Archive of Our Own

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To Hannibal Lecter: 22 June 19XX

Dear Hannibal,

I hope you’re doing well!

I wanted to thank you for your latest book recommendation. I was able to go down to the library last week after school, and was glad to find they had two copies. Not in the original Italian, as you may guess. And thank God for it, too, otherwise I would not have enjoyed it as much as I did, being able to understand it. 

I keep looking at the card you sent me from the museum, ‘Dante et Virgille en Enfer’, if you remember, of the two of them locked into an eternal fight in Hell. I have it tucked in my notebook, I always find myself coming back to it. It flatters me to share a name with the artist who made it. And of course it flatters me infinitely more to know you thought of me when you found it.

I started my new job today. It’s just at the supermarket down the street. The lady who owns the shop keeps smiling at me. She coddles me a bit too much, but I can’t really complain, it’s one of those moments when I’m grateful for the stereotypes of my biology. Though I admit I can’t help but get flustered every time she calls me pretty. I feel like a little girl.

At the moment I’m only helping around with shelving, but next week they told me I can man the till. I’m excited to finally make some real money and help Dad out. All the jobs I had before were just carrying and passing things for the fishermen at our previous town, and they would just pass me a few bucks or a beer for my dad. This one will be different. Aurora says she won’t be caught dead paying me with alcohol. It warms my heart to hear it, oddly enough. Such a silly thing.

It boggles my mind to think how fast the years have flown. It’s been nearly three years since your first letter to me. I can hardly remember what my response was, but given we are still here, writing to each other, it must have been good enough.

How’s your summer panning out to be? Did you enjoy the Alps in April? I never asked. I’m still waiting for a picture of you wearing a ski mask. You better include that in your next letter, so I can laugh at you accordingly.

Yours,

Will

 

 

To Will Graham: July 7th, 19XX

Dear Will,

I am delighted at your positive response to Inferno. It is truly a one of a kind masterpiece, and I would give anything to have you enjoy it in its original print. Perhaps you would let me read it to you one day, and translate it to you sentence by sentence. It would please me immensely to do so. 

Allow me to correct a statement of yours regarding Dante and Virgil in Bouguereau’s painting. If you take a closer look at the card, you will see two men in the background, behind the men enclosed in the eternal embrace of battle. Those shadowed men are Dante and Virgil themselves. The men in the front are Capocchio and Ghianni Schicchi, two inhabitants of the underworld, giving Dante and Virgil a glimpse into a hell they’ve only seen in writing. 

The painting itself is a beautifully structured piece, one that offers so many different perspectives that you may grow dizzy just by looking at it for a second too long. So curious that the men who are mentioned in the title are reduced to almost the same level as ourselves - the audience. Yet the main heroes of the painting remain unnamed in its title. These two men in hell, locked in a painting, stripped of a story, stripped of a name, yet so undeniably beautiful. 

William Bouguereau made this painting to essentially boast about his incredible skill in human anatomy. It was an ode to himself as an artist. And incredibly enough, at the time it was not as strongly recognised as it is today. 

I dearly wish I could show you all of Paris, Will. You would adore it, and I would adore your presence beside me. 

I wish you all the best with your work at the supermarket. I already have Aurora in my good graces, considering the compliments she is paying you. Were I in her position, I would have undeniably done the same. If only to watch you pink in embarrassment. 

Unfortunately I do not have a ski mask photograph for you, but I can assure you my trip was delightful, albeit lonesome. My family was not able to join me, but I made a few acquaintances on my trip. I will shamefully admit I spent the majority of it hunched over papers. I accidentally brought my studies to my holiday, but I am grateful for doing so. It elevated some of that weight from my shoulders. 

I thank you nonetheless for asking after my enjoyment from my trip. Perhaps the Alps are yet another destination you would like to see someday. Just say the word, and I shall add it to our ever-growing list. 

My summer is panning out to be quite delightful, though I am similarly spending most of it indoors. There is hardly anything preferable to my studies at this current moment in time, and I find myself immersed in them, with only your stories and responses to distract me. I must insist you keep writing, lest the fate of a shut-in scholar befalls me. 

My aunt has been eerily absent as of late, I begin to think she avoids my presence, and my uncle is just as absent as he always is. It is humorous that I get more letters from you, who live a whole lifetime away, when they live in the same city. 

Enjoy your summer, my dear Will, and try not to overwork yourself.

Yours,

Hannibal

Will Graham had a secret since he was thirteen years old, one that began as an innocent letter from a program his neighbour’s daughter had signed them both into. His secret was an Alpha from another continent. The secret’s name was Hannibal Lecter.

They had turned it into a little game, over the years. For Will at least, it had always been a little game. The promises of all the capital cities, of the countryside, of streets he could not pronounce, of mountain ranges and beaches and rivers and seas. The rich promises of a rich Alpha who thought nothing of them, yet for a poor Omega it was a colourful dream, one he would play on repeat and project onto the dark, spotty ceiling of his room when all the lights were off. He would replace the damp, sickly sweet scent of whiskey with the burning candles of cathedrals, the glow of the tiny TV with sun rays through stained glass, the rumbling of his father’s coughs with the honeyed voices of opera singers. Will Graham was rich in those moments, he was rich when he wrote to his friend, and he was rich when he read his responses. Not in the materialistic sense, though that was always a nice thought in itself. He was rich in memories he created through his imagination, and through Hannibal’s promises. And those promises never ceased to come, much like Hannibal’s flirtations. 

Both of which Will purposefully ignored and refused to entertain, except in the quiet moments, in the depths of his mind. He knew enough of Hannibal to know their purpose. It was part teasing, and part doing it because he could and wanted to. Hannibal loved to pour praises and promises into his words, because it gave him more power over people. A power only a member of high society knew how to truly wield. It was not a conscious effort, at least not so early in his age, but it was one borne of necessity to control the conversation. To control the world. Will ignored it, because he knew himself, and he knew just how easily he would let himself be controlled. Most of all, he ignored it because he simply didn’t want it to stop.

