Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7687384.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Hannibal_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Will_Graham/Hannibal_Lecter, Will_Graham_&_Hannibal_Lecter
  Character:
      Will_Graham, Hannibal_Lecter, Jack_Crawford, Abigail_Hobbs
  Additional Tags:
      Angst, Alternate_Universe, Alternate_Universe_-_Student/Teacher, Teacher-
      Student_Relationship, Self-Harm, Teacher_Will_Graham, Kid_Hannibal, Dark,
      Consensual_Underage_Sex, Extremely_Underage, Pedophilia, Pederasty, Mind
      Games, Canon-Typical_Violence, Consensual_But_Not_Safe_Or_Sane, Hurt/
      Comfort, Supernatural_Elements, Spooky, Mindfuck
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-08-05 Completed: 2016-08-16 Chapters: 10/10 Words: 12014
****** The Trick to Wearing Sheep's Clothing ******
by Edgelord_(lostlikeme)
Summary
     Will Graham has been a teacher for a long time, but never before has
     he encountered a student as unusual and enthralling as Hannibal
     Lecter.
Notes
     Please heed the tags.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Chapter Notes
     Apologies if you read this the first time around. Things have been
     cleaned up and rearranged.
A new student transferring into his class midway through the school year is
arguably as exciting for Will as it is for his students. Even teaching in all
it’s awe-inspiring, arts and crafts, underpaid glory can become monotonous, and
a new student is a welcome break from the repetition. The fluorescent lights
offset Will’s view, compelling him to concentrate on the light switch behind
Principal Crawford's receding hairline. They’re discussing the new addition to
Baltimore’s public school district.
When he exits a little boy slides into the classroom from behind him like a
knife skating through butter. Short for his age with a wicked smile, he
introduces himself with flourish and finality. His clothes are standard
uniform: navy shorts and white socks, sleek black loafers and a white blouse.
Will finds his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, eyes unflinching. He
presses his fingertips together in a silent prayer before standing.
“My name is Hannibal Lecter,” he announces before Will can open his mouth. The
new student wastes no time, surveying the classroom behind a hollow smile and
guarded eyes. “I’ll be your classmate during my stay in America.”
Will manages a nod. Most kids chew on their lips and pull at their cuticles
until Will does the introduction for them. Hannibal faces the class with no
such look of insecurity. “Does anyone have any questions for Hannibal?”
A taller boy in the back doesn’t bother raising his hand. “Does everyone talk
weird where you’re from?”
Hannibal’s gaze could pierce stone. “In Lithuania, teachers slap rulers on our
knuckles for talking out of turn.”
He leans forward and shows off two rows of scars an inch apart on both hands.
More like bragging rights than a confessional. Will counts the tiles on the
ceiling when the students lean forward collectively, eager for an eyeful of the
brutality. Hannibal’s confidence is staggering. Sweat pools around the collar
of Will’s shirt.
“Thank you, Hannibal,” Will says, forcing a tight smile. A portion of the
insulation board above Hannibal’s desk is coming loose. “Marcel, there are many
ways to speak the same language.”
Hannibal takes his seat and Will tries to direct his attention to the class. He
forces his vision to unfocus until the children blur together. Hannibal’s
impossibly red eyes cut through the haze like a lighthouse at sea.
Will swallows. “I know adjusting to a new school can be hard, so let’s all try
to welcome our new classmate.”
Although Hannibal is hardly a chatterbox, he charms his way into the hearts of
the entire faculty before Will can learn much about him. Despite his oft talked
about grand displays of generosity, Hannibal remains a beast of a different
breed in Will’s presence. Twice, Will catches him shoving other children during
recess, and twice, Hannibal feigns innocence. By the second week Will decides
he’s given Hannibal a long enough adjustment period to qualify as a bully.
“That was an accident,” Hannibal says when Will corners him the following
afternoon.
The excuse rings like the chorus in his favorite song, but Will has heard it
all before. He wants to chalk it up to culture shock but something in his gut
twists at the transparency of his own denial. Hannibal doesn’t treat his
classmates like peers, he treats them like tools to be used at his own
discretion.
“She slipped,” Hannibal adds after further interrogation.
Unsurprisingly, the discussion after school doesn’t fare much better. Will
wonders how previous teachers would describe him. He dodges questions and
snakes around explanations like he’s been doing it longer than he’s been out of
diapers. Will takes a seat and gestures toward the chair on the other side for
Hannibal to follow in suit. Instead, Hannibal stretches out on Will’s desk and
rests his chin on his arm. With only a meter between them, Hannibal squints his
eyes and smiles widely.
“A lot of people look at you every day, Mr. Graham,” Hannibal says, while Will
fights the urge to avoid eye contact with a boy over the rim of his glasses.
“But not many people see you.”
That suits Will just fine. He leans back in his chair to widen the distance
between them. He doesn’t need a brat with a bad attitude thinking he can pull
one over on him.
Will levels his eyes. “Most people don’t like what they see.”
Hannibal shrugs, self-assured. “I’m not most people.”
For a moment, it feels like Hannibal knows. Will feels like he’s been cracked
open and set ablaze like an ant under a magnifying glass. Will feels himself
becoming undone from the scrutiny of a student. Hannibal disappears between the
massive double doors before Will can think up a proper punishment.
The next day is unusual.
Two students end up in tears by noon, and a third is in the nurse’s office
before the end of the day. The strangest thing of all, however, is the note
Will finds in his desk, indiscriminately stuffed into a stack of papers he’s
already graded. Immediately, he can recollect the steps Hannibal has taken
before placing it here, but up against no evidence it’s all hearsay. His thumbs
tremble and the paper wrinkles around the edges.
When the light turns green, you go. When the light turns red, you stop. But
what do you do when the light turns blue with orange and lavender spots?
Will recognizes the rhyme scheme immediately. It brings him back to the first
time he read Shel Silverstein with Molly’s son, and how not long after he
couldn’t trust himself reading Walter bedtime stories anymore. He didn’t see
either of them after that.
“Marcel had an accident,” Hannibal says, interrupting his thoughts.
The lunch period is only half over, but already there’s trouble. Will idly
wonders what Hannibal’s host family is like, if they send him to school with
enough food, and if they really make sure he cleans behind his ears. For all
his criticisms Hannibal is impeccably well dressed and cared for.
Will’s eyes zero in on Hannibal’s quirked lips. “What kind of accident?”
Smile hidden, Hannibal shrugs. “I helped him to the nurse’s office.”
Will has had enough of Hannibal’s games. This isn’t Will’s first time at the
rodeo, and in his years teaching he’s come across children of every possible
pathology.
“What if I don’t believe you?”
“Then what do you believe?” His manner of speech is ridiculously refined for a
child his age, almost as pressed as his school uniform.
“That you’re a little bully--and a coward. A child trying to hide soaked sheets
after wetting the bed.”
When Hannibal’s eyes widen the smallest increment, it’s enough to sell Will’s
bluff. Bull’s eye. Maybe Daddy beats him at home, or maybe Daddy is never home
at all. Or maybe Mommy is the bad guy. Will’s seen it all before.
Hannibal swallows, seemingly unshaken. “Isn’t that what you’ve been doing
behind that big desk?” The skip in the space feels like more than seconds.
“Hiding dirty laundry?”
Will feels exposed. Caught and trapped in his own mind, for all the things he’s
never been able to do. Breathless, Will points to the door. Hannibal smiles
after being dismissed, but Will requires no grand display of victory, he can
taste defeat in the back of his throat.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     Apologies if you read this the first time around. Things have been
     cleaned up and rearranged.
In the two weeks after, Hannibal is on his best behavior. Will tells himself he
only watches him for suspect information, a lie he can barely believe. On the
schoolyard Hannibal is as real as any other boy. His hair blows in the wind
when he runs, his brow furrows when he misses during kickball, and even during
hopscotch he wavers on one foot with the same imbalance as any other child his
age. Will imagines a smaller Hannibal learning to tie his shoelaces. He wonders
at which age Hannibal picked up bullying.
On career day Marcel cries over his dead dog. A memory flickers on like a
washed out VHS: Winston, Will’s dog, and the entirety of his broken childhood.
