Been A Son

BEEN A SON
chapter five

"I made a new one yesterday, got into an Art Nouveau mood and went all Aubrey Beardsly. Do you want to see it?" Chloe Dupre was draped crossways on the long couch near the window, the tip of her medium length, jet black hair trailing against the floor, her long, thin legs and bared feet high above her, heels pressed against the window. Hannibal was in an upside down focus and considering Chloe's habit of looking at situations in unconventional ways, it was a fitting posture for her. "That was tons of fun, our little field trip to the piggie farm. When are we doing that again?"

Hannibal looked at the long, rectangular bandage on Chloe's calf, her beige, loose linen pant leg bunched around her knee thanks to gravity. As an Omega bonded to a wealthy Alpha in the music industry and the mother of two lovely Alpha children (a boy and a rare girl), Chloe was part of the upper echelon in coastal city society, though she was rarely paraded out for events. Chloe was outspoken and highly unpredictable. She was driven every other day to Dr. Lecter's appointments due to her habit of escaping her enclave, going so far as to scale a smooth outside wall. Outside his office, on the street below, a limousine patiently waited for her, just as it had the night they'd murdered Galvin McDermott. The driver was a large, Russian man who had lost his Omega daughter to bonding traffickers in the early 1990's. When he learned of McDermott's crimes the wall of a man was just as passionately committed to their cause.

Chloe's troubles started due to her fierce need for independence, as many Omegas struggled with. She'd scaled the walls of her bonded mate's large property on the outskirts of Baltimore and had subsequently been found at an after hours night club, drunk and draped over a couple of Betas in their early twenties. She'd shanked a bouncer with a screwdriver when he tried to shove her into her mate's car, screaming for someone to help her. The judge ordered counselling and thus, here she was, and a good thing too, because Chloe was very skilled at knifework and did not shy from butchery. Part of her mainland upbringing involved prepping meat, and she was exceptionally quick when cutting out the hearts of the carnivorous pigs.

Her Alpha mate insisted on pills to make her more docile and Hannibal pretended to comply, with TicTacs masquerading as lorazepam.

Like Will Graham, Chloe's upbringing was poverty stricken and full of coarse mainland sensibilities. Her father had been a mainland blues singer who toured the delta region and beyond for a good portion of his life, bringing his small family along with him for the ride. Chloe and her mother had followed him down every conceivable stretch of highway that intersected across the interior of the United Main and like most in the near empty mainlands and along the Mississippi Delta, they were poor and survived on scraps, often paid in meals instead of cash. Chloe's mindset had a lot in common with how Will was raised, and Hannibal often thought that if the world could tip itself out of its overly taut, gender bindings the two would become friends.

But, like most Omegas, friendship was not to be, for Chloe was a bonded Omega and was thus hidden away from the world in a vast, Alpha castle, with her own little section of it to reign while her selfish king went through Beta after Beta lover and completely ignored her once the children were born. "He only had me during two heats," she told Hannibal during their first meeting. "I'd think he didn't have a dick at all if it wasn't for the Betas. But really, what do they know? They love his money. They don't bother asking how he got it."

Like many Omegas from the mainland, her bonding was only borderline legal. Chloe's Alpha father was fiercely protective of his Omega daughter, her hardened edge moulded from poverty and her father's boxing lessons. She'd been quite good in the ring, had won middle weight fights in several states in between her father's gigs, a side business that took in enough to keep gas in the car. She had been gaining a reputation herself amongst the poor mainlanders, but it was all to come to a screeching halt when her father was approached by Malcolm Dixon, who decided to step in as her father's manager. He was a nightclub owner in New Orleans, a town that was only just beginning to find its own brand of big city envy and had been slowly adopting the more civilized version of societal structure found in the immensely wealthy coastal cities. He promised her father he'd get him a million dollar record deal within the year. The old man had scoffed at this, he'd been in the blues game long enough not to care about these sorts of promises. He hadn't expected Dixon to have teeth.

While Chloe's father sang the blues about having no home and the one he came from being broken, Dixon secretly handed Chloe off to a record producer from Philadelphia and before she knew it she was bonded to the creep and her dad's first album went platinum.

