Yearn | Hannigram

ache

Mornings of jasmine tea, sweet, and floral lasted Hannibal and Will through the cold months. A spoonful of cream and a few drops of clover honey.  Will smoked often, even the crude smell of cheap tobacco couldn't disrupt his pine forest scent. Hannibal hates that he was actually growing fond of the smoke that wrapped around his lover. Huddled together in the hot tub outside, watching the snow drift down from the dark sky. Drinking whisky until they couldn't keep their hands off each other, tasting the woody grit of Marlboro and mahogany. No amount of holiday cheer or Hannibal's refined influence could take the rugged edges off his lover.

     December bled into the new year with deafening ease. Will had gifted Hannibal his heart, one cut from a rude delivery man after his midnight shift. Christmas morning Hannibal stumbled down the stairs to find the bloody organ wrapped in holly and baby's breath. A delicate little note that just said, 'My heart is yours. I love you. x Will.' Hannibal's eyes nearly turned glossy, and the softest smile spread across his pouty lips as he kissed the younger man's curls.

     Will opened gifts of thick cable knit sweaters and hooked gutting knives. It was the first time either of them had really celebrated the holiday. Years of lonesome nights, forgotten or fallen family, piles of bloody crime scene photos; even the spirit of Christmas was not strong enough to cut through something so dark. No amount of fairy lights or mulled wine could've made Will's dark, cold eyes glisten with wonder nor could they get Lecter off the permanent naughty list. Still, Hannibal cooked up a fisherman roast with all the fixings, donned in festive maroons and greens while they ate at the dinner table. They huddled by the fire and danced with Winston at their feet. Jack Frost whipping winter winds around their cozy cottage, tucked away from the world.

     Now it's the middle of January, the once sparkling towns have taken down their stockings and wreaths. Coastal Canada is a ghost land of closed for the season signs and empty hiking paths. The tourists cleared out, the streets are covered in salt and slush. It's quiet. Days like this bring Hannibal into his head a bit too much. While Winston and Will are knocked out on the couch with the record player spinning soft Sinatra, Hannibal is looking to the dark sea crashing. The snow coming down heavy and thick, coating the evergreens with blankets of white. He remembers Lithuania, the frigid winter of his young and shaking hands. Skeletal from the starvation as he cradled his knobby knees. Tears unable to form as his mind begins to split into something else entirely. The man he could've been was killed that day and in his place, the monster was born. Feeding on his sister's carcass with a gun pressed to the back of his skull, cold and hard. The day Hannibal met sin, swallowed it, then let it devour him.

     In the months where branches are barren and the world becomes white and colorless, Hannibal feels those thick metal shackles around his wrists. Reminded of the hypothermic man chopping off his dead appendages in the corner while the other slaughtered his sister like a sheep. Hannibal still hears those pitiful, echoing screams in his sleep. He tastes the cheap, nearly molded red wine in the stew of Mischa. He can't shake it. Though he's grown far beyond those years, the sound of rats will sometimes chatter in his ears late at night. So, he looks to William.

     Hannibal curls into Will's meadow-sunny arms and grabs him like a lifeline. His body always so warm, when Hannibal nuzzles his nose into the crook of his neck, smelling the smoked-candy sweetness of his skin. That young beast Hannibal once was would perish at the thought of someone like Will. Who knows Hannibal so intimately, who has seen his work and tasted his divine. And who loves him. He fights the tears that dot his eyes when he finds himself wondering if Mischa and Will would've gotten along, because he knows they would have.

-

In Baltimore, Alana takes Xanax and Klonapin to sleep at night. She chases it with a god awful smoothie full of kale and protein powder. She pays no effort to try to make it taste good. It doesn't matter anymore. It's hard to chew anything once you know what your mouth has tasted. Who has found their grave in your stomach. She walks by the now demolished site of Lecter's home and chucks vomit and bile onto the dirty city street. She spends weeks scouring the internet, searching every brutal murder but coming up empty. Even the sedatives can't lull her to sleep when she feels the sprinkling of paranoia hit her veins. Pumping out scalding hot, turning her cheeks blotchy with red terror when her finger clicks on 'Pagan Massacre in Glasgow.' There, she sees a tableau of gore and greenery. A young man torn open and brutalized, wrapped in red and surrounded with melted wax and black ash. He's gutted and on display for the world to see.