Somewhere in the haze of memories a smaller, scareder Will cries over his only
friend’s ultimate demise. For the first time, Will observes something like
sadness in Hannibal Lecter. He raises his hand and offers the grand theatrical
show Will has been waiting for.
“I used to have a dog.” Hannibal says. His voice cracks and Will grinds his
heel into the floor under his desk.
“What happened to him?” Genuinely concerned, Will feels connected.
Hannibal glances at the floor before meeting Will’s eyes. “He didn’t make it.”
It’s so hard to speak that Will feels like he’s having an allergic reaction.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Will says gently.
The corner of Hannibal’s lips curl and Will’s throat swells shut. “I’m not.”
The first report Will files with the counselor’s office describes Hannibal as
detached from the concept of death. The counselor notes no unusual behavior
despite repeated acts of violence toward his classmates. An always empty
lunchbox and skin like snowfall never reaches it raise no cause for concern.
On the way home, Will slows his car as he passes Hannibal’s address. He finds
it odd that his homestay has no children that attend this school, but rather
three that attend the private school two districts over. He can’t help but
imagine the chilly boarding school in Lithuania where Hannibal was raised.
Somewhere along the way Will loses his wristwatch and wakes up in bed without
his wallet. He spends most of the night thinking about Molly and her son, but
he never calls them. Sometimes it seems to him that life is as delicate as a
dandelion. One little puff from any direction, and it’s all blown to bits.
The next week passes so seamlessly that Will hardly takes notice. Hannibal has
begun lingering around Will’s classroom in the evening, poking in during lunch
and begging to stay all the way through recess. In exchange for personal
information Hannibal helps him mark papers. Will tries not to dwell on his
adolescent curiosity.
“What’s your type, Mr. Graham?”
Just out of reach, if Will were answering honestly. Will never lets his fingers
reach the skin covering the vertebrae, never lets the looks linger. Hannibal
has no interest in such unwritten rules. He trails his eyes across Will like an
adult, pacing around the desk and pressing in on his personal space like a lion
cub practicing a pounce.
“Tell me,” Hannibal cajoles, finger tugging on his shirt sleeve.
This is something Will has only ever read about. Hannibal is quickly becoming
something impossible, a twisted fantasy spawned from Nabokov’s wet fever-dream.
It’s delightedly flattering.
“B-positive,” Will answers seriously, pulling his arm out of reach.
Will remembers his own first crush--Nicholas--who played the cello and dragged
around a case twice his size. He was eleven then and his tastes haven’t changed
much.
“Very funny,” Hannibal says sourly.
He sighs at the the sullen look on Hannibal’s face. “Intellectual,” Will
admits.
Hannibal rolls his eyes. "Older or younger?"
Will folds his arms. “What if I said older?”
Hannibal shrugs his shoulders. “I’ve been told I’m wise beyond my years.”
Will can’t help but laugh. He relates in reverse. Maybe Will never really grew
up. With remarkable clarity Will can recall the time he took a bath with
Nicholas. They were a little too old for that, even then.
“Let me sit with you,” Hannibal pleads.
Their difference in age means so little to Hannibal it may as well not be
apparent. In contrast to Will’s tenacity Hannibal is forthright about physical
touch, and the first time he weasels his way into Will’s lap during a study
session he complains bitterly.
“You’re not even hard.”
Will freezes, feels his blood go cold. The thought had never occurred to him,
but everything he knows about child psychology screams molestation. He shifts
Hannibal from his lap and walks him over to his own desk.
“Hannibal,” Will says delicately. “Has someone touched you like this before?”
Will knows he’s required to report the behavior by law, but he never reaches
for the filing cabinet or the phone before sitting back at his desk. Hannibal
bats his eyelashes in an embarrassingly transparent way Will is starting to
find endearing.
Hannibal shrugs his shoulders. “If I say no, will you keep going?”
Will doesn’t report the high-risk behavior or the consecutive ones that follow
it, not even when Hannibal crawls under the desk and presses his face against
Will’s thigh.
For the first time, Will tells him seriously, “No.” He pushes his chair back
and buttons his pants. “Hannibal,” Will says, to draw his attention. “I’m very
flattered, but I’m not interested in children.”
Hannibal laughs and the sound worms its way under Will’s skin. “Who are you
trying to convince, Mr. Graham?”
That night Will creates a profile on a dating website where he spends twenty
minutes filling out a bio summary but never opens the activation email. After
that, he takes his lunches in the teacher’s lounge and leaves precisely when
the bell rings at the end of the day.
Despite Will’s best efforts, it only takes a week for Hannibal to find a
loophole during recess. The way he stumbles is perfectly contrived; his ankle
twists as his heel slips out from under him. Will can’t help but wonder if
that’s how Hannibal planned it. The answer is confirmed when Hannibal appears
in his classroom before the period is over, ice pressed to his leg.
Will doesn’t have the words to fill the gap between misfiring neurons.
“I have to sit out,” Hannibal lies.
Will nods sagely. “Good decision.”
Hannibal takes a deep breath before peering over Will’s desk. “Mr. Graham, do
you think I could see you after school again?”
Will doesn’t look up from his paperwork. “No.”
“I saw you watching me,” Hannibal says petulantly.
“Prove it,” Will says, thumbing over another failed test. Hannibal narrows his
eyes and Will smiles. He may be quick-witted, but Will still has more than a
decade of experience on him. “Did you really think that was going to work on
me?”
Hannibal crosses his arms. “Didn’t it?”
Will shakes his head. “You’re smarter than that.”
Hannibal puckers his lips and punctures the silence that falls like a shard of
glass in a latex balloon. “How did you know I wet the bed?”
Will almost feels guilty. All little psychopaths wet the bed. “Lucky guess,” he
says instead. “Why did Marcel have an accident?”
Hannibal looks away, losing face. “He was rude.”
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
     Listened to this a bit while writing this chapter.
Over the course of the next month Hannibal fails every administered test with
remarkable creativity. On his spelling test he manages to misspell every word
including the date and his own name, which he writes in broken Pig Latin. Math,
Hannibal answers with a series of drawings mocking everything from Will’s messy
hair to his permissive teaching style. During physical education he insists
he’s developed a heart palpitation.
Six unreturned phone calls to Hannibal’s homestay and two trips to the
counselor’s office accomplish no marked improvement.
“Maybe I need a tutor,” Hannibal expresses solemnly after school one day. “I’ve
been trying my best to keep up with American school,” he says meekly, but Will
can hardly believe the change in demeanor.
Principal Crawford all but demands it. Will can tell that Hannibal has the
entire faculty wrapped around his manipulative little finger. This time, Will
makes certain to ask the right questions, and keeps at least two feet between
them at all times. Hannibal never oversteps his bounds, as if he can see the
barrier Will’s obstructed plain as day.
“Do you get out much, Hannibal?”
“I don’t know,” Hannibal says idly, like he hasn’t even heard the question. He
leans back against his chair and rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. “On the way
to school,” he says, bored. “And on the way home.” Will wants to bring up
recess, but he doesn’t have to. “And I hate recess,” Hannibal says darkly, like
Will ever got to ask.
“What about lunch?” Will presses his lips into a thin line when Hannibal
doesn’t answer. “Do you dislike what your homestay packs for you?”
Hannibal shrugs. “I’m just not hungry,” Hannibal repeats like rotary before
amending it. “But I do love eating.”
Will orders them food immediately, and he lets Hannibal pick anything he likes
from the menu. “Don’t tell your friends,” Will reminds him as he hands over a
slice of pizza.
“Oh I won’t,” Hannibal says, lip curling. “I don’t have any.”
The rest of the evening passes in a comfortable silence. Despite Will’s best
efforts, Hannibal only picks at his plate. Will can empathize. For as long as
he can remember, mealtimes have always felt like a chore. When they finish,
Hannibal helps clean the mess and hide the evidence without complaint.
“You know,” Hannibal starts, stepping closer than he’s allowed. “People are
quick to condemn you for the things you've done.” He sucks on a mint and sticks
out his tongue. Will wants to feel the inside of his mouth, too. “But they
never give you credit for all the times you resist temptation.”
