Yearn | Hannigram

set me free

Will is fishing one early morning, lulled by the sound of distant bells and crying gulls. The sky is cloudless for once, clear blue with an icy breeze pricking his nose pink. He is lurking in the rocky shore not far from their cabin, carefully shrouded in a cover of evergreen. He's gone for a traditional rod, he has no gear to fly fish here. Still, he watches his reel whip across where the waves crash, casting out to the deeper waters. Bright cerulean and smelling of salt. He smokes a joint Hannibal had delivered from a dispensary on the southern edge of the island. It's better than anything Will usually smoked, lemon citrus lingering on his lips after he puffs on it. He snorts out smoke as he thinks of Hannibal scrolling through a dispensary's website, debating terpenes and hybrids.

      The clouds are thick above Will, a slow fog grabs at his ankles but he feels so relaxed. He pulls in a few little fish, mostly small bass nothing too impressive . He tosses them back and sets them free. Able to grow and live a bit longer until they catch themselves in someone else's hook. After all, Will is hunting something bigger. Something for dinner.

      Even in the nearly freezing air, the sun is hitting his face and he feels warm. He is wrapped in thick layers of cotton and down- gifts from Hannibal that continued to come far after they tossed out the wreaths. He laughed to himself about it. Being a sugar baby, or anything adjacent,  was never the direction Will thought his life was going. Somehow even murder seemed more conceivable as a career path, but a trophy husband? No, never in a million years. Hannibal had even packed him a thermos of that same black chicken soup which he'd gifted Will one of the first times they'd met. It was delicious even if Will missed their usual cut of meat, thyme and rosemary bursting over his tongue, building a campfire in his stomach to keep his body warm in this arctic chill.

      Hannibal's honeymoon heroin was like a black river in his veins, though Will still felt pangs of guilt. He still had flashes of fear and regret. He was sipping five star soup and wishing it had some of the leftover braised bartender, or fishermen falling off the bone. He'd become so caught up in the rush of it all, the running and the gore dripped kisses. So enveloped that he hadn't realized just how much of a taste for man he was developing. How his stomach and tongue was beginning to yearn for the taste of it after just a few days. He was growing even more sympathy for Hannibal who had lived his entire life with this hunger. This inescapable vacuum only sated by death.

      Will thinks of the story of the wendigo. Of a man driven mad by greed that he becomes devoid of humanity completely. Lost in a haze of his gluttony, he begins to starve for something else. He begins losing time and shapeshifting at night- his bones cracking and breaking, skin stretching. Will feels those holes in his spine were antlers sprung out, like they're opening up and moving underneath his muscles. Then that first taste- the bite of that 'protein scramble'; what he now knows was lung. The very organ that pumped air and blood through her body. Moaning around the meat hot in his mouth, that was the moment Will fell into the black hands of this beast. There aren't many stories of a wendigo returning back. When claws slide out and grow, when fangs push out baby teeth, they tend to stay. Will sees why now. Even before he made the choice to kill, Hannibal had spiked his drink with blood and gotten Will power-drunk on long pig.

     It wasn't until later, around lunch, that Will felt his burner buzz in his pocket. The letter 'H' flashing on the tiny screen. Will set his rod up to rest on a ledge as he sat down on a rotten log. "Hey darlin'," He said, groaning a bit as he stretched out his legs. He often got so lost in what he was doing he forgot to move around, to unlock his knees. 

     "Hello, my love," Hannibal said. He sounded breathy. Will could practically see him, dyed dark hair splattered against his sweaty forehead, leaning against their kitchen counter wearing his swishy athletic clothing.