With the letters tucked away safely, and the pen a long distance from his fingers, he let his imagination run wild. And in these moments he walked along the streets of Paris, along the halls of Musée d’Orsay, hand tucked in the crook of an Alpha’s elbow, the image of a life amongst the elites washing his reality away in a warm wave of artificial contentment.

Will Graham could never give away his secret. And he could never face it, too, he realised some years later. The moment he faced it, he knew it would all end. It would be like Dante gazing upon the two men, faced with the reality of a hell he’d only read about, of the destructive beauty of it. The moment he faced it, Will would be destroyed. 

[Paris, 19XX]

Lady Murasaki had grown used to her authority in the household, over the years. She’d begun her life in this family expecting a more subdued role, charmed by the authority of her husband Robert, and coaxed into seeking such a dynamic from her own mother, an Omega, who had never known or been taught of the values to instil in an Alpha daughter. 

Robert Lecter, however, was anything but authoritative, his deceptively dominant air merely brought upon by his cultural upbringing, which barred him from showing emotion on his face, or in his words. Robert was a gentle soul at heart, but that heart was expertly hidden, belonging only in the hands of his wife, who brought it out in him behind closed doors. To the rest of the world, Robert Lecter was a cold, stone-faced beta, who grew up in the shadow of his now deceased Alpha brother. 

So when said brother’s son turned up, traumatised beyond redeeming his humanity, found by pure fate from a family acquaintance at an orphanage near Vilnius, it was Murasaki who took his recovery to heart. She became so engrossed in the task of fixing her nephew, that she had not noticed the growing obsession he began to feel with her. 

The boy would go everywhere with her, would only feel calm enough in her presence to eat, and only looked at her. Murasaki felt pity for him, but equally, she felt terror. She had not meant to foster this dependency, and she had no idea how to get rid of it without breaking the boy’s soul. Robert remained none-the-wiser, absent as he was from the house and its dealings. Soon, she also began to notice other concerning things about the boy. His eyes were too cold, his movements too rehearsed, he did not look like a child in her eyes, rather he looked like a supernatural being, following her every move and haunting her. She began to fear her own perception of her nephew, and attempted to avoid him. She would hear things whispered from the staff around the house, about Hannibal, about something he had done outside near the river, that made the gardener’s hairs stand up. Whenever she would be alone with the boy in a room, she would count the seconds and wait for things to go wrong. 

Eventually, Murasaki felt brave enough to bring this up with a friend of hers, desperate to find a solution and distract her nephew from herself. In turn, the friend recommended a program. A letter exchanging program, Murasaki was told, designed to bring people together from all kinds of backgrounds with all kinds of purposes. Intrigued, Murasaki went with said friend to an office downtown, where she was given a list of names, handpicked to match her nephew’s description and needs. She took the list home, and looked for Hannibal.

“For practice,” she said when she eventually found him, thrusting the leaflet and the list into her nephew’s view. “I believe you will find it much easier to communicate with someone who knows nothing of who you are, and what you have been through. There will be no real consequence of whatever you say to them, so you may find some peace in that.”

She felt a chill running down her spine at the words she uttered, at the feeling of dooming another child so far from herself to the whims of a nephew who needed help she had no capacity to provide. Though it quickly dissolved, as she convinced herself it was a good deed, one that would bring two lonely souls together, rather than doom them to a dark and painful lifetime. 

Hannibal looked at the folded list, tucked into his slightly chilly hands. They were perpetually cold, despite the stretching summer; it was as if that winter in Lithuania never quite left his body, as well as his mind. He unfolded the list, skimming through the names, and cast a questioning glance in Murasaki’s direction.

“They are all similar ages to you, I thought it would be best,” explained his aunt. “Nobody from France, or from your home country. Strangers in every aspect.”

Hannibal could not understand her insistence on participating in whatever this is, or her constant reminders that it was of no consequence. Strangely enough, however, it seemed to work. He felt no pressure looking at the names, and let his eyes wander freely, knowing he had to pick one, if he wanted his aunt to leave him alone. It felt like picking a new toy, or a new hobby to spend his afternoons on. One name caught his eye, because the owner of it was the furthest distance from him. Scribbled next to it was 12, Omega, New Orleans, USA. He put his finger under it, and turned the paper back to Murasaki. 

“Will Graham,” she read aloud. “Just two years younger than you, he’s quite far. An Omega, too.” She smiled fondly, thinking of the only Omega she knew and loved in her life - her own mother. “Thank you for indulging me, Hannibal. I will take the list back and sign you up. We shall send your letter away in a week. I will find a translator for you when the time comes.”

When she left the room, Hannibal felt an odd spark of satisfaction. There was hardly any excitement, but there was a feeling of anticipation. Curiosity. He repeated the name of his future correspondent in his head, trying to figure out the correct pronunciation. He would have to learn English, perhaps, depending on how it all went. 

The young Alpha’s mind began filling itself with ideas, future plans and schemes, and without even noticing, for the first time since it happened, he did not think either of his aunt, or of his baby sister’s teeth. 

[August 30, 19XX]

To Will Graham, 

It is nice to meet you, my name is Hannibal Lecter, as you have probably discerned from the documents already presented to you. 

I must confess, I am not sure how to begin our correspondence. I will start with a better introduction. 

I have just begun my studies at a boarding school in Paris, and in future I wish to study medicine in Italy, preferably at the university in Florence. I am an Alpha, as my documents have suggested, though I do not seek my personality or aspiration in my secondary gender. I sincerely hope you do not, either. 

Things that bring me pleasure are reading, sketching and, recently, the culinary arts. I have cooked for my family on occasion, and they have enjoyed it a lot. Do you like to cook, Will Graham? I am curious about your interests; I hope we can find common ground. Our conversations will be rather dull otherwise. 

I am taking private lessons on the side in English, as I wish to soon begin writing without the need of a translator. My current translator is also my tutor, who is very patient with me. 

