Hey. I would strongly recommend to listen to the pieces that are described further down if you want to get into the mood. This is an artistic moment shared between Frances and Hannibal, and really need the scenery to go with it. So, 'Divenire' by Ludovico Einaudi, then Chopin, then 'Nuvole Bianche' by Einaudi again.

So people might think that dancing like this is difficult. It is honestly not when you know how to fight, and have nothing else to do of your days than train your body. And when it comes to 'portés', it mostly depends on the guys. There's not much to do for a woman else than keep your body rigid. It's rather easy, with the right partner. Believe me, I've been tossed around a few times, on and off the ice, so I speak from experience: p As for Hannibal, he had a very strict training when it comes to the art of dancing so I guess he could pull it off.

I got a few new favourites and follows. Thank you for that. A review from any of your, new readers, would make my day !

Food was ready except for the latest touches, the table not yet set for the evening for a very good reason – the third set must remain hidden at all costs. Hannibal had decided to call it a day and got dressed for Christmas Eve. Of course, he had no doubt that Frances would enjoy the surprise he had prepared for her – nothing gruesome, of course – but until then, he would avoid to set the table and find a way to keep her mind occupied.

Sitting down at the pianoforte, Hannibal allowed his fingers to roam the keyboard to assess the accuracy of his instrument. Perfect, of course, since it was checked by a professional every year. It had been years since he played some Ludovico Einaudi piece, but his memory never faltered. The first notes of 'Divenire' echoed in the cathedral living room, the sound of the piano much better suited for its slow rhythm than the harpsichord. Hannibal started slowly, because the rhythm of the song was such, but also to recall the right placement of his fingers on this piece. It didn't take long for Frances to show, the top of her hair bound into intricate tresses, a long, flowing skirt showing off the laced bodice she wore underneath. From his seat, Hannibal had a perfect view over his soon to be wife, yet the keys called to him to continue playing, no matter what.

Her silent steps told him she didn't wear shoes yet; he had probably coaxed her out with his playing. Hannibal greeted her with a mischievous smile, his attention returning to the piano as she approached him, her expression awed.

She didn't say a thing, but he could sense her fondness for his choice. Her gratitude, to play a part he considered beneath his level of proficiency. She approached the piano slowly, letting her fingers graze the instrument until she settled beside him on the bench. She wore no perfume, as usual, but her make-up held the slightest of unusual scent. As he played, Hannibal risked a glance at her face, noticing how her eyeshadow was brighter than usual, the eyeliner framing her lovely eyes with more strength, her eyelashes extended by the mascara. Her plump lips, though, remained free of any adornment: just the way he preferred it. Any lipstick would suffer his assaults anyway.

The music started to pick up, asking for more concentration as the rhythm increased, both left and right hand playing a different tune, both attuned to each other to create a melody of hope, free of bonds. 'Divenire,' to become, in Italian. Frances closed her eyes, her body angling towards his, yet kept at bay by the movement of his right hand.

— 'Dance, my beautiful,' he told her.

And despite her misgivings that she was no ballerina, Frances obliged, because she couldn't resist the call of her heart. Her body longed to be free, to express those emotions so often repressed, to dance her life rather than to fight. And Hannibal wouldn't see her, right, since the piano faced the stairs rather than the wide living area?

And so Frances danced. At first, very shyly, to warm up, a few steps here, a few turns there, her body remembering how it would feel to be on the ice. The wooden floor was perfect for her tights, allowing her to skid and turn without any effort. A little slippery as well, but for a figure skater, it was deemed safe enough. And so, as Hannibal's fingers enchanted her on the pianoforte, Frances started putting together her classical routines and skating figures, arm gracefully rising to follow her steps. Twists, turns, pirouettes and arabesques coming naturally as she forgot all structure, her body adapting to the music, following its ascents and descents while the rhythm broke as often as it picked up.

