in it and having
it slicken his lungs, seep into his pores, engulf him so wholly that he was
unable to be pulled from it. The simple call of "Hannibal" was too precious to
comprehend and the man found himself sucked so far into a trance that he could
not see the pondering look of confusion overtaking the child's face, as
minuscule as the change was. “Think about it, if you’d like…” Hannibal finally
muttered, “You mustn’t decide until tomorrow.”
   “That isn’t what I wanted to say.”
   Hannibal’s brow curiously arched.
   “I… Well, I wanted to - nevermind.”
   “What is it?” Hannibal pressed.
   “It’s nothing.”
   “It isn’t nothing.” Hannibal stood, then. He could see the expression of
familiar disappointment flash across the boy’s face but erase as quickly as it
was drawn there. “Don’t mistake me for a blind man. I can see it on the tip of
your tongue.”
   There must have been some amusement in it, for the barest of smiles pulled
at the very corner of William’s mouth. It was gone again, replaced by a vacancy
that pulled at Hannibal’s own sense of happiness and joy.
   “I don’t want to sound like a child.”
   “You are a child-“ Hannibal reasoned, “therefore are entitled to sound like
one.”
   “I just turned seventeen.”
   “What is it that you wanted to say?”
   “Ask, actually.”
   There was something scraping the surface of Hannibal’s demeanor. Impatience,
presumed, and correctly so. “Alright. What is it that you wanted to ask? Or
shall I be withheld from that honor?”
   A look of shyness found its way back to the shape of Will’s lips and the
corner of his eyes, wrinkling his brow into what would have been mistaken as
hostility to any other who could not see it for what it was. It was quite
plain. The sheets rose with the pull of Will’s hands beneath the thin fabric,
knuckles peering as the boy pulled at his slim fingers. His teeth grit as he
contemplated speaking truths, of finishing his original thought before
naturally inhabited instincts told him to do otherwise. Hannibal was a
contradiction to all that he had known. There was the constant press, even if
unintended, to speak what was there with no filtering and no inner conscience
whispering greedy doubts into his ear, burrowing further until it would become
a habit to keep anything and everything from Hannibal’s knowledge, even if he
could dig it out with a deep enough study. Finally, as if it took all the
courage he and everyone else in the world contained, Will stopped the nervous
pull of his fingers long enough to free his hands from the shield of the
bedsheets. His palms were sprinkled with red lunar-shaped markings, the tell-
tale sign of pressing too hard and too long. “Would you hug me, if I asked you
to?”
   It seemed too innocent - easily crumbled by Hannibal’s withering touch and
his hesitance, his eagerness to fulfill his own desires and that of the boy,
and the natural disaster that was burrowed beneath the bed of his well-tailored
nails.
   Still, he muttered a reassuring “yes.”
   “Will you hold me?”
   Hug. Hold. There were large differences, but Hannibal had the sneaking
suspicion that even Will, playing oblivious innocence to the sudden switch in
terminology, knew that. “Hug would imply a more friendly gesture.”
   “I know.”
   Hannibal breathed through his nose, nostrils flaring with it.
   “Will you hold me?” Will repeated, insistence strong but underlying so
deeply that even the likes of Hannibal mistook it as a singular need. “please.”
   There was not any need to utter a plea. There was not when the child's bleak
innocence was written across his very body like a banner made just for him, to
tell when it was most perceptible, most moldable, unguarded and unfiltered by
subconsciousness. Completely, utterly untouched, but so wholly there. If
Hannibal were a better man he would not have hurled himself at it like a man
desperate for water, lips blue from a lack of desirable, needed, oxygen,
parched from a certain lack of it. Hannibal was attracted to many things -
beauty, heartful operas, art. Art. William was, in possibly every way, from the
way he smiled, the way he stared blankly, the way he cried, singularly a piece
of art. There was not a mountain of money that could have amounted to the prize
he found and he decided, there in the boy's bedroom, in his unfavorable home,
that Leon and Isabella could never buy their boy back. It was selfish, he knew,
but not a fiber of his being was subjected to guilt. If he could have Will, he
would, and he could. He could, and he did.