I will be patiently awaiting your response. I wish you well, and hope you are having a pleasant autumn. 

Kindest regards,

Hannibal Lecter

[September 10, 19XX]

Dear Hannibal,

Nice to meet you! Just Will is fine, by the way, no need to write my full name. 

I'm glad you can ignore being an Alpha. I am not so lucky. As much as I want to be defined by everything else that I am, the world does not make it so easy. 

I enjoy reading, too! We have a big library downtown, my dad's friends with the owners. They let me hang out there on evenings when it's closed. Do you read in French only? I've recently discovered Camus (in English, though. My Creole is alright, but not good enough for reading), my father says his work is too depressing for a newly presented teenager. Officially a teenager, now, I turned thirteen this year! Dad expects me to read the rhymey books with pictures, as if I’m still five. Did you know Camus was an Omega, too? I didn't! It makes me feel a little closer to him, for some reason. Maybe because he knew what life is like for someone like me. 

I’m not very good at cooking, but I make my own breakfast! My dad’s never really awake in the morning to make it for me. He buys us dinner, though, we eat fish a lot. 

I can’t say I know anything about art, but Ms Rosa from the library taught me how to sketch horses. I'll show you here, on the page. 

I wonder, what kind of things do you sketch? It would be fun to see some of it. 

Do you have a favourite author? I would like to read something of theirs. I hope you like Camus, too! 

Kindest regards,

Will 

Hannibal folded Will Graham’s letter so only the wonky horse sketch showed, and set it aside on the little desk in his dorm room. He wasn't sure if he should keep it, or throw it away. 

There was the faint scent of the Omega's fingertips, where they had touched and held the page.

He framed it. 

[October 5th]

Dear Will Gr

Thank you for the horse. It's impressive for someone who claims not to have any talent in drawing. I admit, I much prefer sketching architecture and landscapes, though I, too, have found myself sketching animals from the countryside. I will draw you a horse, as well, to match your creation. I hope you enjoy mine as much as I did yours. 

[]

[October 27th]

Dear Hannibal

You did that on purpose. it's not funny, by the way. I can't even remember what my horse drawing looked like, but now I regret doing it. It's not fair. 

I'll try not to be bitter about your talent. It's really beautiful, Hannibal. I showed it to my dad and he wanted to pin it to the wall. We taped it to the fridge, because our current landlord won't allow nails in the walls. 

I have been brushing up on my French with some of the neighbours, so you may see a phrase or two here and there. And don’t worry about your English, it’s really nice of you to try and learn it in the first place! It makes me feel special. 

[]

Will noticed he began feeling excitement whenever he saw the postman walk by their house. That same excitement grew into euphoria when the man would open their mailbox and put something inside. It wasn't always a letter from Hannibal, of course, but when it was, Will would tuck away all his remaining plans for the day, and hole himself up in his room to read it and think of his reply. 

Hannibal had recommended Ovid to him, and had promised to read Camus' work so they could talk more about it. Ms Rosa was apparently familiar with Ovid, too, and she gave Will her personal copy of Metamorphosis when the boy asked after the author. 

He would see the drawing every day, whenever he was preparing a meal. The food started tasting better. His father liked the horse too, and would remark on it often. He was proud of Will for making a new friend from so far away. 

The winter break came and went, but their letters remained consistent. What started as a compulsory task given to Hannibal by an aunt who was afraid of his psychology, now became an almost therapeutic pastime for the boy. 

When Hannibal went home for the holidays, he talked to his family for the first time. Murasaki had teared up, and Robertus had smiled, a rare feat in itself. Peace was returning to the Lecter household, the whispers of the staff becoming quieter and quieter. Though the loudest ones disappeared, one after the other, each leaving a letter they needed to move out of the country.

The two boys almost always wrote about books in their letters. Occasionally, too, Hannibal shared recipes he'd learned, and Will talked about the fish he'd caught all on his own. The horse sketch became a sort of an inside joke: Will would doodle a horse on almost every letter he sent, and Hannibal, in turn, started taking walks to a farm near his dorms, and spent the entire day sketching the horses there, sometimes along with the scenery, on little pieces of paper, which he would slip into the envelope. 

The Grahams' fridge soon became covered in horses. 

Eventually, Will's doodles changed. He began to scribble flowers on the corners of the pages, while he thought of what to write. Hannibal took that as a challenge, and sent him intricate drawings of bouquets he would see around his uncle's house when he went back for holidays. 

The fridge was full, so Will started taping them to his closet doors. Then his desk. 

Then the flowers changed to cats, then dogs, then fish. Hannibal would draw every single one of them, in great detail, led by whatever doodle Will had mindlessly scratched onto the page with his pen. Soon, Will could not tape them around his room anymore, so he began putting them all in a big empty notebook, along with Hannibal's letters. It became the Hannibal Notebook. He wrote Hannibal's name on the cover with a white marker. 

A week before Will’s graduation day, Hannibal sent him a charcoal self-portrait. Will looked at it for half an hour in stunned silence, before he could even begin to read the letter.

[May 25]

Dear Will,

It dawned upon me that we have never seen each other's faces. In any other circumstance, I would have been bothered by this long before today, but it oddly never crossed my mind. 

It is a big day for you, soon. Knowing all the hard work you've put in your AP classes and college preparations, I wanted to give you my heartfelt congratulations. I wish I could be there in person to support you for your achievements. I considered this the next best thing. 

I hope my features are acceptable to your taste, Mr (soon-to-be Officer) Graham

Eventually, Will broke into a fitful laughter, dampened by the mirth that bloomed in his chest. He wasn't aware he was doing it, but next thing he knew, he was caressing the charcoal cheek so tenderly, he accidentally smudged it. He couldn't bring himself to feel bad. How could he stop himself?

Hannibal was so beautiful, thought Will. His eyes held the self-assuredness that could be read in the words of his letters; his cheekbones held the aristocracy Will was aware he was born into. In many ways, he was just as Will had imagined. And in others, he was completely different. 