And unbeknownst to her, Hannibal watched her dancing in the reflection of the perfectly polished piano, playing flawlessly while his eyes lingered on the free spirit that roamed his living room, skirts flowing around her like a flower in bloom. There was so much passion, overwhelming feelings oozing out of her, crushing the rigid technique away. It should have looked rather stupid, all those liberties, but she was a graceful woman. A powerful, graceful and flexible woman. Not so tall, but with her delicate fingers and long legs, her silhouette looked almost ethereal. A little fairy, dancing her worries away.

The rhythm of 'Divenire' carried them both away. His fingers seemed to follow the music rather than producing it, and Frances turned, and turned. A pirouette here, and another, then she left her leg free as her head shifted back, the movement barely controlled by her leading foot. And the notes rolled down, and she started the pattern anew, her dance so alike to a skater's pirouette, picking up speed, and again, and again, synchronised with his fingers, until she gracefully allowed her body to stop spinning. He wondered, for a brief moment as the music died, how she could sustain such a movement without being dizzy. Figure skating was a different technique than classical dancing; there was no fixed point on the horizon to keep your balance. The body adapted, probably, just like Frances had adapted to her new life by his side.

Hannibal finished the song without difficulty, dragging on the last notes with satisfaction. Albeit it had been a long time, Einaudi's pieces were mostly major assortments and easy rhythms, a good exercise for his hands, but that didn't satisfy his gourmet brain. The equivalence of children's exercise to him. But Frances loved it for its naivety and joy; she needed something that spoke to her heart, while he needed something that spoke to his brain. As the young woman joined him anew on the bench, her cheeks flushed and chest heaving, Hannibal kissed the corner of her mouth before starting something altogether entirely different.

Chopin, nocturnes, number 9.

Frances' head lolled beside him; she knew the piece for it quite often played in his home. The tempo, slow enough for him to slide a glance to her, was uneven. A much better exercise, a more subtle composition for a connoisseur.

— 'Chopin?'

Hannibal only nodded and Frances watched his fingers dance on the piano, mesmerised by the easiness with which he jumped from chord to melody, as if it held no difficulty at all. But she knew how difficult Chopin was to the brain, and coordination.

— 'Less feeling, more technique, still beautiful,' she said.

Hannibal marked a pause then, his left fingers idly tracing the keys, pushing just a few to keep the continuity of the sound as his gaze bore holes into her.

— 'Won't you dance that one too?'

— 'I feel like I should be a prima ballerina to render it justice.'

— 'Don't let the technique intimidate you, mind your body, extend every muscle to its limit. You need to get out of your zone of comfort.'

And Hannibal started playing anew, knowing that it would take a few minutes for Frances to gather the wits to try what he had pushed her to do. She loved dancing on a whim, without structure because it allowed her to bypass judgement. But she always feared to be lacking; if she didn't thrive for technical perfection, there was no failure. Yet, Hannibal knew she had the ability to push her body and mind further. It was all a matter of surpassing her discomfort and dare … dare trying, in front of him, whom she knew would judge harshly.

The nocturnes No. 9 rolled below the tips of his finger, and still Frances frowned by his side. The psychiatrist pretended to be oblivious to the rest of the world as he played happily, releasing the pressure upon his young companion. And for a while, neither said a word as he caressed the piano keys, and she watched him.

Then, she fidgeted imperceptibly. Hannibal's lips barely curled; he refrained it at once. He couldn't let her see. And when, at last, she stood, walking slowly to the living room, Hannibal still pretended. One step, two steps. She walked, the tips of her toes landing on the floor whenever his fingers touched the keys. Then a leg lifted, high, so high that her foot passed her head. Attitude. Then she opened to the side to finish in an arabesque that she extended close to a split. Hannibal smiled. There, she was researching control, pushing her muscles to their limits, and it was beautiful.

Frances danced again, slowly this time, matching the strange mood of the nocturne as she tried more daring moves. More control, more technique … and she awfully realised how lacking she was. Of course, she was. So she concentrated, and thrived to do better, to keep her balance properly, to slow her moves.

