Chapter Text
Will turns the heavy tumbler on the table. The glass is sweaty from his incessant fondling, and his rolled up sleeve eagerly soaks up the puddles of water that have formed in the grout lines of the mosaic tabletop. His shirt is a rich cobalt, the color just a hair’s breadth away from being too loud for his liking. A small discomfort in the grand scheme of things, but a concession on his part all the same. Like all his clothes, it appeared in his closet by an invisible hand. Carefully hung on a wooden hanger and deliberately selected; color, cut, and fabric chosen to suit him and this place (and the distinguished tastes of the curator). Most things still lie disregarded, untouched and unworn, entombed in cedar.
Tonight is this particular shirt’s first venture outside the wooden walls—as well as Will’s first venture into the city proper.
It’s by all means a very pleasant evening. Liveliness and exuberance vibrate in the tangle of voices around him. Saturday night is Saturday night, wherever you may find yourself in the world. The cadence and language are still foreign to him (two years of High-school Spanish do not fluency make), as is the cheeriness. Latin reverberates from the speakers. The stereo is dated, the sound coming out slightly tinny, but no one seems to mind. People are dancing, laughing.
Will is nursing his drink—had been nursing the one before this one too. There’s no reason for it; at the very least he should be working up a nice buzz to celebrate that he is now (by Hannibal’s decree) well enough to drink as much as he pleases, from now on until the day his battered liver eventually gives out. Not that the doctor’s orders had met with acquiescence in the weeks before, but he supposes it’s nice knowing he could indulge without the obligatory pinched look that usually accompanied it.
Or it would be nice, if Hannibal was anywhere to be seen.
It was his suggestion that they get out of the house; Will had agreed only because he’d been starting to go stir crazy, the only person he communicated with besides Hannibal being the shopkeeper maintaining the small bodega near their place. The old man was as fluent in English as Will was in Spanish. For some time the overflowing shop was about as far as he could walk without a break. Half a mile there, a tooth rotting orange soda purchased, newspaper rack glanced at (the fear that he might spot either one of their faces staring back in cheap ink on flimsy paper had soon abated. This was a different continent, another country. Colombia had its very own monsters), a sweaty half mile back. The hikes became longer and longer with the stacking weeks, his stamina slowly returning to where it had been before. Which was to say that it was average; marriage had somewhat mellowed him out, mind and body.
The song changes, followed by whistles and hoots. Must be a crowd pleaser.
Will purposefully sat so that he couldn’t see the entrance. Hannibal had disappeared some time ago, to God knows where, getting up to God knows what. He doesn’t crane his neck to periodically check for his reappearance.
Nefarious business, without a doubt.
It bothers Will that he’s bothered. Not by Hannibal being up to something, if one thing in his life remains steadily unchanged it’s that Hannibal is up to no good, but he’s childishly pettily righteously angry that he’s been dragged out into this bar, in a city where he doesn’t know this street from the next one, and promptly been left to sit pretty by himself. He ought to run up a hefty bill (petty and pointless, it would hardly make a dent, and Hannibal is generous with his their funds), or maybe he should run out of here, disappear into the busy streets of Medellín, try his luck as a shepherd in the Andes. He would make a good shepherd, he thinks. It occurs to him that this might be the point, an exercise in trust, trite as it may be. But Hannibal is everything but.
I’m not a prisoner, Will reminds himself, and he’s not my jailer. Maybe things would be simpler then. Black and white. Will exists in the swill of ever shifting greys.
He’d been shackled to the house by drawing a bad hand, not by Hannibal’s. For a moment Will entertains the idea of leaving anyways. Hannibal, abandoned after all. Would Hannibal let him? Be patient enough to see it play out before allowing his injured pride space, or would he come looking right away, leave no stone unturned, no one spared? It’s not without thrill, the thought of ravenous pursuit, of a wrathful reckoning. Preferable perhaps to the stagnancy of the weeks they’d been here.
Will sighs. He takes a generous swig of the full bodied whiskey, and another one to empty the glass. More condensation drips down and dots the hem of his shirt, turning it a deep, dark blue.
It makes him think of the ocean; of clutching fingers; of salty trails of blood seeping into wet sand.
He remembers, first, the ecstasy. Then the purging cold. They had been lucky that they had lived and that they hadn’t been (more) gravely injured. Of course he knew nothing of their luck when he pulled Hannibal’s largely lifeless form from the ocean with his own weeping body. He didn’t know he would live when Chiyoh appeared out of, what seemed to him then, thin air; when she helped lug Hannibal’s heavy limbs onto the boat; when she pressed her ear to his sweater-clad chest, soaked once again in somber crimson after the ocean had lapped away the first wash of blood. With a clear voice she had reassured Will, who hadn’t been able to hear or feel anything at all above the roar of his own blood and the shockingly steady swell of genuine fear, that Hannibal’s heart was beating yet.
Most of the journey that followed is lost to him now, buried somewhere in the sunken foundations of his memory, inaccessible to him. He’d caught a nasty infection, even though he’d initially been the less injured out of the two of them.