Money doesn't mean much to people who did just fine without it, especially when it comes wrapped in chains. Chloe's father spent every dime he made trying to get his daughter back, hiring lawyers and petitioning courts and demanding that someone release his captive daughter. But the law was the law, and a bonded Omega was the property of the Alpha who performed the ceremony, and it didn't matter if it was done under duress or subterfuge or any manner of false promises. Bonding was permanent.

Chloe hasn't seen her father in over fifteen years. She'd managed to sneak messages to him through servants in the house who understood her plight and did what they could to keep an underground communication going. But her father was heartbroken, too sad to find comfort in the agony of the blues. He gave up music and crawled inside of bottles in dank New Orleans bars. The last she heard of her mother, she was busy cleaning houses for elderly mainlanders in exchange for room and board. She was always on the move, and contacted her own bonding partner once a year, just to make sure he was still alive.

Her father's legacy was infamous enough that Hannibal often heard commercials using Chloe's father's songs. The last one, a fervent lament on the loss of family, was used for laundry detergent. Chloe's Alpha mate made millions on the usage rights. At the rate her father's music was being sold, he was now the king of the jingle instead of king of the blues.

It isn't easy, being the sequestered princess of a musical legend. He imagined her Alpha was especially proud of himself for capturing her in his trap, and Hannibal felt a great deal of sympathy for Chloe's plight, and there were many times he felt the weight of that iron clasp around his neck as she bitterly bemoaned her fate He would tug on his shirt collar, in a vain effort to alleviate its haunting pinch.

"There is a specific pace that must be maintained in order for our cause to be fully appreciated. Too many deaths in succession will be wasteful, we want the issue behind the murders to be foremost in the public mind. We must guide them through our art, opening the collective consciousness in a graduating series of lessons. This is the only way a society is capable of learning. You must remember, Chloe, we are fighting against an ideology that has a significant amount of advertising. To counter it, our messages must be of high quality and unforgettable."

"I doubt anyone is going to forget what he was full of any time soon." She crinkled up her nose and snorted. "Oink. Oink. That Tattle Crime writer had a great time with that one, she picked up on the humour of it right away. Did you read her latest article? It's a real hoot, you'll laugh, she's got a whole 'greatest hits of the Chesapeake Ripper' thing going on in it. Her headline slayed me: The Culling Of The Pigs. The article picked apart every one of your Alpha victims, man, those guys were real chunks of pus. I think we have a fan in Freddie Lounds." Chloe leaned up and tore at the bandage on her calf. "Come on, you want to see this, I know you love my work."

This was true, he was forever fascinated by Chloe's method of self adornment, a collection of tattoos she designed and pierced into her skin herself, the ink a replacement for a bad cutting habit she'd developed after bonding and her subsequent lack of freedom. Chloe was a woman who had never been allowed to bloom and her reactions to the world around her remained childlike, the same sixteen year old girl in a thirty year old woman's body. The tattoos were progress reports. To Hannibal, it was as if she was marking up her skin with as much ink as possible to destroy the natural beauty of it, to mar that unhealthy idealization that had ruined her family. Battle scars weren't all red lines or badly healed wounds. Chloe had a warrior's skin, full of contrasting colours and magical talismans.

She was an exceptional artist. The Beardsly tattoo did not disappoint, the clean lines of Salome with her twin plates in hand bleeding a black puddle of ink against Chloe's ankle. One didn't need the image of John the Baptist's head to know how neatly it had been severed.

Hannibal felt a swell of pride rise within him at how quickly his army was pulling strength from its vast collection of darkness. Soon, the blood would flow upon the world and nothing could be caged again. He licked his lips at the thought, liking its iron willed flavour.

~*~
The house was more castle than living space, Will thought, and he felt small on the front step, the bottle of wine in his hand weighing heavy against his palm. He wasn't a huge fan of fermented grapes, preferring whiskey and beer, but he'd done his best and opted for a merlot since Hannibal seemed to him to be more of a red man.

He hesitated slightly as he searched for a doorbell and found none, the older Victorian estate stubbornly adhering to an old fashioned knocker instead. Will curled his grip around the cold metal and stomped the feeling into his feet, sending tendrils of snow that had collected on the concrete into a powdery flurry. He knocked three times in steady succession and hoped Hannibal wasn't too far in the recesses of the massive home not to hear him. Such a large space for a single man, Will thought, and he had to wonder just how wealthy Hannibal was. He had a king's mindset with a place like this.

