after the fall, hannibal finds that the heat in their new home country was a cumbersome thing, his sweat addled body sticking and attaching itself to the breezy clothes he adorns; even the softest of silks feel as if sand paper is aggrieved down his spine, the feel of his flesh becoming abused and sore as the day wears on.
hannibal find solace in the night, when there are no witnesses and his flesh is bared for the wind, as slight as it may be; he spends hours on the parapet with his back to the moon, his head swaying with a drunken relief.
on this night, the moon offers her face, but there is no wind and hannibal suffers all the more for it, leaving early in the evening for his room, throwing the windows open, needing the relief only dusk could bring.
with the healing comes the regrettable bodily trauma. flesh that remembers it’s offenders name, a mouth that doesn’t scream and eyes that don’t leak. hannibal is an old pro at this game, he knows silence like an old lover. he returns to it eagerly, comforted that his pain is no longer brimming over as it was on the boat, uncontainable and volatile.
thoughts of the boat allure will graham from the shadows of his mind, building him into a tangible, living thing until he sees him among the limp curtains. an unsure outline of a man will once was. younger.
the treacherous open - wound of his expression invites will from the shadows until he sees that it isn’t the will he often conjures in times of great strife; it’s his will graham, scarred and beautiful, a balm to hannibal’s weary soul.
under the moon, will’s eyes are silver and pooling like liquid starlight. hannibal swings his leg from over the railing, giving him his full attention, silently welcoming him with large, exhausted eyes.
a lil thing for @decaynoir because u know why