    There were arms snaking around his middle, a face pressed against his
stomach, rising and falling in time with each slow inhale. His hands found the
boy's neck too easily, where his fingers pressed at the nape, drawing him
closer and dragging through the soft, short hairs that grew there. The back of
his blazer was pulled tight around his shoulders as hands curled in the fabric
below, knuckles pressed into the small of his back to make a particular
uncomfortableness settle there, but Hannibal was uncaring and begging for it.
There were no tears staining his clothes this time and Hannibal was as equally
glad and miserable because of it, for something blossomed while the boy was
crying, a trust establishing itself without either male truly realizing it
until it was too late. Will could have hated him and should have loathed the
idea of a man like Hannibal, but weakness and manipulation were two things that
were dangerous when coinciding, and they had. Hannibal was evil for it, more so
than for the many lives he had taken throughout his life, for taking a child's
sense of familiarity and home to replace it with himself, when he was what
should have become a deep hatred. 
   "What do you have to do in Paris?" The utterance was a muffled rumble
against Hannibal's stomach, quiet and just barely decipherable. Endearingly
sweet, still.
   "Business." A hum. "I doubt you would like to know the details of my
business affairs."
   "You're right," Will agreed, "I probably wouldn't like to know."
   "Would you join me for a walk around the gardens?"
   "I look like garbage."
   "Indulge me."
   It was simple to say he looked like a begrudged angel, clothed in sleep and
laziness, both well-deserved and patiently uninterrupted. Hannibal wished to be
indulged in it day by day if it meant Will was comfortable and, at least, as
cheerful as he was in that moment. He need not look like he owned the world but
even if he were to say such, it would be unaccepted and fruitfully disregarded.
Rather than argue or give a simple word of decline, Will nodded, Hannibal's
shirt pulling with it, smile doing just the same.
===============================================================================
 
   "Delphinium are the prettiest."
   "What of lisianthus?" Hannibal asked. "You thought they were the prettiest
two minutes ago."
   "Until I saw the delphiniums," Will retaliated, "now I think they are."
   Hannibal hummed. It was low and quiet, swept over by the sound of plants
rustling in the breeze of mildly warm wind. It was pleasant out - enough that
Hannibal shed of his blazer and Will ventured outside in shorts and a tee,
shirt too big and shorts just tight enough on his thighs that a cautious mother
would have considered it obscene. "My preference is the zantedeschia."
   The boy's gaze turned to his companion, his strides suddenly slowing to
match. Long legs carried him far and obliviousness made him quick. Still, he
was committed to catching every petal of every flower, and just as so to ask
what kind of flower it was and comment on its fragrance if it was strong
enough, as so many were. "I've never heard of it..." Will mumbled, suddenly
lost and stopped before a flower that was white, perpetually round and tall,
diving like a funnel before it ended at the stem. He bent low to catch the
scent it emitted, but it was weak. "What is this one?"
   "Zantedeschia," Hannibal replied. He was watching, contemplating touching,
but was content where he stood as he watched his favored guest admire the
garden he had spent years building. "The calla lily."
   "It doesn't smell much."
   "No, but it isn't always the smell that attracts."
   "It isn't too pretty either, not like the others, anyway."
   "Subjected to an opinion," he mused. Hannibal wandered near, his step short
and almost whimsical like he was a leaf caught in a breeze and unsure of his
destination. He ended up at the boy's side, hand splayed across his spine,
fingers begging to climb beneath the edge of his shirt and explore the ridges
of his spine. "Most of these flowers I planted not for looks or fragrance, but
because I found the meaning either ironic or... appealing."
   Will nodded, although he looked unsure. "Alright, then." He straightened,
but Hannibal's hand did not leave, nor was it asked to. "What does this one
mean?"