It’s half past six on a Friday and most of the school has emptied. Will is
fraternizing with one of his students in a way he never allowed himself in
fantasy--like they’re friends. The irony isn’t lost on him; the taste of his
own resignation ever bitter.
“Is that what I deserve?” Will says hoarsely. “A reward?”
Will is beginning to wonder where Hannibal is pulling these lines. Straight out
of the Bible, it sounds like. The worst part is the way they’re doing him in.
Hannibal’s scarlet eyes settle just below Will’s belt. He doesn’t shrug, but
Will can feel the apathy.
“You tell me.”
The hour long tutor sessions twice a week have turned into torture. Eventually,
Hannibal stops pretending to be sorry, and eventually, Will stops feeling sorry
for himself. In many ways, Hannibal becomes Will’s equal, unmatched in wisdom
but on par with wit. The realest relationship Will has ever wanted to keep is
already falling apart.
Today, Hannibal insists they study anatomy so that he might improve his hand at
drawing. Will buys the excuse because it’s what Hannibal is selling, and self-
indulgence is slowly winning out over self-preservation.
“Does yours look like this, Mr. Graham?” Hannibal asks brightly. “Or is it
bigger?”
Will tries not to breathe with Hannibal in his lap, the paperback splayed in
front of them, a diagram of the penis. He shakes his head, focusing on the
globe in the back of the room. A textbook has never felt so incredibly obscene.
Will doesn't know what to say.
“You’re such a good teacher, Mr. Graham.” The warmth of Hannibal’s thighs
conduct like lava through their pants. When he squirms in his lap Will can feel
himself being dragged into Hell by his balls. “But you’re such a bad person.”
The words sting more than they should. “I haven’t done anything,” Will chokes.
“This is educational.”
Hannibal squeezes his thighs together and Will feels his cock come to life in
his pants for the first time since post-puberty. Will shoves Hannibal from his
lap so quickly his knees knock the corner of the desk. Hannibal winces, but
Will doesn't apologize.
“You would make a great Father,” Hannibal whispers from where he’s landed on
the tile, dusting his scuffed knees.
Will chokes, trembling from where he’s frozen in place. “No.” A good father
teaches a child right from wrong, not a how-to on succumbing to temptation.
Hannibal appears unphased, bracing his hands on the desk in front of him until
he finds his footing. Will realizes this likely isn’t the first time an adult
has hurt him.
“There are so many bad people out there,” Hannibal tells him. “Do you really
think you’re the worst of them?”
Will does.
The days begin to blur like a panoramic photograph. Weekends are even fuzzier.
His life falls in one of two lanes: the time he spends with Hannibal, and the
time he spends waiting to be with Hannibal. The former is slowly consuming the
latter; hours with the two of them toiling away in a hollow classroom couldn’t
be better spent.
“Let me come to your place Mr. Graham,” Hannibal says conversationally one
evening. “I’ll be good,” he adds. “I promise,” he pledges with his right hand
raised to God.
Will chuckles, but his shoulders never move. “I’m sure your parents wouldn’t
like that.”
Hannibal looks truly forlorn. “I haven’t any parents.”
Will’s heart is stricken, and he apologizes on autopilot. “I’m so sorry--”
“Just kidding,” Hannibal says with a snicker.
Will laughs. Lately he finds himself smiling more often than not. The sun sets
in the window while Hannibal tries to court him. It almost feels like a very
perfect date.
The guise of tutoring is lost betwixt their natural charisma. Days could pass
by like this without Will ever noticing. Maybe they already have. Loathe as he
is to admit it, Will plays favorites. Some students are more special to him
than others, and then, there is Hannibal.
“Are you scared of monsters, Mr. Graham?” Hannibal asks.
“Are you?” Will raises a brow at Hannibal from across the desk.
Hannibal frowns. “I asked you first,” he complains.
“Fair enough,” Will relents. “Only my own.”
The honesty surprises them both. Hannibal smiles. “I could come over and check
under your bed,” he offers diplomatically.
Will tries to remember his place in the conversation. “For monsters?”
“Yes.” Hannibal kicks his heel softly. “Or are you afraid I’ll find you under
there?”
The back of Will's chair touches the wall. “Are you implying that I’m the
monster?”
Hannibal’s grin could crack glass. “Takes one to know one.”
***** Chapter 4 *****
The next day passes like water through Will's fingers. Although Hannibal is
absent, Will still hears his voice when the classroom is quiet. It reminds him
of dark chocolate: bittersweet. He runs his tongue along the ridges of his
teeth and imagines Hannibal's devious smile, his sharp canines, poised like a
monster's. The schoolyard has become less interesting somehow. The half hour is
over before Will realizes and he hasn't finished marking any of the spelling
tests.
For the first time since he's finished his education degree, Will closes the
lesson plan and hands out crossword puzzles instead.
Time passes the same as it always does, but Hannibal's absence quickly consumes
him. Will stutters through lectures, loses his place during readings, and
misplaces his keys twice before making it to his car. On the way home, he pulls
over to investigate a rock that looks like a dog. Dinner is a swift, joyless
affair, and he scrapes the leftovers into the bowl by the back door. He falls
asleep in an armchair with the television on, blood turning to scabs around his
ankles.
“Didn't you have a father to teach you how to shave?”
It's been so long since anyone has touched Will with gentility that the warmth
startles him. Hannibal presses his fingers to his chin, grazing a small cut
with his thumb. He frowns, eyes flickering to Will's.
“Are you worried about me?” Will asks.
Hannibal shrugs. “Shouldn’t someone?”
“And why’s that?”
“You always hurt yourself,” Hannibal says, and for a moment, Will feels too
known. Hannibal narrows his eyes. “When you wake up, let me do it for you.”
Will sits straight up in bed, tangled in soaked sheets. Tardy for the third
time in a month, he's beginning to run out of excuses. Somehow, it feels like
Hannibal's fault. Worse than the empty desk is his reappearance, the way his
eyes broadcast a smile without ever moving a muscle. Will avoids his gaze; he's
beginning to feel like a schoolgirl with an embarrassing crush.
When the students filter through the doorway at three pm, Hannibal doesn't
budge from his seat until the door clicks shut. Will shakes his head, blinks,
and wrings out his hands. Not obsessed. Hannibal tracks his movement like he's
heard him. Did Will say that part out loud?
“Hannibal, you should leave,” he manages tersely.
Hannibal rolls his eyes, moving from his seat with grace. “If shoulds and
coulds did any good, we'd all be buried saints, Mr. Graham.”
“You're wrong.” Will wishes he could swallow his own tongue. “And I'm putting a
stop to it now.”
He's trying hard to sound convincing, but if he doesn't believe himself, how
can he expect Hannibal to? He's been trying to put a stop to this since before
it began.
Hannibal crosses the room like he isn't half of Will's height, and lowers his
voice to a whisper. “It isn’t fucking them that you think about most, is it?”
The words freeze him over. Will smothers the urge to snap at the language. “No,
it’s more like--”
“Everything else?” Hannibal sits on the edge of the desk nearest to Will, feet
dangling.
Beyond all reasonable doubt, Hannibal knows, and Will can't bring himself to
keep up the facade. Not even Molly carved a place this close to his heart; saw
his monster and patted it's head like it wasn't a hound from hell. How has it
come to this? To fall apart in front of a child, to unleash the demon he'd
worked a lifetime to seal in the depths of his soul. He knows before he opens
his mouth: he's given up.
When he slides into his lap, Will knows he should protest. Hannibal presses his
spine flush to his chest and grips Will's kneecaps in front of him.
The murmur sounds too loud in the silence. “Do you think about boys like me?”
“Not like you,” Will says with a grimace.
Here it is: Will's darkest hour, long before the sun has begun to set. Pretend
little boys that don't exist and never will don't trip his trigger. Peter Pan,
go eat your heart out. Feelings over real boys, Will stomps out in the night
with lit cigarettes and shallow cuts no one but him has ever seen.
Hannibal’s eyes widen with excitement. “Me,” he clarifies, leaning back against
Will eagerly. “What do I do?”
