𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑻𝒘𝒐 𝑴𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔 || 𝑯𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒎 ♡

Chapter 03.

  The morning after, Hannibal found himself picking flowers and herbs.
    Soft sun rays danced on his skin as the leaves above his head swayed in the morning breeze.

Colorful petals and stems layed gently and neatly in the handmade basket from willow branches.
  Hannibal admired the song of morning birds, their cheerful chirping, chatting amongst themselves, although this time around, they seemed to be quieter than usual.

      
Hannibal naturally woke up with the sunrise and fell asleep only a few hours after sundown.
  Last night he found himself turning in his "bed"—between an old blanket and a wooden board—unable to fall asleep.

Even the act of picking and drying the fresh flora of the woods was a desperate try at distracting his mind.

Distracting it from reimagining the encounter with Will like a broken record.
  Over and over again.

Hannibal was fascinated  and terrified by the boy that unknowingly stumbled upon his doorstep.
  Not only was it rare for Hannibal to have any sort of visitors, but Will escaped.

He let him go. Only because he triggered a part of Hannibal's past that he tried for years to keep locked away—somewhere in the back of his mind.

  But it was still there.

And Will unlocked the door, guessed the right password without knowing there was one to begin with.

While Hannibal wasn't one for irrational thinking, he couldn't help but ponder that, for a split second, Will knew.

That Will could see right through him—know that he opened said door, whether it was a conscious choice or a random discovery. That he could peek through the frame and see.
  See what there really was.

The worst part was that Hannibal wasn't quite sure if that thought was just that; a thought—passing through his mind along with the stream of other subconscious buzz.

  Or reality.

Then there was the fact that he let him go. A complete stanger he was planning to kill got away.
  Just because Hannibal's mind decided it cannot deal with the boy and shut down all rational thinking.

For some reason.

Hell, it was Hannibal who found out where the Will's camp was—turned out not to be that far away—and carried him, along with all his stuff to said place.

  Hannibal was baffled.

Was that his mind's response to his past trauma getting triggered?
  The blond could only wonder, and so he did. Endlessly.
   

Once arriving back to his camp, with Will still on his mind, Hannibal placed down the basket full of colourful petals and stems on his outdoor desk and began working his way through them.
  He sorted the flora into groups and tied the ends with rope, leaving a loop to hang them.

Once done with the work, Hannibal turned to his trusty sketchbook he stole from a tourist one time.
  It has been a while since he last drew anything.

The blank page welcomed him with a warm and familiar welcome, dying to be sketched on, used and given attention to.

  Deep breath in, deep breath out.

  
Tens of minutes passed, Hannibal was sure, but didn't pay any attention to the sunlight shifting it's place on the paper, or the progressively darker sky.

It was almost like snapping out of some sort of a trance once Hannibal looked at the page.
  With a quick and smooth movement, he banished pieces of the eraser he used off the drawing, collecting by his feet.

Before him was a portrait of...

  Will. Whatever-His-Last-Name-Is.

Staring back at him, eyes deep with color and dark curls sticking out in every direction, yet he looked so...

Hannibal snapped the book shut with an irritated huff, leaning backwards defeatedly and making an old wooden chair squeak with the shift of weight distributed on it.
    

A roar of thunder echoed through the forest as drops of water began falling from the grey sky.
  The blond picked up his sketchbook and carried it inside the main cabin, along with the tied herbs and flowers.

Once locking said artbook into the safety of a drawer under his intood table, Hannibal hung the flora from the ceiling, leaving them to dry out.
    

It wasn't until much later that day the rain stopped, refreshing both the woods and Hannibal's mind—
  expelling Will from his conscious train of thought, leaving him lurking from the subconscious.

  Still there. Behind the door.

- - -