Author's Note: This is my first fic in a long, long time. I hope you enjoy. I do not own any of the characters.
Prologue
Alana looked up at him from her book. She smiled.
"Hi Will. How are you today?"
"Rushed. I have to pick up Abigail in an hour."
"Okay, we'll work quickly. What did you think of the book?"
"I liked it, I thought it was interesting and sad. I'm not sure I understand the deeper meanings the instructor is getting at."
"Well, what patterns did you notice throughout the book?"
Will shrugged. "I don't know. I guess Hemingway talks a lot about pain."
Alana nodded. "And why is pain important?"
"Pain helps separate the fake from the real."
Cicadas buzzed from the tree outside the window. Their songs bounced around the room, escalating into a raucous chorus. Bells tolled from the church down the road.
Will watched the ceiling fan circle above him. It made a comforting thrum.
The back of his neck was damp. He sat on the edge of the bed and wiped the sweat from his hairline.
A mirror across from the bed allowed him to stare at himself. He had avoided mirrors for so long it was strange to see his form. Ample time in the sun had left his nose and shoulders freckled. A thick scar reached down his right cheek. He was clean shaven and his hair was close to the scalp.
He wondered if it was another person sitting across from him. If he reached into the mirror, would that person reach for his hand?
He could smell animal fat crisping. There were cooking sounds: drawers closing, pots rattling, water running. He found himself standing in the kitchen doorway.
Hannibal had his back turned to Will as he stood over the stovetop. He wore a tight-fitting black shirt, the kind he wore during his early morning runs. A towel was slung over his left shoulder.
On the floor Dulce sat patiently. She was a 10 week old puppy, round in belly but growing longer in limb. She had the square jaw and smooth, caramel coat of a pit bull. Will had found her two weeks ago, digging through a trash pile near the street. He picked her up without hesitation. Hannibal had been less welcoming, but Will had spotted him throwing scraps to her from the kitchen counter on occasion.
A piece of scrambled egg was tossed to Dulce. She gobbled it up, tail wagging furiously.
"You had the dream again." Hannibal kept his focus on the skillets in front of him.
"You're going to make her fat."
"Fat? No. But I will undoubtedly become her favorite."
"You already are."
"Memories are our brain's way of storing information for future use. What is your brain so desperate for you to hold on to, Will?"
"Hemingway, I guess."
Hannibal plated their meals. "Hemingway is a staple of higher education. Your dream also features people from our past. Are you struggling with reconciling previous times?"
"I'm always struggling to reconcile something."
Hannibal turned to him, a plate in each hand, and smiled. "Bon appetit."
Will thought if he could find one thing that made him as happy as cooking made Hannibal, he would be at peace.
They sat at the circular table between the kitchen and living room. They ate their breakfast of eggs, mushrooms, and bacon in silence for a few minutes. It was spicy and somehow a little sweet. Will was waiting for the day when Hannibal's cooking became pedestrian; it hadn't happened yet.
Dulce squirmed around their feet, whining softly.
"I can see you've been struggling since we arrived. Maybe you should take Dulce to the beach and try to clear your head."
Will nodded, his head pounding, wanting for his morning espresso. "Yeah, I could try that."
The waves were small but quick and crashing. Dulce wandered around, nervous but determined. She was so curious.
Will watched her carefully. She approached a wave, stuck a paw in, then retreated back to him. Will laughed and clipped her leash to her collar. Tourists, eager to escape their winters back home, wore floppy hats and spread out on towels. A group of four children approached him.
"Senior," the tallest girl said in a British accent, "can we, um, pet tu perro?"
Will smiled. "Si."
They squealed in relief and gathered around Dulce, who bathed their fingers and faces with kisses. They cooed and she cried back.
"Girls!," a posh accent rang across the beach, "That's enough. Come over here."
The tallest girl looked up at Will. She had hair as black as night but huge blue eyes. "Gracias, senior." They scampered, shouting in the indiscriminate way that children do.
A pain struck Will deep within. He could feel it radiating from his gut to his heart. The girls ran further away, and the pain grew and grew.
He thought of Abigail and Walter. And just as quickly as he thought of them, he tucked their faces in the back of his memory.
He sat in the sand, spreading his toes in the warmth. Closing his eyes, he listened to the ocean. Dulce curled up in his lap. He could feel her heartbeat on his stomach, a tiny reassurance of life.
From his bag he pulled out a worn copy of A Farewell to Arms. He had found it in a motel before leaving the States. He had not read it since college, but he was desperate to fill his mind with something other than his thoughts.
The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.
There will be no special hurry.
Will held Dulce close as the waves slowed their retreat from the shore. Many of the tourists had packed their chairs and walked back to the hotels. Only he and a few determined children remained.
He had not been good, gentle, or brave in a long time. He was broken, and haphazardly reassembled. Blood seeped through the cracks between his parts.
In his honest moments, he preferred his crooked design. It felt safe to indulge his dark thoughts rather than let them fester under his skin. When he felt the urge, that terrible, staggering urge, he could give voice to it without fear.
It's beautiful.
He looked down at his left hand. His wedding ring glinted in the sunlight.