Will chokes on the lump in his throat. The only other person he’s shared his
secret with wants Will to describe the way he won't think about fucking him.
The only time he's considered bearing himself like this was in the court of
law, to admit defeat and accept the punishment he's always deserved.
“You go to sleep when you’re supposed to, and let me help with your homework.”
Hannibal deflates like a popped balloon. It would be amusing if he wasn't
suffocating in his own shame. “You can’t be serious,” he scowls. “I don't need
help with my homework.”
Will shrugs. “Your grades say otherwise.”
“If I promise to do better, will you tell me what you really think?”
Will has accepted his own demise. He hangs his head, averts his eyes, and gives
in. “You touch yourself.”
Hannibal sighs dramatically. “That’s it?”
“That’s all I could--”
Will hasn’t succumbed to even the tamest fantasy since he turned eighteen. He
knew in his gut when he was twelve that he wasn't right in the head.
Hannibal wrinkles his nose, turning in Will's lap. “I thought adults did more
than just wanking.”
Will shakes his head. “I won’t touch you.”
Seething, Hannibal pushes resolutely at his shoulder. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll
touch you.”
Will laughs although nothing is funny. “Of course not.”
He retracts Hannibal from his lap and stumbles his way out the door. The
teacher’s bathroom is just around the corner; close enough to fresh air. The
hallway is eerie, desolate save for the janitor mopping quietly across the
floor. He's been doing this at work since he lived with Molly; he could never
stomach the thought of Walter walking in at the wrong time at home. Will locks
the door shut behind himself, counting the patterned tiles as the blade sinks
into his skin.
When he enters the classroom, Hannibal looks up from where he's rifling through
Will's desk. Before Will can correct the behavior Hannibal approaches him, neck
craned in an effort to make eye contact.
“I know what you do during breaks,” Hannibal tells him.
Will swallows. “How's that?”
Hannibal inclines his chin. “It's leaking down your ankle.”
Will swivels his head and pulls at his pantleg, exposing crisscrossed scars.
His socks are dry.
“Made you look,” Hannibal giggles. “I never knew what you did, but I do now.”
In the sanctity of his own home, Will discovers that Hannibal has left him a
terrible gift. On his cellphone, the new image sits in replacement of his
previous background (a dog with wide eyes and a lolling tongue.) Instead,
Hannibal grins from in front of the lens, thumb tucked in the waistband of his
pants to reveal a miniature erection. Will could swallow him in a single
mouthful. His fingers slide across the screen as he stumbles over the settings.
Before he can figure out how to remove the image, bile rises in his esophagus.
His gut erupts like a volcano across the sheets: milky and yellow, and the
contents of a half-digested TV dinner.
The thought of child pornography curdles the deeply rooted moral system Will's
been cultivating since post-pubescence. Will never seeks it out; has never seen
it by accident. Even cutouts from K-mart catalogs make Will feel unclean.
When he can breathe again, Will yanks the blankets from the bed and tosses them
into a trash bag. Calmer, and less nauseous, Will assesses the situation as he
fights a fitted sheet around his lumpy mattress. In retrospect, he invited this
onto himself. In the time it took Will to nurse the shallow cuts in his skin,
Hannibal had managed to snap the photograph and replace his phone in the desk
drawer. He can see the blackboard in the background, the incriminating edge of
his desk chair.
Despite himself, Will can't delete it.
He spends all night staring at the picture, jerking himself chafed on all fours
over the three inch screen. It’s better than sex, and more satisfying than
watching his own blood pool around the drain. He falls asleep in his own salt,
cum drying in his pubic hair, tear stains like dirt tracks across the pillow
case.
Somehow, things get worse.
***** Chapter 5 *****
One morning Will glances up from reading a poorly written English paper and
chokes on a sip of coffee. Several students stop working to watch Will cough
into his hand. He waves them away and redirects his attention to Hannibal, who
remains focused on the assignment in front of him. Will can hardly believe his
own eyes.
Hannibal is deliberately palming himself through his trousers beneath the desk.
His classmates remain unconcerned, blind to his deviance. There's no precedent
here. His breath catches in his throat as Hannibal fingers the pants button. It
slides through the loop and exposes the stitching in his underwear when he tugs
down the zipper.
He never pulls his prick out, but Will feels all the worse for imagining it.
The fantasy flashes behind his eyes before he can stop it: Hannibal lazily
jerking himself off until he dribbles cum onto his polished shoes. Will already
knows what it looks like, although the incriminating evidence has long since
been wiped from his cellphone. In a fit of rage he destroyed it entirely,
picked it apart with a hammer until all that was left was the memory of
Hannibal's immature flesh, pink and uncircumcised at the tip.
Will chews through two ballpoint pens before the bell announces the end of the
hour. By the time Will begins lining students at the door, Hannibal has
composed himself. Today, he is bereft of excuses, and follows his classmates
into the lunchroom, and then the schoolyard without argument. It is Will who
must pull him aside before the door slips shut.
“Hannibal,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. “I think we have
something important to talk about.”
Back in the classroom, they are alone once more, with the sound of screaming
children as their romantic backdrop. Hannibal feigns innocence with the
confidence of a practiced liar, and when that doesn't work he resorts to
victimizing himself.
“I couldn't help it,” he says with a shrug. “And it's your fault. Shouldn't you
take responsibility?”
Will shakes his head. “I didn't call you here over what happened in class
today,” he reassures him. “Inappropriate as it was.”
Hannibal watches him sideways, failing to hide his devilish smile. “What then?
I've left Marcel alone, haven't I?”
Will narrows his eyes. “But you didn't leave my cellphone alone, did you?”
Hannibal blinks twice, and Will ponders how easily such a ploy must work on
other adults. Has anyone ever caught his scheming and schmoozing? Will waits
for the lie, the denial and then the evasion, but instead, Hannibal abandons
his facade with a grin.
“No, I didn't,” he admits. “Did you like it?”
Will sputters, but the words flow naturally, trite and sour on his tongue.
“This has gone too far,” doesn't quite say it. This crossed over into too far
when Will allowed him into his lap all those weeks ago. “I could lose my job,”
he tries, but that doesn't come close to covering the full story. The words
lodge in his throat. “I could get arrested, thrown in jail--”
Hannibal raises his eyebrows. “Or worse.”
For the first time in his ten years of teaching, Will must resist the urge to
strike a student. He thinks about slapping that impish smile right off his
face. His nostrils flare and his chest heaves when anger takes hold.
“Do you think this is a game?” His voice is louder than he expected in the
vacant classroom. “A joke?” Hannibal doesn't flinch, not even as his tone
darkens. “What you did today during class is completely unacceptable!”
“I thought this wasn't about what that.”
Will steps forward but Hannibal doesn't move an inch. “It is now!”
“Maybe you ought to call my parents,” Hannibal suggests simply.
The anger boiling in Will's chest bubbles over. “This is beyond a phone call
home! This can't continue.” Will can feel something ugly expanding in his
stomach. He narrows his eyes, trying to steady his nerves. “You're forcing my
hand, Hannibal. I have to report this.”
Hannibal places his hand over Will’s but he pulls away. They stare at one
another and the world falls silent behind them.
“If you were going to report my behavior, you would have done it a long time
ago,” Hannibal sneers. “Isn't that right?”
Will surges forward, self-control shattered, and snatches Hannibal by his
wrist. The shock never settles; there is no fear to bear witness to. Hannibal
turns his head and Will tracks his gaze. Principal Crawford is standing in the
doorway, eyeing Hannibal's small hand encased in Will's white-knuckled grip.
“I'll be in the hallway,” Principal Crawford tells him.
Where Will expects a perfect storm he finds the quiet pattering of raindrops.
Jack is calm, even toned, and says nothing of what just occurred. Instead he
levels his eyes, and asks him a favor.
“I'd like you to keep an eye on Hannibal,” Jack tells him. The irony almost
makes him burst into laughter. He's done nothing short of scrutinize the boy
since he stepped foot in his classroom.
Will swallows the fear and nods. “Can I ask why?”