   "Purity and innocence." And inch higher, nearly to Will's shoulder. "It has
its own uniquely graceful beauty."
   "It's your favorite because you favor innocence." The boy turned, then. "I'm
not very innocent."
   Hannibal smiled. It was the kind that was first given when they met in Lup's
nightclub, when they were nothing but acquaintances and supposedly friendly, no
underlying intentions and no idea of each other's unfavorable personality. It
was pride of Will's intelligence, his intellect being superior enough that it
could see the meaning beneath of what Hannibal said. A cleverness akin to his
own, but enough confidence to recognize it. "There are different kinds of
innocence." His hand fell, tucked into the pocket of his slacks. A quarter
flipped between two fingers.
   Will's skepticism was evident through the slight smile playing at the corner
of his mouth. It was not quick to form. "I'm innocent in one way, and I should
say that is the only way."
   "Oh?"
   Will was careful to hide his embarrassment, but it colored his cheeks no
matter how much he fought against it. Even the tips of his ears were reddening.
"I never - well, y'know, did... it." 
   Hannibal was much more skilled in his abilities to hide particular emotions.
Amusement, for one, and it was surely twirling in his mind. "I'm afraid I do
not know what it is."
   Will sighed in false exasperation. He might have, that is if Hannibal saw
correctly and he certainly did, rolled his eyes. "Sex. I've never had sex."
   Shoulders straightening, Hannibal nodded. "Because you did not desire it or
because you could not find someone to engage in intimacy with?"
   The boy grumbled under his breath. "I won't say I didn't want to have sex.
There were moments when I thought it would be nice." Will shook his head, lip
caught between his teeth. "There were moments when I thought I might be able to
enjoy it. There were plenty of girls I liked but none I thought I would...
enjoy it with." He looked up to Hannibal, who was as unreadable as ever. He
sighed again. "I figured they would find it weird if I wasn't some - some
dominant jackhammer."
   Dominant jackhammer. Hannibal hid his laugh behind an understanding smile.
"Not all desire dominance. It's subjective from person to person, what one
exhibits to what one craves."
   William's gaze turned away to the orchids, blue and vibrant and standing
tall. "Is that weird?"
   "For you to want dominance, rather than submission? No."
   "I don't know," he mumbled, hand sweeping over his face. "I just never tried
it. I didn't want the moment to turn awkward once it was realized that I wasn't
going to handcuff them to the goddamn bed."
   Hannibal laughed, and so did Will. "You're young. Give yourself time before
you make any sudden steps. It isn't always best to hurdle yourself to the edge
of a cliff. You won't know if you're steady on your feet until you are at the
very edge."
   The boy's smile began to wither. "Yeah, I guess." The weeping willow's
draping leaves rustled loudly in the quiet. "But when I do know, is it safe to
hurdle myself then?"
   The calla lilies before them wept with a sudden loss. Thoughts were just as
guilty as actions - but was it Will or Hannibal that was displaying a sense of
reckless wonder? It was there, as clearly as any other thing, as sure as the
hands that planted the flowers surrounding them, made the garden in the beating
sun months before, paid every penny in full to make it what it was. This was as
sure as that. The want, the hindrance, the impatience and the patience, always
clashing with the other until the other cave. Hannibal could wait to find out
which of them was weaker than the other, who would cave to the other's desire
first and mold it into a perfect match.
   He could wait.
   "What about the asters?"
 
Chapter End Notes
     Peep that the meaning of the aster flower is patience.
     Apologies for this update taking forever, along with all the others.
     I have been very busy the past couple of weeks trying to paint eight
     huge 8x12 foot paintings for somebody and it's just very time-
     consuming. I hope to be on a regular schedule within the next week,
     if not by the tenth of April. I've been dying to write and return to
     my roleplays!
     As always, kudos and comments are always appreciated. Shoot me some
     ideas if you'd like. I always reply.
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