and that's when understanding reaches Hannibal's face. he doesn't say anything, though. Will tells him one of his patients paid him a visit. Hannibal asks who, "Margot Verger", Will says and god, he is exhausted, he's so fucking over the edge, it feels like he's standing on a hill and watching as the world moves around and he doesn't even notice that he's falling, and when he does is too late, he's five feet deep. He breathes in those dark, murky waters. "and, and" he laughs, mostly to himself, "she, she kissed me, and I—I had to reject a beautiful woman because of this, this fucking thing, this, this sorrow," he's spilling words like it's drowning him and he needs to cough it out, he needs to hear them in his own voice, to feel the shape of them in the room and how it changes the temperature. "Will," Hannibal is looking at him, and looking around. "I think Margot was using you," he says. Reality tries to come back in but it's still hazy—he swallows. "Wha—what, what do you mean using me?". He holds on to the sink, it's cold and it grounds him a little. "She insinuated during therapy that she would try to get pregnant." The sink isn't enough anymore and Will feels the edges of his vision tease him with darkness. His hands are rough as he runs them down his face. "She's a lesbian, Will." Ah fuck, no no no. "Yes, I know but, but, it wasn't about that, it wasn't about sex, we were, we were just trying to, I don't know, she wasn't feeling good, I wasn't feeling good—we were just—what, so, it's so fucking crazy that someone would want to be with me that the only explanation is—", "that is not...Will. As attractive as you are, I don't think she'd drive hours in the middle of the night to have sex with a stranger, don't you think it's too much?". He's angry, Hannibal is. Impatient. Fuck, Will either thinks or says. "She's trying to secure her inheritance," Hannibal adds, moving carefully closer to Will, now. Steady hands on his shoulder, "I think it's enough for now," he takes the bottle of whiskey away from Will's hand. "I am striken by grief," he hears himself whispering into the air around them, that small space left between them, that achingly minuscule emptiness between who he is and who Hannibal is. "Grief has made a home inside of me," Hannibal says, looking at Will's lips. His eyes are maroon. Maroon and desolate.