“You can,” Jack says slowly, “But I don't have an answer.” When Will waits for
an explanation, Jack sighs. “We still haven't received his transcripts, and his
homestay never answers our calls. The teacher's aid reported some
rather...questionable behavior.”
“What kind of behavior?” His mind races to the worst.
Jack reads him, as always, half on target. “We don't want to raise unnecessary
concern. Just let me know if you notice anything...odd.”
Will forgets he's supposed to answer. “Of course,” he says quickly. “You have
my full cooperation.”
The moment Principal Crawford retreats into his office, Will shuts himself into
the staff bathroom. Years of unrestrained desire have begun seeping to the
surface, adrenaline mixing with arousal like a deadly cocktail. He tears his
pants open and strokes himself off in mere seconds, eyes rolling into the back
of his head as he blows his load against porcelain.
Will tucks himself back into his pants and leans against the stall door. He
can’t stop thinking about Hannibal’s negligent home life, the way he hasn’t
brought lunch into school since he started. When the toilet flushes
automatically Will jumps and heads to the sink. He thinks about Hannibal even
as he washes his hands three, four, and five times.
Afterward, Will skips guilt and cycles straight through six shades of shame. He
can feel Hannibal’s weight outside the door before his palm reaches the handle.
He takes a deep breath and thinks about never letting it go. Hannibal peeks
through the crack when he finally opens the door.
“I wanted to see,” he complains. “Was there a lot?”
Will struggles to answer, wondering why it’s okay to blow his load over a kid
but not to talk straight with him about it.
“Yes,” he admits, wiping his hands on his trousers as if they aren’t already
scrubbed raw.
Hannibal brightens in the way that only children can. “Because of me?”
That’s the thing about kids; always an ego the size of a storehouse. “You could
say that.” Assent may as well be admission.
Ever curiouser, Hannibal grins. “And next time, can I see?”
Will’s voice is small, but he can't bring himself to reject him. “Next time?”
***** Chapter 6 *****
Will's world is tipping on its axis, Hannibal pulling him ever closer like the
force between the moon and the tide of the ocean. Thoughts of Hannibal consume
him like a cat does whole prey: bones, heart, and brain be damned. Was he born
this way, or cultured into the conniving child he's become? Will is hesitant to
label him at all, but “attachment disorder,” and “sociopath,” keeps filtering
through his head. Any decent person would discuss it with the school counselor,
but Will isn't a decent person anymore, is he?
After school, Will finds Hannibal lurking under the overhead to avoid the rain.
Even the single mothers have already retrieved their children, leaving Hannibal
to wait in isolation while the clouds darken and the drizzle becomes a
downpour.
“Go home, Hannibal,” Will says as he passes by.
Hannibal tails Will to his car anyway, wheedling all the while. “I can't,” he
insists, when Will inserts the key. “I missed the bus.”
“Call your parents,” Will corrects quickly, “Your host family.”
Hannibal doesn't desist. “I told you--”
“I know,” Will snaps, sweating. “You haven't any parents.” His shirt is soaked
through, patience thinning as he struggles with the stuck lock. “Have you been
to the office? Did you call home?”
Hannibal leans against his car where the paint is chipping. “What do you
think?”
Will turns to him, leaving metal teeth jammed inside the keyhole. “I think
you're doing this on purpose,” he says succinctly, “And I think you want me to
get caught.”
Hannibal's wide eyes will never fool him again. “Caught? Doing what?”
Will glances around. He watched Jack drive his own slick black volvo from the
parking lot an hour before. The office has been empty for almost as long, and
the janitor leaves early on Fridays. Hannibal must know all this just as well.
Will licks the rainwater from his lips and rests his head on his fingers.
“Sometimes the most loving answer is no.”
When Hannibal reaches for the key Will doesn't stop him. “Intent is the hardest
part of saying no, isn’t it?” he says, twisting his wrist until the lock clicks
open with ease.
Hannibal stubbornly meets his gaze and Will scrubs a hand over his face. “This
is the worst thing I’ve ever wanted,” he admits quietly.
Hannibal laughs and it lights a fire inside his soul. “Then you haven’t wanted
the right things.”
“And what do you want?” Will asks, even as Hannibal pulls open the door.
For all his bravado, his logic isn't much more developed than the average
child. “To see what happens,” he tells Will boldly.
Will eyes the perimeter of the building one last time. “Get in the car before I
change my mind.”
He doesn't bother telling him to sit in the back; he's not sure what difference
it will make. The entire commute is just another stalling tactic; a fool's
gambit Will can't stop himself from playing, and he's been dealt the worst
hand.
“I'm taking you straight home,” he informs the child in the seat beside him.
Hannibal makes a silly noise Will wasn't aware he was capable of. “Mine, or
yours?”
“Yours!” Will narrows his eyes, infuriated by the audacity. “Now buckle your
seatbelt.”
Pulling from the parking lot and onto the road does little to ease his anxiety.
Will keeps expecting Jack to pull up beside him at a streetlight or for a cop
to tailgate him onto the freeway. He makes the entire trip with his eyes glued
to the speedometer, because the last thing he needs is a bored cop nabbing him
for speeding and spying Hannibal in the passenger's seat.
Tentative and almost genuine, Hannibal's voice is soft when they're just a few
blocks away. “Are you angry?”
“No,” Will says automatically, before reconsidering. “Yes.” This much anger
toward a child would feel more rational if it wasn't his own fault. “You almost
got us caught, Hannibal.”
Hannibal never misses a beat. “Don't you mean you almost got us caught?”
Will doesn't bother responding after that, refusing to allow a child to bait
him like a guppy. It's late winter, early evening, when the sun has already
drowned in the horizon line. There's a classical number playing from the static
ridden radio, the only station that doesn't make Will feel like driving into a
signpost, full speed. Hannibal has been inching closer for most of the car
ride, so much so that the first time he reaches for Will's pants is almost as
trite as it is expected.
“No more,” Will snaps, but the words fall on deaf ears. He knows Hannibal will
ignore him, but pursuing any conversation only ever makes it worse.
Will bats him away without a second thought as they round a corner. Will is too
ashamed to admit he knows the route to Hannibal's house by heart, that he
drives twenty minutes out of his way to pass by the oversized house on his way
home.
The destination is mere minutes away when Hannibal tries a second time, curling
his fingers around Will's half-flaccid cock through the front of his pants. It
jolts in Hannibal's hand and Will swerves the car, screeching to a grinding
halt as he presses the brake flat to the floor. He outstretches his arm on
autopilot to protect Hannibal from the backlash, but without the seatbelt
Hannibal's forehead still clocks the baseboard.
A stag stares at them from in front of the headlights while Will tries to catch
his breath. Its eyes widen before it gallops back into the forest. Hannibal
rubs the knot forming on his head. Twenty scenarios replay through Will's mind,
all of which include Hannibal's skull cracked open like a cantaloup across the
upholstery.
Will talks through clenched teeth. “I thought I told you to buckle your
seatbelt.”
“You did,” Hannibal admits wisely.
There's a close cousin to remorse hiding in Hannibal's expression but it does
nothing to steel the temper searing Will's veins.
His jaw clicks when he opens his mouth. “Must you always learn everything the
hard way?”
Hannibal's eyes are unwavering in a wordless challenge. “Not all learning can
be measured by grades.”
Anger sizzles behind his skin at the thought of Hannibal's small body, lifeless
and cold. The leather snaps back with a click like the release of a measuring
tape when Will unlocks his own seatbelt.
“You want to act like a grownup so bad?” Will taunts, reaching across the space
between them. “Then maybe it's time I treat you like one.”
He pulls the lever attached to Hannibal's seat and scales it back until there's
enough space on the floor for Will to squeeze himself into. The road is quiet
beneath the leafy overhang; the light in the car goes dim. The crickets take
over the silenced orchestra as Hannibal presses his shoes to the glove
department while Will spreads his legs.
Vividly, Will remembers Hannibal's tiny fingers as he stroked himself off
beneath his desk. He pulls the zip and yanks his pants down until he can see
Hannibal's underwear, snug around his prick. He slides his hands under him and
grips Hannibal by the rear, pulling him forward until he can breathe against
the white cotton.