The portrait was small enough to fit into a round frame with the size of Will's palm, he just had to cut the edges. He put it on his windowsill. 

At his graduation ceremony, he asked a teacher to take a picture of him. Everyone around him seemed surprised. He took a picture of the two dogs they had at home, Randy and Nelson, and drove to town to get them printed. 

Looking at Will's pictures, accompanied by his heartfelt letter, Hannibal felt a smile growing onto his face. It was such an unfamiliar thing. His muscles were not relying on memory, but instinct alone, and it made it all the harder to ignore when it happened. 

Will Graham was so beautiful, thought Hannibal. There was love growing in his heart for his pen-pal and close friend, one that made him question his whole being. 

He would not admit it to Murasaki, but her plan had worked. None of Hannibal's attention was focused on her anymore. Though his other proclivities remained. They were just much more hidden than before.

He did not live with his family anymore. He had moved to Florence last year, eager to begin his studies. Even more eager to explore his interests. he'd instructed Will to wait for his next letter before writing, because his address would change. They'd done the same repertoire a few times before, on Will's side. He never stayed in the same place for too long. 

Despite it only being a year, he'd felt himself growing into his own skin, becoming who he always was. There was a lot he hid from the letters, a lot he would never admit to his dear friend. 

He framed the picture of Will in a beautiful murano glass frame, and put it on his desk, right next to the old horse scribble from three years ago. 

[January 5nd 200X]

Dear Hannibal,

Happy New Year! 

Despite the ten years I've known you and written to you, I'm somehow always late with the holiday wishes. Here I am!

How are you? I know it's been a while since I last wrote. Your last letter got lost for a long time, I was starting to worry you'd forgotten about me. When it arrived, it was covered in stamps! There was one from Singapore, I'm curious how that even happened. 

I guess it's an elephant in the proverbial room, so I'll just say it. I quit the force two months ago. Stabbed on duty. Nothing crazy, before you freak out. I was negligent. You can say I learned my lesson. On my last day I was hollered at by a couple of fellow officers. Most of what they said is exactly what you would expect to be said to an Omega cop. Seems like Alpha society hasn't changed much. 

I hope Florence is treating you well, as always. Any new artists you’re obsessing over, or is it still good old Botticelli?

I've decided to give education another shot, I talked to Dad the other day about it. Might apply to a course in Entomology. There was a murder two years ago that was never solved, and back then I had a theory about the insects in the corpse, which I didn't have the knowledge to prove. I may have gotten a little too fixated. 

I have to wait a while before I do anything, though. A nurse gave me shit for overworking my injured arm, so I have been kindly asked to rest for the next month or so. I'll keep you updated.

I guess that means you can't address me as Officer Graham anymore, as you so love to.

"I can't believe you actually showed up," Bev's voice betrayed just how surprised she truly was. Will never showed up to the social events, not unless they were included in his paycheck.

"I can't say I'm surprised you're here," Will quipped playfully, earning a playful shove from the Alpha. "Wonder if the food will be good, at least."

"That's what I'm here for, I even brought some tupperware to sneak some out for Mina."

"Where's Mina, anyway? I thought she was your plus-one." Will looked around, hoping to catch a glimpse of Beverly's roommate to no avail. Bev just shook her head. "She wouldn't be caught dead at a work event, even if it's not her work. She's too lazy to cook tonight though, so I promised her a snack."

"Fair enough." 

The conversation naturally dwindled, and was sharply brought to an end when more people started filling up the space. Will made the executive decision to go spend the rest of it out on the balcony, undisturbed. Before he could, however, he was promptly stopped by a fast-approaching Jack Crawford. The latter was smiling, which in his case was never a good sign. 

"Will, Beverly. Great to see you two here." 

Jack's voice demanded attention like no other. You could never have met the man, but upon hearing his words, you'd instantly be captivated, and do whatever it takes to find out what he had to say. Even if it were at your own expense. Will knew this all too well, yet still he could never escape once Jack had let one word in.

"Glad to be here, boss," Beverly smiled. Will cast his eyes down and mumbled an “evening, Jack”, suddenly more interested in the tiny flecks of dirt on his shoes. Jack knew him well enough not to question this behaviour, and simply went on talking.

"We have lots of professors tonight, Bloom is giving a speech that'll briefly mention the police academy. We have some personnel I’ve handpicket to answer questions, you included." At that, he pointed at Beverly, who only gave a thumbs up. "Some trainees are also volunteering with the event assisting tonight, so be nice to them. They're still new."

All that talk got one of Will’s eyebrows already beginning to twitch at the idea of socialising. He had doused himself in his favourite overbearing cologne before leaving the house, just in case some guest professor got the wrong idea about him. Even the thought of it made him cringe. Sometimes he felt so arrogant and self-centered, assuming everyone would flock to him because of his scent. Like some lonely damsel from a fairy-tale, waiting for an Alpha knight to whisk them away. On those days, he dared to forego the cologne, and test his theory once again. He always ended up proving himself right, and had to rush back home.

“I’m assuming you don’t need anything from me?” he mumbled to Jack, smoothing his twitching brow with the knuckle of a finger.

In the end, arrogant or not, it was always good to be safe. 

Jack just gave him a raised brow, the smile not leaving his face. "Believe me, Will, all your colleagues are just as surprised as I am that you even showed up. We won’t push our luck." To annotate Jack's words, Bev began to vigorously nod. It was common practice at Quantico to treat Will like a ticking time-bomb. It had begun as a joke amongst the forensics team when Will had been working with them, then shortly after it had become so overused that everyone just automatically defaulted to that instead of any other form of conversation. It was much easier to joke about Will Graham’s antisocial tendencies, than to actually talk to Will Graham and face them. 

"Just make sure to not scare anyone off,” Jack continued, “and if a guest asks anything about the academy or the FBI, direct them to me."

