The best art, they say,
Is that which conceals art, and so Pygmalion
Marvels, and loves the body he has fashioned.
Hannibal Lecter is a lucid dreamer. Most nights, when he rests his head against his pillow, he slips into a world which he controls absolutely. He is aware that these dreams are his creations, and therefore his to shape as he pleases. Given the amount of control he has over his dreams, it's strange, perhaps almost poetic, how much of his mind has come to revolve around one individual afflicted with the opposite problem. Someone who is never quite sure if he's awake. Someone who does not need to be asleep to be vulnerable to overwhelming nightmares. Someone who stumbles and sways on the thin line between reality and unreality like a drunk failing a sobriety test.
And oh, is Hannibal preoccupied with the as-yet incomplete masterpiece that is Will Graham. Quite literally. His dreaming mind has constructed a small suite dedicated to his elevation from raw potential to a true work of art.
Hannibal is an artist, and a polymathic one at that. He dabbles in music and is an enthusiastic patron of the opera, but this is not the root of his artistic passion. His primary field is the art of fine cuisine using only the freshest free-range ingredients. Following that is the art of staging and arranging dioramas using unconventional organic materials. In the waking world, he is a sculptor of mind and flesh. His dreams have come to reflect this proclivity quite enthusiastically.
In the Will Graham Exhibit of his hall of dreams, Hannibal gazes upon the form of what could be. Of what, with a lot of hard work and perhaps a little luck, will be. It is the blueprint. It is what he strives to recreate in the waking world when he chips away at the little imperfections during his unofficial therapy sessions with Will. When he allows the man's insecurities and perceived mental illnesses to fester, it is the same as introducing grit to an oyster in order to grow a pearl. When he scrubs away at the marks Jack Crawford has left on Will's psyche in his attempts to groom a man who can catch the Chesapeake Ripper, it is the same as removing garish graffiti from a true work of art.
The statue is carved of a material which does not exist in the waking world. It's too ethereally pale and perfect to have been dug from the dirt of the earth or ripped from the tusk of a dying elephant. It – no, he - is nude, but not in a way that is vulgar or pornographic. It is the nudity of honesty and nature, before mankind tricked itself into thinking it had risen above the beasts by shaming and fearing its natural form. His shoulders are not slouched under the weight of fear and neuroses. His chin is held high in pride and confidence. No matter where Hannibal stands in the room, the eyes exude a controlled strength and seem to follow him, as if seeking contact. There is a long, sharp knife in his right hand.
Hannibal does not lie to himself; he finds the statue profoundly attractive. In the nights that follow major breakthroughs in the waking Will's progress, Hannibal cannot help himself. He'll fit himself against the statue of the Will-Who-Is-Yet-to-Be and indulge. He'll run a hand along the stubble on his jawline, lightly sweeping his thumb across the lips before pressing a kiss to them. He'll drag his nose along the neck, dredging up memories of the waking Will's scent. He'll run his tongue across the clavicle and imagine the taste of salt on skin. He never brings himself to completion, however. It would be base.
Every time he indulges, he thinks the statue feels a bit warmer.
He is awoken abruptly from one of these dalliances just after midnight. Someone is ringing his doorbell, and at this time of night, there's really only one person it could be. There is a lingering fullness in his groin, but he is able to will it away as he wraps himself in a dressing gown and makes his way downstairs.
When he opens the door, his suspicions are confirmed. It's Will, dressed in his typical layers of dowdy, rumpled clothes, but his hands are covered with blue latex. There are a few faint, dried droplets of blood clinging to his fingers.
Hannibal's eyes sweep up from Will's fingers to his face and meet Will's eyes. They hold his gaze, not fluttering or flinching away. Hannibal is intrigued, but does not dare to hope. Better to be guarded and pleasantly surprised.
"Did you lose any time on your way here?"
Will shakes his head.
"Do you know where you are?"
Will nods.
"Do you know what time it is?"
Nod.
"Do you know who you are?"
Will blinks and a smile spreads across his lips. Hannibal's heart thunders in his chest. It is becoming increasingly difficult to keep his hopes from rising. "Yes," Will whispers. "At last."
"Did you come from a crime scene, Will?" Hannibal asks.
Will considers this briefly. "Yes," he finally says. "That's what they'll call it, when they find it. Might be a while."
Oh, more beautiful words have never fallen from those lips. Hannibal closes the small gap between their bodies with an insistent kiss, as if yearning to taste the sweetness of those words.
There is a hint of blood in Will's mouth when he deepens the kiss, but his probing tongue doesn't feel a wound which could be the source of the coppery flavor. There's only one conclusion: it isn't Will's blood. A thrill runs down Hannibal's spine and it takes every ounce of his impeccable self-control to keep himself from slamming Will against the nearest hard surface and having him right there.
It's more than he could have possibly dreamed.
Will drifts off to sleep quicker than Hannibal does. He is breathless and sweaty when slumber takes him, though not from his conflicted mind's struggle to fight against the dark visions his imagination conjures up. Perhaps now they are beautiful frescoes, now that he has an appreciation for the art. Will's head rests on Hannibal's upper arm, and Hannibal twists a curly lock of sweat-dampened hair around his forefinger as he watches a small smile twitch on Will's lips. He wonders what the newly-minted killer is seeing in his dreams.
It is not long before Hannibal follows suit and allows sleep to take him. Once he is dreaming, he goes to the Will Graham Exhibit out of curiosity. The statue is gone, and in his place is a little pile of the white material. There is not nearly enough of it to have made up a life-sized statue, nor are the thin flakes substantial enough to have held the statue's shape. It is the remains of a shell, discarded and forgotten after the hatching. Bloody footprints lead away from the little white pile.
Hannibal smiles. Of course the statue of the idealized Will no longer has a place in his dreams.
There is no need for him, now that the Will-Who-Is-Yet-to-Be is simply the Will-Who-Is.
The veins throb under the thumb. And oh, Pygmalion
Is lavish in his prayer and praise to Venus,
No words are good enough. The lips he kisses
Are real indeed, the ivory girl can feel them,
And blushes and responds, and the eyes open
At once on lover and heaven, and Venus blesses
The marriage she has made.
END