Hannibal opened the door and smoothly bid Will to come in, the bottle of wine offered which Hannibal graciously took from Will's hand and gave his thanks. Will stood in the foyer of the home with a sense of overwhelmed wonder, the large oak door shutting of its own accord behind him with an audible click that sent his nerves instantly on edge. Excess and elegance were the words for this evening, and Will's wide blue eyes drank in the large chandelier that sparkled from where it hung in the ceiling of the foyer. Vast, bevelled oak archways led into equally ornate rooms filled with antique treasures, and a grand set of stairs led to upper floor bedrooms of which there had to be many, the oak polished and gleaming and overpowering in its stately place in the centre of the foyer. Will could easily envision heads of state with demure, beautiful Omegas draped on their arms descending the wide steps, a collection of high society at its base, clapping in approval of their regal presence.

Still, even with this admittedly brief inspection, Will's empathy began to dissect what he saw, and the perfection of the house put cracks in its comfort. He couldn't shake the feeling that the mansion was nothing more than a museum, its rooms too cold and impersonal and filled with the history of strangers to truly be a place Hannibal would call a home.

As though sensing Will's initial thoughts, Hannibal guided Will to the left of the grand staircase and towards an area nearer to the back of the house, where the light was slightly dimmer. The garish, pastel hued baroque furnishings were now traded for familiar earth tones, and Will didn't quite understand why this instantly gave him a sense of relief, as though he'd been worried he'd have to fight the chaos of Alpha over-ornamentation for the night. As he was guided through a clean and impressive but not overly ostentatious kitchen, Will understood that the rest of the house was exactly what his first impressions had suggested, and it was nothing more than a ruse for snobbish guests to exclaim over. Without him saying a word, Will knew that Hannibal didn't truly live in other areas of the house, and he wouldn't be surprised to discover he had a cozy cave within it somewhere that held his messier habits, where he walked barefoot and at ease in rumpled, drowsy comfort. The image made Will inwardly smile, though he was sure Hannibal would take issue with seeing him as anything less than perfect. "You have a lovely home."

"Thank you. I admit, it is a tad overly grandiose for a single man, a fact I'm sure you have already tucked into your assessment. I do like the finer things in life, and one must indulge in them when one can." He raised the bottle of wine Will had brought with him in an exaggerated flourish. "I do believe this is one of them. A taste before dinner, to bring ease to the palate."

Two wine glasses were set on the kitchen island before Hannibal and he deftly uncorked Will's offering, his movements precise and graceful as though he were performing. In a way he was, for Will got the impression Hannibal didn't get many intimate guests like this, and playing host was one of his passions, though he rarely had someone he genuinely wanted to perform for. The glasses were clinked in a proper toast and Will sipped at his wine, forgetting to circle it as Hannibal did, sniffing its heady aroma before delicate, soft lips upturned to take a drink. Hannibal's eyes closed in seeming bliss over the wine, his tasting ending in a small sigh that did strange things to Will's nerves. "A delightful selection," Hannibal breathed, the tiniest droplet of wine still clinging to his bottom lip and Will's breath caught when the tip of Hannibal's tongue escaped his lips and lapped it up.

He could feel it, the creature staggering in a confused jumble at the back of his mind, the black feathers of the great stag tickling his consciousness. The black stag had visited his dreams with alarming frequency in the past week, his inward visions full of thorny crowns of antlers that grew with prehistoric largesse the more he thought on the Ripper's crimes, obscuring the brutality from view. The subject of natural remedies had come up in the lab earlier that week, and without prompting Price had told him that deer antlers had medicinal properties, that they were reputed to have a calming effect and cleansed the blood. Will kept the coincidence of Price's discussion of antlers and his own dreams well out of the conversation. Will figured his veins must have a lot of poison in them for the stag's crown to be wrapping him up so tightly in its bony cage.

"It smells delicious in here," Will said, his mouth watering as Hannibal opened his oven door, rich meaty aromas wafting out of it in waves.

"Beef heart, stuffed with mushrooms and spinach with a reduction obtained from the heart's rich juices. Please, my dear Will, have a seat in the dining room, there is a setting waiting for you. I will continue to add the finishing touches and will only be a moment."