“Ready for me to finish what you started?” Will asks, staring at the child from
beneath his narrowed brow.
Hannibal nods, thighs trembling. Will tests his composure, mouthing at his
concealed erection until the fabric is soaked. When he pulls away, he almost
considers stopping. He stomps out what little is left of his conscience before
guilt can take hold. Whatever was left of self-preservation skyrocketed from
inside him when his sole felt the floor.
Hannibal tilts his hips forward and tries to shimmy out of his underwear.
“Don’t stop,” he complains.
Will smiles deviously. “Or what?”
“Or--” Hannibal falters. “I’ll bite you.”
The moment is flawless in its imperfection: Hannibal's ornery attitude, their
troublesome predicament, and the way Will's knees are pressed hard enough to
bruise against the metal rod beneath Hannibal's chair. When an owl coos softly
in the distance, Will feels the tension draining from his shoulders like soapy
water in a sink.
“Don’t be rude now, Hannibal,” Will reminds him gently. He grips Hannibal's
wrist in his hand and renders him immobile without really trying. “For a threat
to matter, it has to scare me.”
Hannibal glowers and pulls impatiently at Will's collar with his free hand.
“Fine then. Please suck me off.”
What he lacks in size, he compensates for with persistence. He yanks on Will’s
hair, pressing himself close until Will's nose brushes his belly. Hannibal's
knees lock around his head when Will hollows his cheeks, and Hannibal humps
forward, eager. In ten years time Hannibal will fuck better than most men, but
for right now, he is at Will's mercy.
“Ask nicely, Hannibal.”
Hannibal sucks in a deep breath and stomps his foot in frustration. “Can I come
in your mouth?” he demands. Will digs his nails into his skin and pulls him
closer. Hannibal screws his eyes shut as he stutters. “P-please?”
When it's all over and he's pulled flush to the curb of Hannibal's house, Will
feels nothing. He can still taste Hannibal in his mouth: skin and something
sweeter. There's a cold sweat pricking on his forehead, and the hair on the
back of his neck is standing at attention.
“Get out,” Will says, refusing to turn his head.
Hannibal scoffs. A haughty noise coming from such a small stature. “Or what?”
Will takes a deep breath. “There is no or what: get out.”
The laugh rolls off Hannibal's shoulders like he's never tasted the innocence
of being a child. “For a threat to matter, it has to scare me.” He arches a
single eyebrow.
Will swallows. “I’m not trying to scare you, I just--”
Hannibal grins “Can’t help yourself?”
Will loses himself for a moment, a mouse hypnotized by the rhythmic sway of a
snake before the strike. The trail from his tongue sears Will’s skin. Hannibal
smiles something inhuman, cheshire.
“I'm kidding,” Hannibal says. “Come and meet my parents.”
Will gapes. Jack's words ring in his ears. “Just to say hello,” he concedes.
***** Chapter 7 *****
The house is immaculate, hotel-esque and disturbingly unlived in. It's large
enough and clean enough that they probably have help, but from the foyer to the
kitchen Will spies none of them. From the photographs lining the mantlepiece,
Will discovers his host family looks exceptionally different from Hannibal;
darker hair and lighter eyes. Their youngest can't be a year older than him,
and Will can't help but wonder what Hannibal does to him.
Upstairs there is a grandiose library and an older girl's room. The master
bedroom Will sees only through a two inch slit of cracked door space. The
lights are out but Will catches the frilled bed skirt from the corner of his
eye as he passes by. He's been listening to his heartbeat redouble for a while
now, waiting for this gothic fantasy to collapse. Instead the hallway remains
empty save for the two of them, when Hannibal shows Will to his bedroom.
“This is it,” Hannibal says gracefully. “Is it just like you imagined?”
Hannibal's room reminds Will of one of those Kmart cutouts he's never clipped.
All of the furniture is regal in miniature, playful without being substandard.
There's a wooden bunk bed, presumably for his host family's biological child to
share with Hannibal. There is a small desk full of art supplies, pictures
painted with fingers and tacked to the wall above it. The house itself remains
barren of life.
“No one is home,” Will says slowly. He turns to Hannibal as something scarier
than shame creeps his spine and sinks into his shoulders. “But you already knew
that, didn't you?”
Hannibal shrugs. “Are you surprised?”
He feels like he’s in the wrong section at IKEA. Will chews his bottom lip,
trying not to linger on the elaborate train station in the corner of the room.
Next to it there is an incomplete building constructed with Lincoln Logs, and
beside it a chest of toys Will struggles to imagine Hannibal playing with under
any context.
“Surprised is an understatement, Hannibal. Your intellect is damn near
impossible for your age.”
They’ve held conversations on everything from WWII to Sesame Street, and
Hannibal is so poignant in his deconstructions it’s almost frightening.
“Thank you.” Hannibal smiles like he's licking icing from his lips. “But a
truly strong person doesn't need approval anymore than a wolf needs approval
from sheep.”
Will offers a bitter chuckle. “When you talk about your classmates you take the
stance of an outsider.”
Hannibal’s smile widens and he inclines his head like he's been delivered a
spectacular compliment. “I’m not like them,” he offers without further
explanation.
Will shuffles his hands in his pockets. “You’re still a child.”
Hannibal is smug, thumbs at the waistband of his pants in a silent dare. “Prove
it.”
Unhinged since before the car ride, Will allows himself the grace of a
predator. He strides forward twelve inches at a time, until Hannibal is backed
up against the windowsill. He’s never had to look this far down his nose at
someone he wants to fuck; Hannibal’s head doesn’t come close to Will’s
shoulders. The height disparity feels like something dirty Will never wants to
clean.
Will bows his back and braces his arm on the wall so can make eye contact. “If
I'm the sheep...what does that make you?”
Hannibal bats his lashes like he feels anything close to bashful. “A lamb?” he
asks, like he doesn’t even believe himself.
When the silence settles, Will brushes loose hair from Hannibal’s eyes and
shakes his head. “A yearling, at least,” he says, although the clarification
offers no real reassurance.
“Teach me more,” Hannibal pleads in a low whisper, pressed forward on the tips
of his toes. He watches Will’s adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “Please?”
The first touch of their lips ignites Will like lightning, pinpricks of
explosive pleasure firing his nerve endings like rounds from a semiautomatic
weapon. Their features don’t quite line up because much like the furniture in
the room, Hannibal is a man in miniature. Will’s cock flags for half a second,
and he almost convinces himself he’s normal.
“Don't treat me like a child,” Hannibal pulls away to command.
He pushes at Will’s pursed lips with his tongue and when he doesn't assent
Hannibal bites him in retaliation. The blood sends him into a frenzy, fingers
sinking in his shirtsleeves as he sucks Will’s sore lip into his mouth. Will
resists a shudder, cradling Hannibal’s head in his hand as he curls around his
smaller frame.
“More,” Hannibal demands breathlessly when Will tries to pull away.
The touch of their tongues creates combustive energy; fire doused in blood.
When Hannibal finally deigns entry, he melts in Will’s mouth like a perfect cut
of veal. His jaw slackens and Will abandons self-control, plunging his tongue
inside and mimicking the movement of sex. Hannibal bats ineffectively back,
lips slick as they slide together. They kiss until they're forced to part for
air, mouths sloppy and wet as any child at the dinner table.
When Will looks like he might vomit Hannibal lifts his arms and pulls his shirt
over his shoulders. There’s a red stain around the collar, dark beside
Hannibal’s moonlit skin.
Hannibal shifts his weight in a way Will’s never seen a child imitate. “Want
some advice?” Hannibal asks.
Will isn’t sure what for, but he nods anyway, wiping the sweat from his brow
and rolling his shoulders. “Shoot.”
“Never eat food after you dissect something in science class,” Hannibal makes a
show of removing each sock. He wiggles his toes against the carpet. “You just
might get sick.”
Will undoes the first three buttons of his own shirt. “Is that what you’re
doing? Dissecting me?”
Hannibal trips out of his pants one leg at a time while Will watches, flooded
with fondness.
“Why, Mr. Graham?” he giggles fiendishly. “Do you like it?”