As the music quieted, the end approaching, she settled a hand over the piano and bent backwards, her back arching until her extended arm could touch Hannibal's cheek. Upside down, she smiled at him. He responded in kind, finishing the piece with a little theatrics before his hands settled in his lap. Frances joined him anew, her hand fishing his cheek to turn his head back to her. She didn't speak, choosing instead to taste his lips with slow, deliberate kisses that caressed them artfully. The perfect example of what her body had just performed a moment before. Hannibal reached for her face, relishing in the softness of her skin where only a touch of make-up enlightened her lovely features.

Then he grabbed her neck forcefully, and he pulled her flush against him as his tongue suddenly plunged into her mouth. Frances moaned as the kiss deepened, her hands reaching for his waist to keep upright and he felt her fight for control. Hannibal pulled back, a smirk upon his face at seeing the dazed look she addressed him.

— 'You have done well, my beautiful. Now let us have a little passion.'

Hannibal stood then, bestowing another kiss to her forehead before he strode to a corner of the room. Frances watched his elegant silhouette – his jacket discarded on the piano, he only wore his waistcoat and shirt – as he fiddled with the sound system until the first chords of 'Nuvole Bianche' echoed in the living room.

Frances gasped, a happy smile splitting her face. Her eyes closed a moment, relishing in the deep, echoing sound of the grand piano through the sound system of Hannibal's living room. There was nothing like it, really. Its deep notes washed through her body like a river through the land. Her head was dancing, her lips set into a smile because she knew what was coming. For the moment, notes only danced in the air, slowly, one by one in a gentle melody. But soon, the full beauty of the piece would be unleashed and hit her like a tidal wave. When the rhythm changed, the tempo increasing, tears formed into her eyes. How she loved that piece! How she loved that man!

— 'Dance, my beautiful. Dance for me'

His voice was so close, and Frances didn't even need to open her eyes to know he hoovered over her. His command, though, was all she needed to unleash the emotions that stirred inside of her.

The young woman sprang from the bench, running to the living area, her feet barely touching the ground such was the strength of the music that carried her steps. She jumped then, her legs extending to either side in a near-split, warm from her earlier exercise. The grand-jeté. The rest was a blur as she turned in attitude pirouettes and fouettés, changing direction at every turn, her arms greeting the magnificence of the music. Her heart soared in happiness, her chest expanding, euphoria running through her veins like a drug as she danced her joy with abandon. Legs lifted, arms followed, her body twisting around until the song quieted.

Frances stilled, one of her arms extended gracefully above her head. Her eyes travelled to Hannibal; he stood there, unmoving, as the piano notes washed over them like a blanket of comfort, his gaze … almost proud? And as 'Nuvole bianche' continued its course, Frances watched, fascinated, Hannibal untie his elaborate blueish cravat. The notes seemed to roll under his feet as he approached her, taking advantage of the slowness of the melody to take his time. His shoes did not make a sound on the wooden floor as he closed the distance between them, ever the predator.

Then he extended a hand to her, and she obliged. Her skin tingled as he pulled her closer and captured her lips in a slow, sensual kiss. Then his smooth voice whispered in her ear.

— 'Now a little more passion.'

And as the music picked up anew, Hannibal lifted their entwined hand, and put the other on her waist.

— 'May I have this dance, my beautiful?'

Frances addressed him a smile so wide that he couldn't help responding. And then, his whole body started to waltz and she had no choice but to twirl around with him. Hannibal was a smooth dancer, but not only. He also was a good leader, strong and determined so that following him came naturally. 1, 2, 3 … 1, 2, 3… Waltzing was easy enough; her grandfather had taught her the steps on a beach in south of Spain. And when the tempo picked up, Hannibal added an extra measure of swiftness to their movement. Soon, their steps were perfectly synchronised, the psychiatrist started to deviate from the original waltzing as he twirled her under his arm once, twice, then caught her back and changed direction just as smoothly. Frances started, by his firm hand on her waist and the tug of his other hand didn't give room for fumbling. She was now turning backwards, and so was he, but he still led her. Amazed at this break of structure, Frances addressed him a smile. From his upper position – 6 feet tall and shoes on – Hannibal responded in kind.