He said it with such pleasant gentility that Will had to bite the inside of his cheek in an attempt quell his laugh. Hannibal was treating the meal with a formality befitting a three Michelin star restaurant and while there was no doubt the food would be of the same quality, he couldn't help but be amused by the theatre of it. He brought his glass of wine with him into the adjoined dining room, taking in the wall of potted herbs and the rich, forest colours, breathing in the feeling of being outdoors though one was inside, in a warmth that Will was finally able to relax in. This was one of Hannibal's favourite rooms, Will noted, and he could easily see the man spreading his notes and papers across the vast, oak dining table, revelling in the natural space and its organic ambiance. Just beyond the dining room was an atrium, a veritable greenhouse filled with exotic potted plants that nearly obscured the curved windows above them. In the corner an ornate harpsichord lay in wait, its prominence in the room suggesting Hannibal often stroked its keys, and Will wondered what sort of music was brought to life in that equally beautiful space. He wouldn't be surprised to learn Hannibal composed pieces himself, he was simply that brand of man, so immersed in talent and brilliance that to expect anything else would be insulting. Chef, surgeon, psychiatrist, composer, artist--Hannibal's sketches had earned him a scholarship to John Hopkins--it was unlikely anyone in the world matched his perfection. His Alpha drive no doubt had shaped him into this mythical being, the muted scent of Hannibal's gender a ruse that Will was wise not to underestimate.

The meal was brought out in a theatrical flourish, thin slices of perfectly cut stuffed beef heart artfully arranged on his plate along with a quick, easily forgotten explanation of its accompaniments, all of them complex and tasty, the food a testament to Hannibal's patient skill. They sat in near silence as they enjoyed the meal, with Hannibal closing his eyes and revelling in each tender bite while Will carefully watched him. He really was lovely to look at, Will thought, and his chin collapsed into a tic at this, his gaze rambling along the walls, the thin lines of near black grooves in the oak table, the glint of light on his fork, anywhere but on the deer-like countenance of Hannibal, who when he turned to Will and gently smiled appeared delicate and soft enough to melt should Will dare to touch him.

'And why would I dare?' Will thought, confused again by the emotions he couldn't catalogue churning inside of his gut.

"I think some people deserve to die," Will said instead.

The bluntness of his opinion startled Hannibal, whose knife and fork took a tiny misstep upon his plate and clanked against the white ceramic. "That depends on who you have in mind, Will. Do you have a list prepared? Are you planning on a killing spree against those whom you deem unfit for this world? I'm curious as to how you would define them."

"I'm sorry," Will said, frowning and hoping he hadn't spoiled dinner with the strange outburst. "I'm not much for small talk."

"Nor am I," Hannibal cheerfully replied, and he picked up his glass of wine, taking a sip to cleanse his palate before returning to his meal. "It is one of my favourite things about our friendship. I appreciate your straightforward discourse."

"Some people find it rude."

"Politeness alone does not make for good manners, Will. A great deal of gauche concepts can be hidden behind pleasant words. Please, feel free to be open with me. What is on your mind?"

Will sliced and took a bite of the heart first, chewing on his thoughts and descending into the absolutely delicious offering Hannibal had given him. He swallowed and closed his eyes, his body grateful for the sustenance against the unsavoury nature of his conversation. "I was thinking about your advice to Margot Verger, about how she should kill her brother and I couldn't help but feel a resonance with that. McDermott had to have been involved in the death of that Omega, there was a witness, and having that knowledge makes what was done to him almost...I don't know...Too *easy*."

Hannibal contemplated this. "Really? I should think the display was fairly detailed in execution."

"It was, and the message was loud and clear, that this was a pig who needed to suffer. That's where I'm having a problem with it." Will took a large gulp of his wine. "The Ripper shouldn't have stuffed his corpse with pig hearts. Once a person is dead there's nothing left to hurt. He should have left McDermott there to hang for days, until his wounds were full of maggots." Will glanced over at Hannibal who had paused over his meal. "Sorry. My thoughts aren't exactly palatable."