“Call me Will,” he says at last, adjusting his glasses.
Hannibal couldn’t look more pleased. “Isn't that inappropriate?”
Will’s voice rumbles with amusement. “Because our relationship has been
perfectly professional up until now.”
“Will,” Hannibal repeats wistfully. “Do I sound like a grownup when I say it?”
Will flicks his nose and Hannibal scrunches his face. “Not one bit.”
“What about now?” Hannibal smooths his hands over the front of Will’s pants and
picks at the zip. “When I ask for your grownup cock?”
The distinction should make Will feel disgusting, but it doesn’t. It turns him
on. Will wonders if this is what children sound like in the sex industry.
America’s seedy underbelly is its worst unkept secret. He silences the
troubling thoughts with surprising efficiency. Instead he refocuses on the
present, afraid to breathe when Hannibal’s fingers tug Will’s pants down an
inch at a time. How is it he always ends up feeling like the victim, when the
only other person in the room is a child?
“It’s little,” Hannibal complains, pulling at the waistband of Will’s
underwear. “Let me make it bigger,” he suggests.
Will is stiff before Hannibal can peel the fabric from his dick. Next to
Hannibal’s thin wrist his cock appears thicker, heavy when he lifts it with
both hands. Violence permeates his brain, thoughts of the face Hannibal might
make if he rammed his cock down his petulant, condescending throat. Despite the
urge to throttle him, Will keeps his touch delicate, barely ghosting Hannibal’s
skin.
Hannibal smiles up at Will from behind blond eyelashes. “I think he likes me,”
Hannibal remarks as it inflates and lengthens.
The authenticity of his own laughter shocks him. Hannibal’s eyes are wide. “I
think you’re right,” Will admits softly.
He doesn’t need to guide Hannibal to his cock but he does it anyway, caressing
his cheek and trying to keep the monster inside tightly leashed. He drags his
thumb over Hannibal's lower lip before pressing into his mouth, holding his jaw
open as he angles his hips forward. The girth of his head stretches Hannibal's
mouth into a circle, but he remains undeterred as he tries to swallow more of
him, hardly halfway down before gagging.
When Hannibal pulls away to catch his breath, his jaw is slack, drool spilling
over the slit. His hands move in sync, encasing Will's cock in a slick, tight
channel. He pumps his hands up and down and leans forward to lick the precum
dribbling down the shaft.
Will wants to tease him, to give him a taste his own medicine. “Had a lot of
practice with that?”
Hannibal puffs out his chest. “I've been doing it since I was a kid.”
Will snorts. “You are a kid.”
The words sting like pricks from a razor; grounding. It’s hard not to think
about why Hannibal said something like that, impossible not to imagine the
other men who have done this to him. Hannibal tries to suck him a second time
and bumps his teeth hard enough to make Will flinch. His cockhead swells with
blood and Will swears. He squeezes his thumb below Hannibal's collarbone and
pulls his cock away, testing the sharpness of his canines with his thumb.
“When you don't know what you're doing, ask for help before you mess up.”
Hannibal’s eyes light up, thrilled, and he snaps his mouth shut. “Teach me
correctly the first time and I won’t have to mess up at all.”
Will has never been so delighted by the urge to wash a child’s mouth out with
soap. The next time Hannibal gives it a go the graze of teeth is absent. Tears
well in Hannibal’s bright red eyes when the tip of Will’s cock knocks his
uvula. He pulls back to cough while Will kisses Hannibal’s forehead and wipes
his lips clean.
“Yours is a lot bigger,” Hannibal protests.
Hannibal stares into his eyes while Will supports him with one hand and tickles
his tummy with the other.
“I’ve had a lot longer to grow it.”
Hannibal fists himself in his underwear, finally frustrated. He pulls Will’s
cock from his mouth with a wet pop and lets his y-fronts fall to the floor.
“Do you like my little prick, Mr. Graham?”
The base of Will’s cocks pulsates, hot. He grips himself tight to maintain
control and takes a step back. “Will,” he corrects quickly.
“Will,” Hannibal repeats, bumping his pelvis against his knee. “Play with me
again.”
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Notes
     I listened to this_song while writing these last few chapters.
After coercing Hannibal onto the bed Will sinks to the floor in front of him to
even out the playing field. Hannibal kicks the quilt aside with the
carelessness of a child who doesn’t make his own bed. Will almost feels like
bowing his head, reverent before Hannibal’s chest, just as smooth and hairless
as he knew it would be.
“This time,” Hannibal declares, tangling his hands in Will’s hair and pulling
hard. “You’re going to fuck me.”
Such dominion for so few years. Will shakes his head, leaking into his own
palm. “What makes you think I’ll give in now?”
Will presses his fingers into the tender flesh until his knuckles are white,
trembling as he pins Hannibal’s hips to the mattress. Hannibal’s eyes flicker
to the analog clock before settling on Will’s face.
“People eat things at two o'clock in the morning that they wouldn't eat at any
other time.”
Will’s voice is hoarse. “Is that what you want?” He nips Hannibal’s thighs and
licks the length of his prick in one swipe. “For me to eat you?”
There is no innocence left in Hannibal’s tone when he speaks. “Why, are you
feeling hungry?”
Will is starving. He drops Hannibal’s calves and strips from his remaining
clothes, leaving a pile in front of a worn teddy bear. He doesn’t bother with
the small bed as he lays out on the carpet. He pats his chest and Hannibal
slips off the patchwork duvet like he knew it was coming.
“I've heard about this,” Hannibal says as he climbs over Will’s face, eyes on
his cock. “This is called sixty-nining.”
Hannibal’s mouth bumps his erection mid-sentence and Will shudders. “Is that
what the kids are calling it?”
Hannibal pumps his cock twice and licks the head like Will is a popsicle and
it’s the fourth of July. “You should know.”
Will squeezes his eyes shuts when he spreads Hannibal’s cheeks. “Don’t talk
with your mouth full,” he manages. “It’s rude.”
Hannibal doesn’t have time for a retort, tense as a loaded slingshot when Will
tongues him the first time. His fingers curl into fists when Will spits on his
hole. Hannibal buries his face in Will’s thighs when he wiggles his tongue
inside. It only takes a few moments for him to relax into the sensation, calves
trembling as he lowers his rear to Will’s waiting mouth.
“Perfect,” Will says, pulling away to rest his head on the floor.
He watches the tiny ring of muscle contract and bites his tongue in an effort
to curb a groan. He never planned on penetration, but feeling the flesh give
when his thumb probes forward sends a jolt straight to his dick. Hannibal
scrunches one eye shut when Will presses the tip of his finger back inside.
“Good boy,” Will says, mostly for himself.
He licks along Hannibal’s crack until he reaches his hole, working him open
with his mouth around his fingers. He sucks his prick next, for good measure,
digits still lodged in his ass. Will twists his hand to grip his balls and
Hannibal shudders, lifting his hips until he's raised himself onto all fours.
Will assesses his patience behind a smile, watching in awe as Hannibal rides
his crooked fingers. “I can take it,” Hannibal insists. “Give me more.”
“Stay just like that,” Will says, slipping out from under him. His breathing
becomes shallow when he lines up behind him. “Show me.”
Hannibal glances back at Will over his shoulder before shoving his ass back,
cock sliding between his cheeks. He steadies Hannibal’s hips and watches his
hole twitch against the tip. The desperation is so brilliant it’s almost
believable. Like all this child has ever wanted is to feel pulled apart by
Will’s dick inside him.
“This is as far as we can go,” Will tells him, like he isn’t entertaining the
idea of fucking him.
Hannibal drops his head and sinks forward onto his arms, ass raised even
higher. Will repositions Hannibal’s legs until his thighs are snug, stuck
together with sweat. At the first press Hannibal twists his neck to get a
glimpse of what Will is up to. The vulnerability churns something dark in
Will’s stomach.
“Scared I’ll really stick it in you now?” Will asks meanly.
“Yes,” Hannibal says. His voice hasn’t cracked yet. Will digs his thumb into
Hannibal’s asshole and thrusts between his thighs. Hannibal almost suffocates
trying to finish the sentence. “That’s the best part.”
