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.