"His crimes can inspire extreme anger in anyone, though perhaps you are especially sensitive due to your background. It has been my experience that mainlanders, though poverty stricken in the material sense, have a far more reaching understanding of human needs. The supposedly progressive coastal populations tend to be far more conservative and hoarding in their sentiments, and it is always a source of surprise to me that the bulk of the United Main's settlements are ones with an ocean view. A harkening back to ocean trade routes, I assume, though the mainlands are not lacking in resources. I imagine it is the conceit of the eighteenth century still shaping our perceptions--Only the privileged are granted a view of the sea."

"The gorging of the coast, isn't that what the historians call it?"

"I suppose the lifestyle of our coastal cities appeals to our base, selfish nature. Would you like more wine?"

"Yes. And I agree with you, but it's just so strange to me, how after all this time mainlanders still have difficulty here. They can't...Adapt." Will frowned, struggling to find the words that fit his experience and coming up painfully empty. "I mean, it happened to me, I left the mainland and got into the police academy and ended up on the force in New Orleans, moving up the ranks to homicide within a couple of years. Maybe it was that kind of quick promotion that did it, I never had time to really think about where I was living, about how different the culture was. It bothers me still how much I have to just sit quiet while the elephant in the room keeps sitting between everything."

Hannibal took the last bite of his meal before finishing it off with a healthy sip of wine. He placed his knife and fork on the top of his plate, and Will, who was also finished, did the same. "What elephant would that be, Will?"

"The Omega one," Will said. He shook his head as Hannibal took away his plate. "Thank you, that was a lovely meal. Honestly, I've never had something so delicious, but then, I admit I'm all hot dogs and flapjacks when I'm left on my own."

"An unfortunate, unhealthy habit I must break you of, Will, and you must come to my home to share meals with me more often. As for Omegas, it is an issue that pervades every waking moment of our lives at present, thanks to the Ripper, and as an Alpha yourself I have to wonder why you find such empathy with the killer. You yourself have opted out of mating with a suitable Omega, and yet their plight is at the forefront of your mind at all times. As though you have a deeply personal stake in it."

Will sighed as Hannibal cleared their plates, quickly placing them in the sink before returning to his guest with the rest of the wine. He generously poured for both himself and Will. "I have made dessert, though perhaps we can wait on it. I've found the heart rather heavy."

"My mother was an Omega," Will said, taking up his glass, and losing himself in its dark, red hue, its resemblance to blood unsettling him. "She wasn't a mainlander, she was from a wealthy coastline family from New York and she was highly educated. She met my dad during a summer vacation trip with her family who thought it would be fun to see how the swamp people lived. I guess my dad was a real charmer back then." Will laughed at the very thought, and it wasn't the first time he wondered what his soft spoken, keenly intelligent mother had seen in the rough and tumble man who fixed boats for a living and survived on squirrels and shrimp. "Her family disowned her when they bonded, called her a whore, accused her of insanity. That tends to run in the family, I guess. Her father tried to get it annulled, said she could blame it on heat madness. She refused. Her own mother told her educating her was a huge mistake, it was a waste, and she should have been bonded off to someone more suitable at sixteen like the rest of her friends. She was in her twenties when she met my dad, and she told me the Alpha suitors stopped calling around the house because they assumed she wasn't virginal. Sullied Omegas aren't high on the bonding list."

"I imagine she felt quite adrift in this new, more inclusive world. Omegas are highly sensitive."

"No. I know it hurt her the way her family treated her, but when I see her in my memory I remember how she'd laugh, how she'd dance with my father in the muck, the black slime staining her up to her knees while she helped him haul out a stuck boat. She loved working with him, and the people in my grandmother's community loved her to pieces. We were always going to some celebration or other, someone getting bonded, or a baby being born. Even funerals were excuses to celebrate. Always a cause to have a party, that's the mainland way, and everyone is expected to attend. You don't have much to give, except yourself." Will closed his eyes and sadly sighed. "The work dried up, like it always did, and with me approaching school age, dad felt it necessary to provide for his family with a steadier paycheque. The only way to do that was to settle along the coast and, well, the freedom my mom had in the swamp disappeared overnight. Dad got a job in an auto plant and we had a little house on the sand on a Florida beach and there were lots of rich people who vacationed there who knew her parents. If they caught her sunning herself on the back porch, they'd report it and my father was threatened with jail time if he didn't keep her properly hidden. Omegas aren't to be seen at all in public according to Florida law, it's to 'protect' them from the possible violence of unbonded Alphas. I've never seen any evidence of that in my career, it's always the mates who do the most harm."