"Or, alternatively, sell them a bunch of bullshit," Beverly chimed in.

"Just," Jack raised a hand, then lowered it back down and sighed. "Just be nice. Johns Hopkins are guests tonight and we want to make a good impression. If we get one of theirs to guest lecture even once, we'll attract more attention, and more potential trainees."

"Since when are you so worried about the academy, Jack?"

"Since my wife started grilling my ass about it. Next question." It sounded like Jack was joking, but knowing Bella, there was probably some truth behind it.

Ever since Jack became The Guru, his approach to the newbies had changed. He used to only be obsessed with catching the bad guys, making sure his moral code, as well as that of the FBI, stuck to every surface he touched, and left an impression. He was all too aware how skewed the term "bad guys" was, especially in his line of work, but his own internal rulebook was set in stone, and did not budge. He followed it to the dot, and nothing else seemed to matter. 

Except now, the trainees had wormed their way into his heart. It was no longer just “the bad guys”, or just “his morals”, it was now the new blood, the new knowledge, and the responsibility of teaching them that. Jack was not used to it in the least, but soon found he rather liked it. And the trainees all had a deep respect for him, and always went to him with their questions. 

In a way, it made him feel like the father he never could be. Not because he and Bella were both Alphas, but rather because they'd never been the sort of people to entertain the idea of children. Both were equally obsessed with their work, barely home, and when they were home, they wanted some peace and quiet. There was no room in the Crawford household for a child.

But in the halls of Quantico, there were ‘children’ aplenty. All seeking Jack's expertise, all little pieces of responsibility stuck to Jack's breast like prickly pin badges. Even without Bella's nagging, he wanted the best for them. 

“You doing okay, though, Will?” Jack’s voice lowered, attention falling on the silent Omega before him. 

And there it was, that tone of voice. It always managed to sneak in after all the lighthearted jokes and all the banter. It was a tone Jack had never used with anyone or anything, not even with Will. Before Hobbs, that is. 

“Peachy,” was Will’s only reply. He was growing used to it, despite it making his blood boil each time. Each prod and question about his wellbeing sounded to him like a pathetic attempt at an insincere apology, a way for Jack to wash his hands off the guilt. 

It was too bad Will liked the guilt on him. He wanted it to stay there, forever. Much like the taint he would never wash off of his brain. 

There was an awkward silence that followed, as if Jack was expecting something else. Or god forbid, was forming another question of concern. Thankfully, or maybe not, Beverly saved the day by butting in.

"I heard Johns Hopkins has a guy who's really keen on trying his hand at lecturing down here," she helpfully provided, having somehow acquired two champagne flutes in the time Jack had been lost in his head reminiscing. He nodded.

"Yes, Doctor Lecter." Will's head shot up. Doctor Lecter? "He’s the one I have my eyes set on. Bloom is introducing me to him later this evening, but from what I've seen and heard, he would be an incredible asset."

Their conversation carried on, but Will could not hear a thing. Had he imagined the name? Doctor Lecter? 

There was only one Lecter he had ever heard of, and coincidentally, last time he heard from him, he'd been working as an ER surgeon. A doctor.

April 14th 200X

Dearest Will,

I must admit life has been terribly hectic these past few months. I have barely had the time to sit down and devote an hour to some ink and paper. 

It is wonderful to hear you have decided to go back to your pursuits in academia. Forgive my crudeness, but I have always believed your brain would be wasted in the police force.

I will regrettably keep this letter short, but know I always think of you, even as I see patient after patient, day after day. No face sticks to my mind the same way as yours, even though I only have your picture to compare.

Tell me, my dear Will, do you still oppose us meeting in person? I am more than aware of your stance on this question, but you know me, and you know I shall always endeavour to attempt to change your mind. 

I look forward to reading your future papers, and am excited for what the future shall bring for you in this newfound path. 

All my love,

Hannibal Lecter

By the time Will collected himself enough to nonchalantly ask about Doctor Lecter, Beverly was tugging him towards the main hall for Alana's speech. A champagne flute was thrusted into his free hand; Jack had disappeared into thin air. There were people chatting around them, a cacophony of sounds, of intelligent conversation with a splash of office gossip, all directed at no one in particular. The bright fluorescent light from above made the room feel like a personification of the loud voices that filled it. 

Soon, Beverly had found her own seat near the front of the lecture hall, where Will spotted Jack and Bella having a hushed but animated conversation, before Bella blew her husband a kiss (they rarely kissed in public) and left to join her colleagues. The lecturers from Quantico were scattered about, with no set corner dedicated to them, and most were mingling with the guests from the other universities. 

Will's eyes darted from seat to seat, trying to spot anyone remotely familiar and avoid them. In the end, he found a spot in the far back of the room that offered a few empty seats. He downed his champagne and left the flute on one of the tables near the door, before he hastily climbed the steps. It was a perfect place, barely illuminated and quiet. He would still hear Alana's words loud and clear, but he would have the safety of not having to look behind his back in search of the name he so dreaded. 

The lights finally dimmed down to a muted yellow, and with them, the voices gradually quieted down until they became a gentle hush. With this lighting, Will's corner was almost fully hidden from view. The only thing noticeable about him became the glint of his glasses. He allowed himself to let out a breath and sink lower into his seat. He had half expected his fate to play a cruel joke on him, to lure the man he refused to believe was real right at his feet-

"Is this seat taken?" came a voice to his left. Will didn't bother turning around, too busy cursing fate with every word in his vocabulary. He didn't have to turn around, the scent was confirmation enough. It was a scent he knew well. Though usually it came from folded sheets of paper, flooding his nostrils the moment they were warmed by his hands. 

All he could do was shake his head, and he felt the radiating body heat of the Alpha that now sat to his left. 

Hannibal Lecter was sitting next to him, in a packed lecture hall, in the academy he lectured at. 

Neither said a word. Both were thinking about all the words they had ever said.

