Little changed in the months that followed.
Hannibal continued his pursuit of ridding the world of those who diluted the gene pool of humanity and Will, while chasing shadows in frustration, also sought solace in the company of the only man who, he had come to appreciate, truly understood his mind.
His therapy sessions with Will had increased in intensity, just staying the safe side of obvious catharsis for them both. Hannibal was sure Will could sense it too, but neither man betrayed any sign of realisation to the other. To do so would spoil the illusion of control Will thought he possessed over himself.
The deepening relationship only helped refine Hannibal's technique, and gave him permission to express the deeper meaning of his own existence with every slice of the knife, be it in his immaculate kitchen or in the heat of the kill, while all the time, directing Will towards the true meaning of his own.
Hannibal never tired of their time together. He had never craved the mind of another such as that of Will Graham. He wished he could devour it, gave fleeting thoughts, while drifting off in his bed at night, after a particularly satisfying meal, to what he would taste like.
He knew undoubtedly it would beautiful and delicious in that moment; an all-encompassing experience for his finely honed palate. But all too soon, the reality of no longer being able to probe that beautiful darkness, so clearly a reflection of his own, would come crashing in. The satisfaction of watching that beautiful darkness, freshly born from the belly of the beast, evolve under his careful scrutiny he objectively concluded, far outweighed the benefits of satisfying his own more primal cravings.
There were times when Hannibal could actually feel the war within Will rage, almost as if it were his own, certain he was about to surrender to the inevitable truth of his self. There were times when he could almost feel Will reach for him with his mind, begging for release from the agony of suppression. He wondered if Will had done so that night Hannibal dreamed of Will's darkness, opening a door that gave Hannibal permission to reach in and test and pull at Will's resolve and devotion to his falsely perceived sense of right and wrong.
And then there was the occasional touch, each one more electrifying than the previous. Hannibal would transmute the memories of those touches into his art. This was as close as Hannibal had ever come to sharing the experience with anyone since Chiyoh. He found himself anticipating more and more, after each encounter with Will, that inevitable moment when the sharing of such an experience would extend past the metaphorical and step onto reality's canvas.
Hannibal thought back to that night. His first dream of Will Graham. He had finally concluded that in that dream he had borne silent witness to the metamorphosis of the young profiler. "You will become my design…" Uncharacteristically, Hannibal found himself hoping that there was truth in that promised prediction.
Will Graham's metamorphosis was painstakingly slow, but then, the pursuit of perfection is rarely anything less, thought Hannibal.