Chapter Text
“Tell me Will, are you interested in music?” Hannibal asks. It is late, at the conclusion of another evening in his office when philosophy, psychology and the macabre have exhausted themselves as topics and therefore all that remains is comfortable silence. “Classical music, and opera specifically.” He is standing by the drinks cabinet tucked at the back of the room, a small secret in a room that has known many small secrets, a confidence he shares with those rare individuals who excite his interest – or his taste-buds. He pours himself a measure of scotch, offers one to Will. It is refused, as expected. Will does not like anything that might cause him to loosen the tenuous grip he maintains on his own control.
“I’m afraid the area isn’t my specialty,” Will replies. “I’m sure you’ve drawn your own conclusions about my social background.”
“Jack did provide me with certain information about you before we met,” Hannibal says. He drinks, savouring the notes of peat, oak and heather of a 25 year old Laphroig. In this, as with all else that goes into his body, he will accept only the finest. In this case the lower end of finest, but the more select spirits are kept with his wines at home, saved for special occasions. “I ask because I recently happened to acquire two tickets to Verdi’s Macbeth this weekend.”
Will’s eyes flick upwards, meeting his for the briefest of moments. “That sounds... nice. But busy?”
“I assure you one does not have to converse with the other patrons at these events.” For which he can be thankful. Even though opera does tend to draw a more cultured crowd, overdrawn exposure to the herd can still be tiring. He does not fault Will his social phobia at all.
“Then yes. I appreciate the chance to get out of the house.” Half a grimace. Dear Will can be so self-depreciating at times. A habit he will have to wean him out of. “Not good for me to stay too cooped up. Lets things fester.”
“Then I hope I can offer you a chance to air out that magnificent brain of yours.”
----
The opera itself is perfectly passable. Quite an adequate rendition, considering the expertise of the company and the quality of the pool of talent they have to draw from. That is not the problem with the evening.
Things begin satisfactorily enough. He and Will take their seats, the lights are dimmed, and the first act begins. That the opera is in Italian only means that he has an excuse to lean over and whisper details of this particular production into Will’s ear – he will not make assumptions as to his familiarity with Shakespeare. Hannibal is not familiar with the Louisiana state school system, but he would not have high expectations of it. To a certain extent it is irrelevant; he would take the opportunity to be close to Will either way. To put him off his guard, certainly. To cement the bonds of friendship, equally, but even for the unique specimen of humanity that he is, there is something about Will that is particularly alluring. Whether it is the intriguing mixture of strength and frailty that predicts he will fracture in such interesting ways when pushed, or the potential for wanton violence that Hannibal intends to draw out of him, he can’t deny that Will Graham is more interesting alive than dead.
Also it has been a long time since he last had sexual relations with someone without devouring them afterwards. It will be interesting to see how that variable affects the emerging picture that is the relationship between them.
Alas, things begin to go awry as the second act draws to a close with the banquet and Banco’s ghost. It is well done; the atmosphere is close and claustrophobic, as much as the medium allows. Macbeth’s fear is almost palpable. But he feels Will become tense and still beside him. His eyes are far away, seeing something else. One of his own ghosts, no doubt. Under other circumstances Hannibal would be pleased at this turn of events, at this clear evidence of the cracks in Will’s façade, of the darkness beginning to seep through the walls of his forts. This is not good timing. He was enjoying this evening, enjoying murmuring his commentary and enjoying Will’s bright-eyed interest. No. This might make Will more susceptible to his plan down the line, but it will not do for tonight.
“Will,” he says, with a gentle hand on Will’s arm. Then when this is ineffective, his fingers find the tender part of the thigh just above the knee and apply pressure. Hard. Will jerks and turns to look at him, blinking as if rising from a deep sleep.
“I... I’m sorry. I just...”
“There is no need to apologise. These most recent cases have been trying for you. It was unreasonable of me to expect the themes of this work not to dredge up similar memories. Perhaps you would prefer to leave?”
“It’s more unreasonable to spoil your evening – you paid for the tickets,” Will replies. He is a little pale, but the colour is returning to his complexion.
Still, Hannibal disagrees with his assessment. Having happened on one occasion it is more likely to repeat itself, and that would spoil the evening more than leaving entirely. He has seen iterations of this opera before. This was meant to be for Will’s edification, and if he is not in any state to appreciate it they should not waste time here.
“I insist,” he says, and so they make their way out of the building, careful of course not to disturb the other patrons. That would be rude.