 

[20XX]

Dear Hannibal,

I've been thinking a lot about our letters, about our friendship, in general. Despite never seeing you in person, I feel like out of all the people in my life, you know the most about me. 

There is something so magical about writing letters, something I didn't realise when we were younger. it's almost as if writing in a diary, burying the words deep within yourself, only to later realise they're being read by another soul. And by then, it's too late to take it back, and they already know all your deepest thoughts. 

If we were to have met in person, instead of through letters, I might never have formed such a deep connection with you. It is so odd, isn't it? We're so far apart, and yet you're closer to me than anyone has ever been. Do you feel the same way? 

If we ever met in person now, my first emotion would probably be fear. It would be like seeing a part of me being torn away from me and standing on its own in front of me. There is a reason we get creeped out if we stare in the mirror for too long. I wonder when I began to see us as interconnected pieces of each other. I blame your romantic novels for all that, just so you know. 

I got a courtship proposal today. Alana Bloom. She's the Alpha I told you about, a colleague from the academy. I was thinking of saying yes. My house has been empty for as long as I remember, my only companion in life has been my father, who is now long gone. 

They often say Omegas were not meant to live alone. I chalked it up to the other bullshit they say about us, but it's starting to really get to me. it's probably more because I'm human, rather than anything else. 

The dogs are noticing it too, I think. They've been very affectionate as of late. It's as if the little bastards pity me. I could swear Buster called me "old maid" the other day. It was in his eyes.

I know your last courtship was a disaster, but have things gotten better for you? I really hope so. I can't imagine it's easy to dodge all of these fickle people who are after your title. 

Though, I hate to admit it, part of me is glad we're both alone. It could be 'the possessive nature of my gender". I can almost hear your laughter as you're reading. That's funny, isn't it. I've never heard your laughter in my life, and yet I picture it so clearly in my mind. I wonder if it would be a perfect match to what my imagination has conjured up. 

I don't think I ever want us to meet in person. I don't think I could bear it. I've said it so many times before, but it never seems to change.

Despite it all, you're always in my thoughts. 

Yours, 

Will Graham

There was an air of mystery that flowed about a person when they had a big secret to keep. It whispered poetry through their blood, their facial expressions, the very essence of their presence. It begged to be revealed, and the more stubborn a person was, the more intense the whispering became. There were pros and cons that came with harbouring a secret. To have something that entirely belonged to you, tucked away in the corners of your mind where no one could touch it, brought forward a primal satisfaction and content. It was ownership, and it was belonging. 

It was alarmingly easy for Will to immerse himself into the made-up world of his letters, to breathe in the perfume that travelled thousands of miles to get to his desk and to pretend Hannibal was in the room with him. The ease of it eventually hit Will in the face like a brick of reality, and in later stages of his life, he was finally brought to the cons.

It was easy, all too easy, to forget the consequences of your words and statements, when they were sealed in an envelope. 

Sometimes, Will Graham lost track of his thoughts, and could not stop them from roaming. He was unable to pull back the reins, unable to bury his feet in the present moment and stay grounded. Those times were spurred on by all kinds of serendipitous events. The warmth of the sun on his face, the sound of somebody’s shoes scraping the pavement as they clumsily walked. The colour of the eyes of the person on the other end of the room as they accidentally caught each other’s gazes. Will Graham’s mind would latch onto these moments, and bury itself into their core, become them. It was almost impossible to escape. One minute he was wondering about what he would need to buy for dinner, the next he was running down the halls of a stranger’s childhood memories. 

They were not visions, nor some supernatural power that let him read minds. He called them daydreams, the bureau called them his superpower. Hannibal used to call them his charm. Stripped down from the world’s interpretation of it, it all boiled down to an active imagination, and heaps and heaps of empathy. Will Graham could not help empathising with everyone and everything around him, because at one point in his early childhood, it had saved his life. Now, he could never seem to shut it off. He was stuck in a perpetual cycle of daydreams, and no living. 

For years, he had found his perfect outlet, on pen and paper. Living a life separated from all his weaknesses, with a man who his empathy could never touch, because he was never there, in front of him. That life had been too peaceful, too exciting and precious, Will coveted it, yearned for its preservation.

When he was faced with the consequences of what he’d created, however, it had all burst into flames. 

At one point, Hannibal had begun making grand gestures through his letters, speaking of very real, very possible outcomes of the imminence of the two of them meeting for the first time. The Alpha had spoken of the future, had involved both of them in it, together. Will and Hannibal, in the real world, face-to-face. 

The image of that future had terrified Will beyond measure. He had gone over all the things he’d ever said, things he had mostly forgotten the moment the words had been written, and he had then finally faced the reality of his own making. Hannibal Lecter was a real person. And he knew him so truly, so deeply, that it terrified him. In his blind terror, Will had done what he did best. He ran away. Or in this case, he stopped writing. 

He’d tried his hardest to find a place for himself that did not involve his secret. He’d tried to meet people, he’d given courtship another chance. Eventually, his desperation gave way to a muted, grey existence. He lived, he worked, and he did not think of much else. He was just Will Graham, alone in the world by his own design.

Soon after, Hobbs had happened. And everything had crumbled to dust. Will had been stripped bare, down to the deepest parts of himself, and he had realised he did not like what he saw, not one bit. After that, he had done everything in his power to remove himself from every room he went into. 

Nowadays, he wore glasses and never looked beyond their frames. Nowadays, he saw a pen and thought of a scent sticking to a piece of paper, buried in his attic, and his heart ached. 

Nowadays, he was his lifelong idea of a normal member of society. With no dirty secrets, and no faces hiding behind the corner of the next door. 

Will Graham was miserable. 

It was easier to look back at life from the present. Often Will found himself reliving the worst moments of his youth just to feel safer. He could replay them time and time again, and he always had the comfort of knowing they would always have the same ending. The repetition soothed him. The memory of the hurt was a cooling balm to his skin. It was familiar. 