Not a thing for two maybe, the luck of the devil.
He remembers Chiyoh’s delicate fingers on his clammy skin, careful and diligent, but cold in more than just temperature. In the days following they were more often replaced by a touch no less careful, but much warmer. Sometimes the hand on his forehead lingered and stroked his brow, once, twice, with a trembling thumb, before it left him again.
The bed sways underneath him, or the floor. Maybe it’s simply his head that does.
He isn’t a body right now—he isn’t much of anything or anyone. Nothing but hazy dreams, wet sheets, dull pain. And the endless sway, to and fro, stern to bow, port to starboard. One more lucky thing: that he hasn’t lost his stomach for the sea after all these years.
The weight of the ache bears down on him, heavy and heavier. In between doses, he thinks distantly, but thoughts are slippery things; like impulses, like cliff tops.
He just blinks the dryness from his eyes and stares out of the door that hangs haphazardly open. Blood, brine, and rot hang in the air. Old news, that. He’s not sure he’s ever known another smell.
Voices ring outside of the small cabin.
“I thought foolishness beneath you, Hannibal,” someone says.
“You won’t do it—so I must.”
“It won’t guarantee that he’ll make it—it might call attention to us. To you. Jack Crawford isn’t so stupid.”
“We’ll be long gone by then.”
Silence.
“Perhaps it would be wise to take him with you and leave him there.”
A seagull cries. Shoreline. He thinks, nonsensically, of his father. Sleeping with the fishes now, the old man. Will may soon be joining him after all.
“And that would not call attention to us?”
“A wayward child returned may appease. And it would certainly make his survival more probable. Since you seem so concerned with it.”
“He’ll live anyway,” Hannibal says with finality.
A breath later he’s by his side. He looks ill. His face tightens for a second, just for the blink of an eye, in a way that he hasn’t witnessed before. Not in a version so genuine.
Worry, that’s the expression.
Will wants to commit it to memory. In a sudden onset of clarity Will thinks that their sleek sailboat is slowly but surely turning into The Raft of Medusa. He thinks Hannibal might find the comparison clever. It doesn’t matter—words are not within his capabilities.
Long, elegant fingers find their way to his sweat soaked hairline, turning his thoughts away from French shipwrecks and cannibalism.
Fingers made for piano playing, he muses, fingers made for murder, fingers made to fit against the curve of his skull. A sigh of relief passes his lips, a pitiful, pathetic thing. The crime of hunger; it would embarrass him, could he remember it.
A needle prick, barely noticeable, and then the weight of the ache lessens until, finally, his eyes are heavier than the pain.
“Rest, Will,” Hannibal says, reverted to his even keeled way, “I’ll be back soon.”
Stay, Will thinks. Whatever sound he manages dissolves into drug induced nothingness.
Will takes a deep breath; saltless, balmy and fragrant. Lush orchids and wreathing vines climb the plentiful columns of the hacienda style courtyard. Very picturesque. He can see why Hannibal had chosen the place.
A drink appears in the middle of his table, suddenly. A tanned hand is attached to the faceted glass. Will blinks up at the tall man, a good five inches taller than himself, he’d guess.
“Buenas noches,” the man says. He’s young, thirty perhaps. A sly look curls his lips.
“Buenas noches,” Will replies cautiously.
The young man smiles easily, revealing a charming gap between his two front teeth. He pushes the drink towards Will with the off handed extension of one long digit and asks, accented and quite confidently, “May I sit?”
The drink sits there for just a moment, barely any time for deliberation before the latent impulse towards recklessness wins out, and one hand reaches out to take the drink while the other extends in a gesture of assent.
His visitor sits down, all long limbs and boyish charm, and looks at Will. “What brings you to Medellín? Business or pleasure?”
Will scoffs. “Neither, is the answer to that, I think,” he says. “And you? Business? Or pleasure?” he raises a brow, “Or both?”
The man laughs. “You’re asking if my business is pleasure?”
Will shrugs; it’s a fair assumption. He does get hit on, on rare occasions, but usually not by handsome looking men ten years his junior. It’s mostly an objective assessment—the man is attractive, anyone could see that… just not to Will specifically. He’s not a woman, for one, and that has so far been a deciding factor in his choice of sexual partners. There is Hannibal, of course, who, Will admits, muddies the water somewhat. Hannibal, who has touched him in almost every way imaginable.
It isn’t a subject they have ever overtly broached, this particular brand of intimacy, at least not out loud. Will had thought about it, because that’s what he does. He turns things over in his head until they are worn smooth. He thinks there might have been times where he would’ve been susceptible to something… not more per se. He settles for different. (some things stay sharp, no matter how hard you try to wear them down. Some things sharpen with every use.)
“It’s not a judgement—or a refusal,” Will says, “Just a question.”
The man smiles. “My only ulterior motive is pleasure, and I think you are very pleasing. Was that your husband? The older gentleman you came in with?”
