(18+) Hannigram Smut | Hannibal

Serment Amoureux / The End

Hannibal takes Will's coat as they returned home. Will hasn't yet gotten used to thinking of it as their home. The performance had been beautiful - Twelfth Night at the Royal Opera of Versailles, the glow of incandescent light against the stark marble. The actors buried deep within their layers of gossamer, of wool, of disguises and verse. Hannibal passes Will a glass of wine, bright as peridot under the pale light of the lounge. They relax in silence for a moment, Will in his customary seat catty-corner to Hannibal, who has sunk in wine-warmed comfort amongst the cushions, patting Bella who had fallen asleep on his lap.

"Did you enjoy the play?" He asks at length, turning hooded eyes on Will.

"It was beautiful," Will admits, then sits for a moment, turning it over in his mind. "It's an interesting concept, the theater. Performance in general."

"Mankind has been performing for one another since the beginning," Hannibal says, loosening his tie. "Since we learned we were born to the horrors of this world. It is a kind deception," he continues. "One meant to be shared."

"Performance as escape," Will muses. Once again, they are speaking in subtext, skirting around the issue that neither of them is willing to address, at this moment. "A disguise can be good armor."

"Performance is more than disguise," Hannibal says, taking a sip of his wine.

They have both had several glasses of champagne, and although far from drunk, Hannibal is at his most expansive like this - surrounded by carefully crafted beauty, with Shakespeare's words a companionable memory to be treasured. He thinks back to the play, to the way Will's hand rested gently in his own, the warmth of it, their fingers intertwined. He can almost taste the expression of concentration on Will's face. He luxuriates in it.

"It can be armor, or it can be an expression. One can say more using other's words, others tones, than one can often say with one's own tongue."

"You've turned performance into a lifestyle."

Will stares pointedly past Hannibal to the room they currently occupy - at the gilt accents of the furniture, the sumptuous brocades of the fabric, the tastefully placed lighting. The room glitters like a geode, and they sit like royalty in the midst of all of it. Hannibal's carefully chosen world.

"Where does the performance end and the authentic take it's place?" Hannibal is reading Will's thoughts again. "Is there nothing I could do that would shock you, Will?"

The question seems to come from left field, but Will can see it's thread in Hannibal's mind. Will knows him more fully than anyone has ever done, but the question still lingers. What, of all of this, is truly Hannibal, and what is merely his own brand of disguise. The man he has become, and the man Will knows, and loves, that man is sitting here before him, Will knows this, but how much more does he have to discover?

"I'm sure you could think of something," Will mutters, not trusting himself to say more. He's certain of that, at least.

"A challenge, then," Hannibal's eyes crinkle with affection. "I'll have to make it something we both enjoy."

* * *

A week later, Hannibal requests that Will dress for dinner. The table is set for a party, though it is just the two of them. The setting is ornate and lovely, a verdant bed of moss with tumbling peach-hued hollyhocks, minute speckled pears the size of river stones, and white candles set in mercury glass. Will has to restrain himself from moaning around his first spoonful of chilled asparagus soup topped with a perfect poached quail egg.

"What's the occasion?" He asks his host, pausing to admire the perfect fall of Hannibal's suit.

The way the fabric skims the lean, strong lines of his body, the subtle sheen of the fabric. Hannibal is breathtakingly beautiful, with the high peaks of his cheekbones, the sultriness of his bowed upper lip, the predatory, feline grace he possesses in all things. Tonight he glows as if lit from within, his skin smooth and taut, his hair falling, tousled, in his face. He looks different, somehow, tonight. Softer. Less untouchably powerful. Will can't put his finger on what's causing this impression, but he can almost feel the intent, when Hannibal lowers his eyes in pleasure, his pale eyelashes dusting the tops of his cheeks.