Except Hobbs, of course. The memories connected to that name were always as painful as they were the first time he’d experienced them. There was no comfort in remembering everything falling apart, and recognising the ruin it had brought with itself.

Nevertheless, the good memories always seemed to hurt him the most. Will hated thinking about them, because it always led to the realisation that they were not his anymore. They belonged to the past, he could never have them again. 

He could not have Hannibal again. Not in a way that mattered. Not because Hannibal didn’t want him, but because the Will from the past was not there anymore. It would never be what it was. Will had made sure of that. At least he believed he had.

Will’s heartbeat reached his ears, drowning out all other noise from the room. Alana was speaking, a few impolite people were whispering, a woman was coughing, another was sneezing. Will heard none of it. All he could hear were the thump-thump-thumps in his ears, and Hannibal Lecter's soft breaths somehow permeating through them. 

Will turned his head to finally face him, and before he could, a gentle hand seized his own, sweaty one, and put something in his palm.

It was a mint candy.

Puzzled, Will looked up and finally met the eyes of Hannibal Lecter — his penpal of more than twenty years. Ex-penpal, really. The last time he'd written to him was to say he'd be focusing on his life, on building a family. What a joke that was, he doubted either party believed his words, even back when he had said them almost truthfully. Look at me now, what must he think of me? 

"To help with your nerves," Hannibal whispered, in a friendly tone. Will had never heard him speak before. 

It was all so unexpected. Perhaps it was the absurdity of it, the cherry on top of this ridiculous evening, but before he could stop himself, Will barked out a laugh in the silent room. 

Alana was startled into silence for a moment or two, in which a wide assortment of disgruntled faces turned in their direction, and a few growls were heard from the front rows. 

Alana resumed speaking after clearing her throat, moving on to praising the forensics team and the rest of the faculties. Will popped the mint candy in his mouth and tried to become one with his seat. With the initial moment over, he could relax enough to use his periphery vision again. He discreetly looked to his left, moving only his eyes, and he soon found what he was looking for. Hannibal’s hand, resting calmly atop the man’s linen-coated thigh. The hand that wrote all the letters in my attic. Will could not help but lock eyes with the appendage. Unbidden came the image in his mind of a drawing, one of many. One he had requested of Hannibal’s hands. Subconsciously he compared the two. Life imitates art, art imitates life. There they are, together. 

Alana had finished her speech. Hannibal was the first to clap. Unable to do much else, Will mirrored him.

Hannibal had always been much more bold. Not because he was an Alpha, but because he was Hannibal. 

Even in their written correspondence, Hannibal would always find a way to command the conversation. His words were designed to influence, much unlike Will’s, which were just designed to exist. The Omega had no filter to run his thoughts through when it came to Hannibal. In their letters, that was their dynamic. 

Now how the fuck was Will supposed to gauge their dynamic in real life?

Hannibal was standing next to him in the first staff meeting since the event three weeks ago. It had been going for about forty minutes, and they usually took an hour. Will had barely heard any of it, but had attempted to throw a comment here and there about upcoming quizzes, mostly just to prove a point to himself that he was present. But for the past fifteen minutes, he had just been staring at the chin of whoever had something to say, trying and failing to soak up whatever information was thrown at him. The sounds of the room were not enough to occupy Will’s mind either. No matter how much he tried to focus on the scribbling of the teaching assistant who was taking the minutes, or on Alana’s meticulous movements of her wooden coffee stirrer, his ears just automatically caught on the subtle inhales and exhales of the man to his left. 

The man who deliberately came into the room right after Will and no earlier, as to seat himself right next to the Omega. 

They had had a conversation after Alana’s talk, during that first night they saw each other. To Will’s surprise, it had been terribly mundane. Hannibal had enquired about his work and his dogs, Will had told him about Laurie’s passing, and about the new addition of Winston. They had said goodnight. 

And that had been it. 

When Will got home that night, he felt numb. Years of fearing that very encounter, and it had been so… normal. It left him feeling pissed off. Being aware of the irrationality of his anger did nothing to quell it. If Will Graham was good at one thing, it was sitting in his own emotions for as long as he wanted. 

The thing he’d been most afraid of was his empathy, and how it’d affect his relationship with Hannibal once the Alpha was in the room with him. He’d imagined every possible scenario - looking into Hannibal’s eyes for a second too long and seeing something he was not meant to, breaching a boundary he’d not been aware of. So often had he imagined this exact encounter, that in his mind the two of them had met thousands of times. In half of them, Will had ended up miserable, and in the other, he’d ended up in the Alpha’s arms. 

Not in a single one had he ended up just having a normal conversation and calling it a day.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Will’s head snapped to his left, where Hannibal looking at him expectantly with the same patient smile he always sported. It was less of a smile, and more of a crinkle of his eyes. The reason Will’s attention was so easily captured by it, was because it was one of the few things about Hannibal he had not grown used to. He could never see his eyed through his writing. Only his thoughts. 

One look around was enough to prove that somehow the staff meeting had come and gone, and now the two of them were the only remaining people in the room. A bead of sweat began forming on Will’s forehead, but Hannibal seemed to read his mind. 

“Your input was not needed for the last part, otherwise I would have grabbed your attention earlier,” he assured. “I will brief you on what they discussed, if you like.”

“Thanks,” murmured Will. “You didn’t have to wait for me. Sorry I spaced out.”

“Do you often space out?”

“You know I do. I’ve told you probably a million times.” Will quipped. What a ridiculous question, as if Hannibal hadn’t been reading his letters all these years! 

The silence stretched a second too long and prompted Will to look back up at Hannibal’s face. He almost wished he didn’t. The man was sporting a grin Will never thought he would see on his face. Gone was the Mona Lisa smirk, thrown out the window. 

“What’s so funny?”

Hannibal exhaled. “Nothing at all. I merely realised this is the first time you have made a reference to our past conversations.”

“Did you think I would just pretend our twenty years of friendship never happened?” Will scoffed.