A hearty laugh bubbles up Will’s throat. He takes a drink. A good quality rum, not what he would choose, but it’s fine. The last comment alone would have guaranteed this man a flogging, and secured him a place at the table, or on the table, or perhaps all three things at once, had Hannibal been within earshot.
“No,” he says and smiles, resting the lip of the glass against his teeth. He should send him on his way.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Eduardo.”
Will follows the other’s gaze to his hand, where the simple wedding band still clings to his finger. Will doesn’t know why he’s still wearing it. Maybe just to deny Hannibal some small part of him. It’s a petty instinct.
“And this?” Eduardo tactfully ignores the ring. He traces the shape of his scar on his own face. Crooked, raised, badly healed—despite the attentive care. Less tactful (but Will is hardly an appropriate gauge).
Pleasure, Will’s mind supplies unsolicited.
“Business,” he says, which is still a bit too close to the truth, “Work accident.” That doesn’t make it any better, but he has to stick with it now.
The younger man narrows his eyes and raises a brow. Will sees what he must see: a wealthy American in an upscale bar, aloof and arrogant, scarred in a manner that is very clearly not the result of an accident. Maybe the cryptic answer makes him think Will is involved in narcotics. There are probably enough of the type floating around in the streets. Gringos, stupid, weak, entitled men, made even more dangerous by greed. It’s more or less true of Will, wannabe narco or not. Eduardo would do wise to look for pleasure elsewhere tonight.
“Must be interesting work,” he presses on with a smile, undeterred.
Will hums. He tries to remember what this version of him does for a living. Hannibal had thought up a nice tall tale for the both of them when he’d handed Will his new passport, fresh off the printing press.
Irving Miller, which was possibly the worst name he could’ve imagined for himself.
“Something the matter, Will?” Hannibal asks innocently when he sees the surly expression on his face.
Irving. Irv.
Forgery is an intricate process, art as much as science; any forger worth his salt likely doesn’t take too kindly to requests, and these are excellent forgeries. But he can’t help but notice that Hannibal’s new nom de plume suits him much better. He won’t accuse Hannibal of deliberate action against him; if he really is that petty, then abrasion is exactly what he wants from Will.
Docile is not a word he would use to describe either of them, yet it’s most accurate for how they’ve been ever since their arrival here. Gone were the fevered lingering touches, the precious fragments of emotion on Hannibal’s marbly face. Will has been withdrawn himself, first because he was still ill, and now… now he isn’t entirely sure. There’s this weight of expectation bearing down on him that he doesn’t know what to do with.
He’d thought Hannibal would be steering this ship, asking questions that cut to the bone, beckon him to step fully into this life that he had, after all, freely chosen, or pry him from his shell by force if necessary. Will had been ready to buck and bristle against it—this infuriating patience and politeness is not what he’d prepared for. Will hovering on the threshold cannot be what Hannibal wants. Yet he’s still steadfastly accommodating. He checks Will’s mending wounds, he cooks, he asks about Will’s hikes. It’s all clinically detached. Calculated of course; if he’s stepping back this way, he certainly means for Will to open Pandora’s box himself, even knowing full well what it is that he’ll find inside.
Violence, death, depravity.
Peaceful cohabitation is not what Will wants either, at least he doesn’t think it is, but he’s decided that he ought to hold out a little while longer. It’s a coin toss which one of them will end up the more stubborn; that Hannibal is resolving to petty provocations is probably a point for Will.
Will snaps the crisp passport shut.
“No,” he smiles benignly, “Thank you.”
“My work is… varied,” Will says. “Contracting.” He thinks that sounds right. Contractor. Hannibal’s calling himself an architect or something. Typical.
“Variety is good.” Eduardo pulls a frayed pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. He lights one with an old, heavyweight lighter. The tarnished surface shimmers like scales in the orange lights when he plays with it in his hand instead of tucking it away again. His cigarette touches his lips twice more, before he turns it in his fingers and offers it to Will.
Their fingers brush when he wordlessly takes it. Eduardo smiles. Will takes a long drag. The acrid sting of the burning tobacco in his lungs is familiar, and not unwelcome.
“Where are you staying?” Going in for the kill then.
Will considers him and inclines his head. “Not within walking distance.”
Straight teeth shine between two full lips. “I have a car.” Eduardo leans in conspiratorially. “Or was that the American way of telling me to get lost?”
Will traces the cut edges of his glass. The tip of his finger catches on a chip in one of the facets, sharp, but not dangerously so. He presses down harder, drawing his finger over the spot again until he feels a sting. He thinks of brittle wings, of splintered bones and the way they would surely cut the hand that dared crush them. Displeasure threatens his lip at the unwelcome thought of Bedelia.
I’m not crushing anyone or anything. Just putting something…within potential crushing distance.
Her sardonic laugh rings in his ears, like two paper thin champagne flutes clinging together.
Same difference, Will, she purrs. The question is: Who are you hoping will end up crushed in the fray?
“Okay,” he says, and downs the rest of his drink for liquid courage as he cracks the lid open, morbidly curious in anticipation of all that he may unleash. “Let’s get out of here then.”