On and on they danced, Frances obliging to his every whim as he mingled other dances in the waltz. It felt so good, to follow him to the end of the world and twirl to the music, guided by his will. His intense eyes didn't leave her, the golden twinkle more present than ever, amazed at how easily she moulded to his commands. Hannibal had no doubt, now, about how deadly they could both be on a battlefield such was the strength of their connection. His hands directed her left and right, leaving her, gathering her close, then pushing her further away. One moment, he was waltzing, her little hand enclosed upon his chest, a second later they danced around without any contact except from hungry eyes, circling each other as in a quadrille.

As a waterfall of piano notes descended in the living room, Hannibal eventually unleashed the athlete that he was and grabbed Frances around the waist for a lift. Surprised, at first, that her feet were not touching the ground anymore, she eventually settled her hands upon his shoulders and spread her legs in a semi-split. Her skirt flowed around them, the material brushing his face as her long hair danced in kind. Thrilled, Hannibal shifted his hold, grabbing her front leg to brace it around his shoulder, and on and on they turned, both lost in the ecstasy of the music, muscles burning. When Frances' stance showed signs of weakness, Hannibal shifted her weight downwards until both her legs encased his arm, her head facing the ground before he eventually put her back on her feet, resuming the waltz as if nothing had happened.

The smug smile on his face, though, only matched her inner glow as she watched him, cheeks ablaze, panting from the exertion. And when the music eventually quietened, Frances threw her arms around him.

— 'It was amazing!'

Hannibal nodded, proud, before capturing her lips in a sensual kiss far too short for his liking, but he needed to breathe. When his eyes opened, though, a movement outside caught his attention. Hannibal's lips quirked up, and he murmured in Frances' ear.

— 'We're being watched.'

Will tensed when Frances' head shot up, her body alert. Then her eyes searched the terrasse, and spotted him. Will send her a lopsided smile, one that said 'sorry' just as much as 'hey, fancy seeing you there!'. Too bad, he had been having such a great time sitting outside. Granted, his fingers were numb now, he couldn't even type anything on his phone to respond to Alana's latest text. But it was a good spot. Way down, the Ocean crashed angrily on the cliff side, making its own music of nature. A powerful reminder of their condition in life. And thus, the music that filtered through Hannibal's impressive glass doors only enhanced the cyclic noise of the waves.

Despite the cold, Will found that he enjoyed the view and the strength of the elements. He had planned on giving a call to Alana before ringing the doorbell when he spotted Frances dancing in the living room. Needless to say, that he had been struck speechless by her performance. It shouldn't have surprised him, after all; she was a fencer, and figure skater. Still, it was mesmerising to watch her body bend and twist, responding to Hannibal's fingers on the piano. What came next, then, was even more impressive. And as Hannibal and Frances' bodies twirled around, moulding around each other until he picked her up as if she weighed nothing, Will realised how fit the psychiatrist was. Together, they were … otherwordly. As attuned to each other as on the battlefield.

They deserved this happiness, after so many years apart, after so much heartache. He just hoped that he and Alana could get to this level of connection one day. But even then, he knew he would never express it like this. They were so out of his league when it came to artistic expression. Once, he had seen Hannibal's pictures and could not fathom how such a cold exterior could produce such chef d'oeuvre. But seeing the way he danced, and the way Frances seemed to be hugging the life out of him right now, perhaps he was wrong on his assessment. Perhaps Hannibal Lecter wasn't the cold man he showed to the world.

The noise of the glass door sliding on its rail called his attention again; Frances and Hannibal stood, winded, ready to welcome him into their home. Will felt honoured to be here, with them, on Christmas Eve. Perhaps next year, Alana would come with. If he won her over the right way, she might very well be.

One man could dream, right?