“It occurred to me, yes.” Hannibal looked away, leaving the rest of his statement unsaid. Leaving the part where Will stopped writing, the part where Will left.

He was right, of course. It was a good assumption, and it was definitely something Will would do. Avoidance was his vice and virtue. That did not at all stop him from baring his teeth at the remark. 

“Well it seemed unnaturally easy to you to just pretend we were passing acquaintances when we first met in person.”

“I was only following your lead, Will.”

“My lead?! Since when do you follow my fucking lead?”

At the sharpness of Will’s language, Hannibal inclined his head.

”Tell me, why are you really upset?”

”Because you-” because what? Hannibal didn’t sweep him off his feet? “Because…” It was a fair question. Will didn’t know the answer. 

“Do you not want me to be here?” The question was tentative, but loaded. It was not the question Will wanted to hear, but he had no energy to argue it. He shook his head. “I want you here, I think that’s part of the problem.”

That seemed to be the correct answer, as he immediately felt a shift in the air. Hannibal’s scent mellowed, the sour undertones gradually fading into neutrality. The Alpha smiled. A twinkle in his eye betrayed a flash of buried irritation. A theory he was now learning was the truth. It made Will feel strangely guilty.

“I assume this line of thinking has to do with the abrupt end of our conversations via post.”

“I thought our friendship had reached its natural end,” Will mumbled, his hands seeking refuge by the discarded papers on the table. “I really made myself believe it. It seemed a perfect timeline to things. Clear beginning and clear end.” He folded the corner of a page. On top of it someone had written ‘ Minutes from last meeting ’ in barely decipherable handwriting. “I fabricated it all, I realise now. It was easy to pretend it was a mutual decision when you weren’t in the room with me.”

“And subsequently, me being in the room now puts an end to a delusion you were not aware you had set on yourself.”

That statement would have ordinarily made Will incredibly prickly, but there was no denying it, so he just exhaled a soft snort of laughter in agreement. “You could say that.” He folded the other corner. “The reason I wanted to believe it ended was because it was getting so hard to want to live outside of our letters. Going back to my work and my life became more difficult each month and each year. Part of me thought that if I stopped, it would be easier.”

Hannibal inhaled. Another corner was folded. 

“Was it?”

“I’m not sure.” Truthfully, he wasn’t. Since he stopped writing, his life had spiralled into a routine that held no meaning, a day-by-day existence that he’d never grown used to because he’d always had Hannibal’s company, even just on paper. He’d attempted to embrace it, but all he’d done, he just now realised, was he’d fallen into it. And his memory served him nothing but grey. “Either way, you’re here now, so whatever I had planned has already flown out the window.”

Will felt a presence behind his chair. While he was lost in thought, Hannibal had vacated his chair and now stood hidden behind his back. Will did not turn.

“And now that I am here, what direction have your plans taken?” came the Alpha’s voice. Positioned this way, Will could pretend the question was coming from the back of his skull, from the depths of his mind. It made him think of all of Hannibal’s letters. He’d always read them with his own voice in his head, because he had never known what the Alpha sounded like. 

“I can’t say I know the direction they’ve taken, but I can definitely say the one they haven’t.”

“Oh?”

He felt warmth behind him, growing slowly, imperceptibly. Hannibal was moving closer to him. His hands were now on the back of the chair. Radiating warmth.

“It’s not at all how I thought it would go,” Will tried to clarify. 

”And how did you imagine it going?”

Silence. With every passing second, the walls began to itch to answer in Will’s stead, they pitied him so.

”Grand,” he said at last.

”Grand?”

”I imagined it would be grand,” Will repeated. He folded the last remaining corner of the paper. “No one else in the room, somehow just the energy of you walking in would send everyone away, and it would be just you and I.

”And I would look at you and freeze, and yet I’d keep looking. I wouldn’t be able to help it. Our eyes would just find each other and nothing would stop us from just looking, looking, looking.” 

”Look at me, Will,” whispered the Alpha. Hannibal’s gaze called out to him, as much as his words did. But Will resisted; he shook his head. The warmth at his back increased another fraction. Hot air tickled his ear.

”You described the scene just as it felt to me on that day.” Hannibal was now hovering over him, his mouth so close Will felt every breath on his skin. He shivered.

”When I sensed your scent, I believed I was imagining things. It was as if everything around me disappeared. As if, unbidden by the laws of science and the universe, time had stopped, just so I could savour the moment eternally. It was just you and I, and the words from our pasts.” Will folded the sheet in half, as if by habit. “I had never felt more grounded as I felt in that moment, when I first had the chance to lay eyes on you.”

There they were. His beautiful words. They had somehow escaped the confines of the paper, and had snuck their way in the room, right there, behind Will, together with the man himself. It would be so easy, so easy just to give in, like he usually did. 

Will’s eyes darted around, looking for a pen, before he remembered he could speak. He raised his head just a fraction, mindful of the unmoving Alpha at his back. He finally took his turn inhaling, much like Hannibal had been doing since he entered the staff room. He decided to employ what he knew best. Avoidance.

“I think I’m just… overwhelmed, now that you’re finally here.” He exhaled. His fingers had bent the paper unbeknownst to him, and the folded corner had torn, just a little.

Hannibal, being Hannibal, was not deterred by the statement. In twenty years he had never once been deterred by Will’s dismissive statements. He did what he had always done, and ignored them. 

Then, unexpectedly, something touched the junction of Will’s neck. Hannibal was scenting him, he realised, the Alpha’s nose, slightly colder, gently caressing his skin. His heart rate jumped. Then, just as unexpectedly, Hannibal rose back, all the warmth leaving with him.

” Finally is indeed a word for it.” the retreating Alpha acquiesced. “It is as if it was always meant to happen. We were always meant to come face-to-face, one way or another. Have a good morning, Will.”

Before Will could reply or turn, Hannibal had left the room. In truth, Will had not attempted to do either of these things, he had been too focused on something else entirely.

This was the first time he and Hannibal had ever touched.