Hannibal clasped his hands beneath his chin, mulling over what Will told him. "That must have been a very difficult adjustment, to go from having limitless freedom to find oneself caged again."

"She got depressed," Will said, nodding. "She home schooled me, but she was smart and needed so much more. She stopped laughing. She completely shut down. One of my clearest memories of her is watching her sit against her bedroom window, staring out into the field behind our house. Never at the ocean. Her mind was desperately trying to get back to the land." Will's head shook. "One day, she stepped out of the house across the sand dunes and into the high tide. They found her body almost a mile down the coast. My father never forgave himself. He quit his job and hauled me back into the swamp and never looked back. When I told him I was going to New Orleans to become a cop he damned near disowned me himself and accused me of being in league with the murderous pricks who killed my mother." Will could feel his Cajun drawl seeping out of him, the bayou pulling on his memories, luring him back. "I sometimes wonder if he wasn't right. The world is so different here, I don't fit into it at all. I was hungry more times than I can count, but I miss that damp liberty."

"You aren't limited, Will," Hannibal reminded him. "As an Alpha you have full status in any portion of society."

"That's the biggest lie we tell ourselves," Will bitterly shot back. "The facts are we're only as good as the next Alpha babies we manufacture. The message from the Ripper is one about revolution, and I guess in many ways you and I have become sympathetic to that."

"Then why do we waste our time here, Will? Shall we pack it all in and head for the swamp, or the arid deserts, spending our days slicing open cacti for drinking water? The empty, vast prairies are calling us, Will. We shall pitch tents in the mountains."

Hannibal's playful dig at the unpopulated areas of the United Main earned him an eye roll. "I've managed to keep some of my origins alive at Wolf Trap. It's isolated enough, and the scarce locals are Appalacian expats who hate the coast. I'm mostly keeping myself out of this world of excess, Hannibal, and doing what I can to create a balance so I can do my job. Believe me, it's not easy to maintain, and I tend to slip more into mainland mentality than is comfortable for our friends at Quantico."

Hannibal smiled at this, and Will felt a sudden urge to ask probing questions, to demand to know of Hannibal's own background and how it came to be that someone as open minded to the culture of the mainland could come from such obvious old money. What he knew of the man was highly limited and based on the scant information he'd gleaned from Hannibal's office. He'd been born in Lithuania, to noble parents. He was orphaned at a young age and there a wide gap in his history appeared, though at some point he'd ended up in a boarding school in Paris at seventeen and then quickly earned his scholarship to the United Main. He once told Will he had a twin sister, named Mischa, and from the way Hannibal's eyes had misted over in wistful remembrance, Will edged away from further discussion of her, sensing the deep sorrow her loss had etched into the man.

But now he was curious, and with his own revelations placed in plain view, he made the fateful decision to plunge deeper into Hannibal's murky waters and asked, with his usual bluntness, "Why did you come here?"

Hannibal gave Will a warm smile at this, aimed over the rim of his wine glass. "Opportunity, of course. I have already a expressed a love of fine things, and the United Main offers the best method to obtain them. I am of noble birth, as you know, but it is not the crux of my wealth, I came here with nothing more than a determination to make my education work for me. Lithuania's economy had collapsed during my family's hasty exit, and though the Lecter castle remains, I have heard it has mostly descended into ruins."

"Coming here wasn't about money," Will said, knowing well that Hannibal was of that class where such things weren't spoken of, that it was crass to mention nickels and dimes. "The truth is, you have no interest in any of the objects you have accumulated. You enjoy them for the temporary gifts they are. If this house burned down, you wouldn't rescue a thing."

Hannibal grinned widely at this, revealing the small, sharp teeth that were usually hidden beneath his soft lips. "Is it your turn to analyze me, Will?"

"An observation," Will carefully said. "You didn't come here to be a success, your exodus was solely based on survival."

