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#Hannigram #shortstory #Hannibal
There are times when words are not able to express what we want. Either because they are not enough, or for fear of not being heard. There are times, even, when words are able to break through that thin layer of ethereal feeling; those feelings that are known to exist, but not yet strong enough to be named out loud.
Words are still at that last point. But Hannibal has another, more private, way of expressing what he feels. He draws. His fingers draw lines instead of his lips phrases. Hannibal draws and his inner world takes shape before the eyes of those who know how to look.
Would Will know, see, if he knew about his sketches?
He sighs. Will rests in the armchair in his consulting room. He doesn't want to wake him up and miss the opportunity. For once Hannibal watches Will carefully, unhurriedly, retaining every minute detail for himself. His face, at peace. His hair tossed on the pillow, curls everywhere. His blue eyes, closed, moving inwardly in what Hannibal hopes is a good dream. With him, if possible. He smiles. There is no tension in Will's jaw, something Hannibal is so used to seeing when he comes to his office. There is no frown, no stray glances that Hannibal tries to catch to guide her back down to earth, back to his side. None of that exists.
Hannibal draws and his inner world expands, leaving a part of him outside. Through his pencils Hannibal smiles, shows pity, anger. Through them, he loves.
And Will dreams. And Will breathes quietly, unaware that on the other side, in the real world, there is a man who sighs as he draws him, longing one day to be able to look at the same point. For Will is as lonely as Hannibal, and Hannibal knows that with each other they would face that loneliness which, to him at least, is looking harder and harder.
When Hannibal draws Will, the weight of his heart lightens a little. True, it soon fills up again, yearning for Will, always for Will. But during that space of time, it can lift a little. Expressing love through drawing is her way of feeling free with Will.
He lifts her gaze. Will shifts slightly. Hold on a little longer, honey, I'm almost done, he thinks.
Will sleeping. Will standing in his office. Will in the hospital bed. Will, naked, even though he's never seen him before. He keeps them all safe, one day he'll be able to show them to him, even give them to him. At least that's what he wishes.
He smiles, satisfied, at the last line.
- Can I move now?
Will's voice, almost a whisper, makes him stagger a little, sitting as he is.
- Hannibal.
He nods, saying nothing. He looks at Will, uncovered, wondering if maybe this would be a good time for words to take centre stage.
- Do you know, he asks.
Will blinks. The corners of his lips turn up in a slight smile, faint as the flutter of a butterfly.
- I've always known. You can keep drawing me, if you want, and I can keep pretending not to notice. Or - he looks at him - we can talk.
- Talk?
- About you, Hannibal. About me. About us.
Us. A magic word in any situation that comes up in life. We means together, it means togetherness. It means strength to face the rest.
Hannibal rests his pencil on the paper, on the drawing of a Will who will eternally remain asleep. He turns and looks at the young man, their gazes meeting, creating a bridge between the two, waiting to see who starts walking across it first.
- What do you know, Will?
- That your drawings are full of fear, but also... love.
- Love. A deep feeling.
- As are your drawings, Hannibal. Look at me. Do I seem so unattainable to you? You paint me as an illusion, perfect, when I'm full of imperfections.
Hannibal sings inwardly. This is all poetry.
- Not to me. To me you are art, Will Graham.
Will sits up, sitting on the couch. His fingers begin to unbutton his shirt.
- Draw my imperfections, Hannibal. I want you to see me as I am. Every scar, every wrinkle. Just me, without the imagination between us. I want the truth.
Hannibal returns his gaze to the paper. He pulls Will's drawing aside, puts down another blank sheet of paper and looks at the young man again. Naked, in the same position as when he slept.
This time, Hannibal's heart does not falter. This time, his fingers don't have to prove anything. The truth dances around the room, moves freely and, as it passes Hannibal's side, a gentle nudge forces him to react. You're here, with Will, for Will. You may never be alone again.