Drool stains the sheet, Hannibal’s cheek pressed flat as his muscles convulse.
Will slides his cock back and forth, dragging it across the whole of Hannibal’s
sex . He considers how great it would feel to stretch him at the seams. When
Hannibal’s knees buckle Will tilts his hips and watches him grind across the
length of his dick.
The next thrust forward is misaligned and Hannibal won’t lose the chance to
mock him. “Sure this isn’t your first time?”
Intolerant of additional snark, Will flips Hannibal onto his back, continually
surprised by how easily he can lift, hold, and maneuver him. He presses his
knees together and hoists his legs over his shoulder for a better angle.
Something like panic strikes Hannibal’s face. “Are you going to--”
“Why?” Will laughs, thrusting forward until his cock covers Hannibal’s own,
much smaller. “You want it that bad?”
Hannibal responds by digging his nails into Will’s shoulder blades until he
breaks skin. While adrenaline eases the pain into nothingness, Will takes a
moment just to look at him. His eyes appear ethereal, as inhuman as the ease of
his smile. Will can’t imagine wanting anyone else.
“You know before I met you, I spent every night wishing I’d wake up normal,”
Will confesses.
Hannibal makes a face like he’s going to be sick and sticks out his tongue.
“Good thing we don't always get what we wish for.”
Will chuckles, leaning forward to grind against Hannibal’s unmarred skin. The
room appears darker as moments pass with only breathing between them. Will
tracks the movements of his own cock, sliding between Hannibal’s thighs and
over his belly button. It’s something like serenity. Hannibal interrupts the
quiet by wiggling and reaching out a hand to thread their fingers together.
Will slips from between Hannibal’s thighs to his hole, soaked with spit and
slick with precum.
“It’s not enough, is it?” Hannibal teases when Will presses his forehead
against the mattress beside his face. “Don’t you want to stuff me with me your
prick?”
Will can hardly believe what he’s about to do but just the thought of going all
the way consumes him. The lightest press forward makes Hannibal wince. The head
of Will’s cock has barely begun to push Hannibal open when his hands begin to
shake.
“It hurts,” Hannibal says quietly.
The smile that strikes Will feels completely natural. “Good,” Will tells him,
pushing forward with more force. He eases his way into Hannibal an inch at a
time, lips pressed to his temple and then his mouth. “It’s about time.”
The first bite under his chin hurts, but Will deserves it. The second one makes
him tighten his hand in Hannibal’s hair. Hannibal claws at Will’s back and
folds his legs around him, tipping Will’s hips forward and sucking his cock
into the hilt.
“Ow,” Will complains when Hannibal locks his jaw around the base of neck.
“Stop,” he begs, when he realizes Hannibal is drawing blood.
The color drains from his face like chalk drawings under heavy rainfall. When
Hannibal sinks his teeth into Will’s jugular his cock doesn’t soften, just
stutters forward, even as his vision starts to blur. The searing heat from
inside Hannibal is so suffocating Will isn’t sure he can bear it.
“No more,” Will says when he feels himself slipping away.
The realization dawns on him two seconds too late. Hannibal is going to drink
him dry.
***** Chapter 9 *****
The cross around his neck glimmers when Hannibal pulls away. Will tries to
steady himself but collapses from blood loss before he can catch his balance.
His knees hit the floor but it barely registers on his blunted nerve endings.
His pupils are blown out, and he’s lost the ability to focus his eyes.
“So nothing ever happened to you then?” Hannibal abandons the veneer of a child
as he steps barefoot through the blood on the floor. “You weren't touched by a
catholic priest when you were my age?”
It’s hard to sort through all details when there’s not enough oxygen reaching
his brain.
“Are you waiting for my...” Will gurgles. “Tragic backstory?” Will looks away.
He feels like he’s floating, like he doesn’t have to open his mouth to talk.
“My family was picture perfect. I turned out like this despite that, not
because of it.”
“So you’re the black sheep?” Hannibal asks, redressing himself.
The entire act happens impossibly fast. Will feels nauseous, but only
distantly, like through a memory.
“Who’s to say I’m not a wolf?” Will coughs up blood as he says it. He feels
increasingly distracted by his body. It feels like a dead weight.
Hannibal snickers as he steps into his shoes. “Takes one to know one.”
He drags Will’s body by his ankles, an inch at a time, head skidding across the
carpet. Will sees Hannibal clearly now, the monstrous fangs and iridescent
skin. When he slides past the master bedroom on his way out the smell of rot is
startlingly clear. Far worse than a dead mouse stuck under the stove, he almost
can’t stomach glancing inside. Will has never seen a corpse, but he recognizes
two immediately.
“Say hello to Mummy and Daddy,” Hannibal mocks.
Will glances down and finds his cock is limp, yet he can’t recall a climax.
Maybe there’s not enough blood left in his body to sustain an erection. It’d be
funny if he weren’t dying.
“Isn’t this wasteful?” Will manages.
From this angle he can watch the dark red seep into the white fibers of the
carpet.
Hannibal laughs. “Only fledglings drink dead blood.”
Will’s heartbeat sounds faint. “Am I dead?” He feels a searing pain in his
neck, and then his temple.
“No,” Hannibal tilts his head and drops Will’s feet at the edge of the stairs.
The movement reminds Will of a doll. He sits on the floor and lines his feet
with Will’s shoulders. “But you will be,” he tells him, before kicking him down
the stairs.
It doesn’t hurt as much as it should, but his foot is definitely broken. Will
tries not think about what he’ll do in ten weeks when Hannibal returns to
Lithuania. Maybe dying is in his best interests after all.
“Don't worry,” Hannibal says, like he can read Will’s mind. “I’m your first,
not your last.”
The thought is more than a little comforting, which says a great deal about the
type of man Will Graham has become.
In the morning, Will wakes in a pool of his own blood so big he thinks he’s
dead. The sky is still dark when Will drags himself through the hallway, but
the puncture wounds on his neck heal before the sun crack’s the horizon line.
He makes it home without dressing, and makes it to work early for the first
time in weeks.
Principal Crawford asks to see Will in his office, and assigns a substitute to
his classes. Two police officers that he’s never seen before usher him into the
cramped space and begin an unofficial interrogation. When they discover they
can glean no useful information from Will, they bid good day and leave the two
of them alone.
“The whole family’s been missing for over a month,” Principal Crawford
explains. “Well, as of this morning. They’ve been found.”
Will frowns. He can still remember the stench of death, the level to which the
skin had deteriorated.
“Hannibal, however, was nowhere to be found.” Relief floods Will, assuaging
worries he didn’t realize he had. “We finally got hold of his official records.
His birth certificate indicates he was born in...”
Will checks out. He tries not to think about the evidence he left behind. Tries
not to think about the little kid he fucked next to a room full of rotting
corpses. Before the day is over, Will resolves to hand in his letter of
resignation.
“That’s all we know,” Principal Crawford explains, threading his fingers
together.
Will tries to ground himself to the moment. “What are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything.” Principal Crawford folds his arms. “They’re
considering him a suspect.”
Will figures now is as good a time as any. “I think I’m done with teaching,” he
announces. “This whole thing…” He scratches reflexively at the nape of his
neck. “Maybe I’m just not cut out for it?”
***** Chapter 10 *****
Will’s resignation letter is almost as well-received as his foster parent
acceptance envelope: with utter disbelief. He attends six weeks of classes
twice and completes a psych eval with two separate doctors before he’s given
clearance. Before he even gets that far they send an independent contractor out
to his house to test the plumbing and possible toxic waste output, probably.
Twelve hours after his official stamp of approval, Will receives a call. He
answers the phone and steadies his voice. The woman on the other end speaks
like she’s in a rush. “Do you have space for placement?”
“Today?” Will could swallow his own tongue. “Right now?”
Hannibal’s words linger in his hears: You can't get away with everything, but
it's always fun to try.
“Right now,” the social worker reiterates.
Will nods against the phone receiver. “Sure. Yeah, I do.”
Abigail Hobbs is her name, orphaned after a homicide-suicide, and Will can’t
wait to meet her.
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