They were leaning close to one another, the dim light of the dining room accentuating the deep, almost feminine lines of Hannibal's cheeks and the shape of his face, making Will's own scraggly beard and unkempt hair all the more feral in the half light. Hannibal, at the head of the table and Will, close beside him to his right, their knees nearly touching. In this close proximity, Will could see the small, red line, the scar an inch in length and near the centre of Hannibal's throat. Curious, Will touched it, the rough texture of it proving it had been an especially cruel cut, one that had healed over and had been reopened more than once.

His uncertain, darting gaze met Hannibal's steady, concentrated scrutiny, his maroon eyes betraying something akin to fear. His lips were partially open, and Will could feel the heat of his breath on his cheek, a shivery, fragile thing. How easy it would be, Will knew, to just lean that tiny millimetre closer and steal that uneasy exhale with his mouth...

"It's time for dessert," Hannibal said, hastily pulling back and dispelling the strange moment, leaving Will feeling disoriented. If it had made Hannibal uncomfortable, he was polite enough not to show it and he was cheerful as he escaped into his kitchen, proudly describing the dessert they were about to enjoy. "Poached pears in mulled wine with creme fraiche and a swirl of raspberry confit. A delightful way to enjoy the fruits of summer during the harsh misery of winter. It is a reminder, that pleasant days are set to return." He placed the bowl with gracious pomp before Will and then settled with his own. "Please, Will," Hannibal said, bidding him to take note of it. "Enjoy it."

Will blinked and shakily took up a spoon, digging into the soft pears with a distracted air that belied his sudden shock at himself. It was sweet and aromatic, the cloying aroma of cloves lurking on his tongue after every bite.

"Are you familiar, Will, with Caravaggio's 'Sisyphus Bonding Death'? It is an especially poignant piece, given what we have been discussing as of late, the myth offering an oddly comforting message. As you know, the myth states that King Sisyphus avoided death by seducing and bonding himself to him, only to be punished by Zeus for the unkindness of his treachery, who removed the bond and ordered Thanatos to kill him. But Thanatos loved Sisyphus, and refused to bring him to Hades. So Zeus, citing paternal love for the needs of Thanatos, allowed Sisyphus his eternal life but forced him to live out eternity pushing a boulder up a massive hill only for it to roll back down in an infinite exercise in futility."

Will nodded, knowing the art piece he was referring to well. "The myth further says that Sisyphus is given a reprieve twice a year to satisfy the longing of Thanatos, which is easily interpreted as his heat cycle. As the god of death and as a male Omega, he does not have the ability to create life. Their periodic union is equally futile."

"Barren, apparently, though there is modern evidence this may not entirely be the case. Male Omegas have perfectly functioning uteruses. They have significantly higher rates of miscarriages, however, giving the misconception that they are unable to be impregnated."

"In any event, they're not having children. It's an adequate punishment for such a brutal king," Will added. "Sisyphus murdered guests, committing a serious crime against xenia. I have to feel sorry for Thanatos, however, who doesn't seem to be getting much out of that bargain." Will raised a brow and his wine glass to Hannibal. "Sisyphus was a misanthropic asshole."

"I wouldn't say that is true of Thanatos at all," Hannibal said, digging into the pears by slicing them with the edge of his spoon, and devouring its sweetness before continuing. "The god of death can hardly hope to find a mate, and yet Thanatos has made an arrangement in his favour. The imagining of Caravaggio is that twice a year Sisyphus gains his reprieve, and how much more pleasure can there be than to cast aside one's burdens in order to entertain the needs of a willing lover. One wonders how often Sisyphus must think of those times of year when he no longer need push that boulder up the hill, to lose himself instead in warm arms embracing him. In that context it is no longer a myth describing futility. It becomes an allegory of endurance meeting reward."

"So is that a hint as to why the United Main held such an interest for you, enough to immigrate here? You align yourself with the brutal King Sisyphus, who suffers in vain, and you gain this temporary reprieve on foreign shores." Will frowned and took a sip of wine, liking how the sour notes rolled past the sweetness still lingering on his tongue. "Or are you more Thanatos, forever surrounded by destruction until you can take leave of it, and allow a brute like Sisyphus to ravage you?"

Hannibal licked his lips before taking up his glass of wine and emptying it. "The painting is currently on display at the Baltimore Opera House, on loan from the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. I have not yet had an opportunity to view it."

