The best laid plans of mice and men? Often go awry.
This was a fact to which Will Graham could readily testify. The trap had been set and Hannibal had walked into it of his own volition, eyes wide open. In the aftermath of the destruction, he had allowed Will, despite his agonising betrayal, to live.
It must be love.
Now, as he stood at the entrance to the room in the Uffizi Gallery that La Primavera called home, he felt the pang of long buried passion that only the sight of Hannibal Lecter could rouse within him. His blood sang as it rushed through his veins, sharpening senses and demanding fulfilment.
He had to get out before he did something reprehensible; profess his love, wrap Hannibal in his arms and promise never to leave him, kiss him until lips were raw and the sweet taste of Hannibal's blood flooded his mouth.
Will retreated. There was only one thing to do. One place to go in search of release.
Hannibal frequently found the predictable pattern of human behaviour almost tiresome. But this was Will Graham. Deliciously predictable in some ways, defying definition in so many others. The unmistakeable sense of his presence hovered behind him, no doubt weighing up their situation, now that they had found each other once again or rather, now that Hannibal had lured him back into his world.
Hannibal did not pause nor lift his eyes from his sketch, the lines of his next banquet clearly etched on the paper in front of him, gazed languidly back at him through half-lidded eyes. Bedelia and Will. Both he had sampled and neither had he found wanting.
But right now, he found himself wanting something he had not had the pleasure of tasting in over nine months since he had left Will in a pool of his own blood in his Baltimore home. As he heard him slip away, instinctively Hannibal knew where he would find him. This was Florence after all. And every city, particularly one as old as this and steeped in multi-cultural tastes and predilections, possessed their own version of The Vault.
Will walked through the rooms, glancing to his left and right at the bodies, some stretched out, some casually sitting wrapped around the body of another. He wasn't sure what he was looking for. This was Italy and like the places, the culture and the food, the people themselves simply did not "do" unattractive. Still, his eyes found none that could measure up to Hannibal. So he entered the darkness and made his way across the room to sit down. Soft leather yielded to the weight of his body. He lay back and sighed, momentarily losing himself in his mind palace to the surrogate he had had the good fortune to happen upon, once upon a time, in a town called Baltimore. A short spell of what felt like 20 minutes passed before Will felt the warmth of another body recline next to him.
"Ti andrebbe di compagnia?"
Will's understanding of the language was woeful, but he knew enough to be able to apologise for his ignorance. "Perdonami. Americano. Non parlo la lingua."
How utterly adorable, thought Hannibal to himself. "Forse possiamo trovare un altro mezzo di comunicazione, allora…" he said as he reached for Will.
And while Will felt the blossoming familiarity at the feel of the kiss, he dismissed it, knowing that it could not be his Ripper. He wondered briefly if every intimate interaction he would experience in the shadow of his obsession with Hannibal would be subsumed by his constant craving for the man.
Will felt his skin tingle as deft fingers ran over the scar that graced his torso.
"A parting gift," Will said, not breaking the kiss. "From an old friend."
"Hai degli amici interessanti," murmured Hannibal, the Italian inflections doing their job and increasing Will's ardour as he pushed him down into the seat beneath them.
"The world is all the more interesting for having them in it," said Will, pulling them together in a hard embrace that silenced them both, but for the sweet, heady sounds of shifting leather and soft, telling moans that closed the distance of nine months into a singular point of mutual pleasure.
Will woke alone in the dark a short time later. He hadn't felt so satisfied neither in mind, since his last bloodless encounter with Hannibal, nor body, since colliding, writhing bodies with his Ripper at The Vault in Baltimore.
He ran his hand across his face and through his hair. This was unsustainable, and dangerous in its own way, though less so than perhaps baring your throat to the mouth of a serial killer, he thought wryly. Still, Will wondered how many more times he would - he could - deny himself the one source of pleasure he truly, achingly desired.
Italian translations
"Would you care for some company?"
"Pardon me. American. I don't understand the language."
"Perhaps we can explore another form of communication then..."
"You have some interesting friends."