Dessert was finished and Hannibal took away their empty plates, leaving them discreetly in the sink to be washed up later, and quickly dismissing Will's attempts to help clean up. It had been, despite the small social faux pas on Will's part, a highly pleasant evening and one that he was eager to tuck into that happy place of memories, somewhere in between fishing on the river on his Wolf Trap property and rainy days spent pouring over his grandmother's art books. Hannibal bid Will to accompany him into the atrium, where the harpsichord waited with a benign, opulent patience for Hannibal to sit on the bench and stroke its smooth, white keys.

"The harpsichord can be highly disharmonious in the wrong hands," Hannibal said, and fussed through several sheets of music until he settled on one that Will recognized had Hannibal's careful calligraphy inked on it. He bit the inside of his cheek again and tried not to let his mirth show. He really did have the man pegged.

"Your own composition," Will said, shaking his head. "There's nothing you can't do."

"I am sure you are not lacking in talents, Will. Do you play any musical instruments?"

"I do," Will said, and Hannibal gave him a curious look at this. "The piano. My mother was quite the talent, but I'm afraid I'm limited in my classical repertoire. My grandmother was a ragtime fan and most of my practice involved Scott Joplin over Beethoven."

"I would love to hear it."

"Scoot over, and I'll prove it."

Amused, Hannibal shifted to the other end of the bench, and Will sat close beside him, his own calloused fingers arranged over the keys in suspenseful readiness as his arm brushed against Hannibal's chest. Their close proximity sent a sense of calm through Will, and he found he wasn't embarrassed by his talents as he usually was when a spontaneous performance was demanded of him. "I don't imagine the person who made this harpsichord ever expected it to be abused in this way, but...Here goes..."

He launched into a rendition of 'Pineapple Rag' which turned out better on the harpsichord than he'd anticipated, the shivering notes of the instrument complimenting the usual out of tune timbre of the pianos that ragtime was typically performed on. Its infectious, upbeat tune sent a wave of good feeling through the more serious space, adding a layer of confidence to Will's playing that made him hit the notes in jerking playfulness, his shoulders rolling with the cheerful rhythm. Hannibal laughed as he finished the piece with a tinkling flourish, and insisted Will must visit again if only to bring such unexpected life into the grateful harpsichord, which was only now remembering its baroque leanings. Will assured Hannibal that he would bring his grandmother's old playbook, and he'd bang out a few cakewalks.

Hannibal leaned over him to reach for his own music sheets that were set on the edge of the harpsichord. He didn't know why or how it had happened, only that his body was working of its own accord and before he was conscious of his actions he slid his arms around Hannibal's waist and pulled him close, kissing him deeply.

In reflection, Will could still feel how light and hollow Hannibal's bones felt, the sinewy muscle tense beneath his touch. But those lips and that mouth, so sweet in how they tasted, and Will was still hungry as he explored them, taking great pleasure in the way Hannibal melted beneath him, his tongue tentatively searching along Will's ravishment.

He let out a small gasp as he pulled away, shocked at what he had done. Hannibal was speechless, his eyes wide, that beautiful mouth panting slightly in mute surprise. Will tore himself away, horrified with himself for having ended what had been a perfect evening between friends like this, and that was what Hannibal was, that elusive thing that had been so difficult for him to find, that deep and loving *friend*...And this was his self destruct button going into overdrive, destroying that which made him happy, because Will Graham wasn't supposed to find happiness, Will Graham was a miserable, poor, angry Alpha mainlander with a dead Omega mother and the world didn't fit him, not even a little.

He kissed another Alpha. His chemistry was seriously messed up. He'd fucked up this friendship, it couldn't be repaired after a stupid, stupid stunt like that, he was sure of it.

"Hannibal...I'm...I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..."

Hannibal's voice was weak, as though he couldn't catch his breath. "Will..."

"I...I'm going to go."

Will grabbed his coat and practically ran out of Hannibal's house, the door slamming behind him, his hands shaking as he jumped into the driver's seat and put the key into the ignition. He peeled onto the main road, eager to get back to Wolf Trap and away from this night, away from the vibration of that kiss still haunting his lips and away from the nagging, insistent and utterly wrong memory that Hannibal, a fellow Alpha, had *returned* it.