#verse; chrysalide (hxs)

[il-mostrc]

There was no easing a burn.

Even the movement of air triggered the nerve endings that were damaged to flare and trigger the body's response to pain. At the time, Hannibal refused to let Mason and his lackeys see the pain that riddled just under the surface of his expressions. Hannibal could disperse pain if he knew it would be implemented on him. The near meditation-like state of mind allowed him to retract his senses, lost in the inky blackness of the many rooms. Lawrence was in quite a few of them now; he visited him then while words of a slow death were whispered in his ear.

With eyes closed, he lifted his head from the resting side position, balancing his chin on his forearm. The new sensation of Lawrence's (@bloodypuzzle) fingers drew him from those memory doors, his senses returning to a soft voice of reason. His head was lifted, causing those fingertips to comb through deeper.

"No."

Trophies were what psychopaths used for gratification. While Hannibal harvested organs only for consumption, he found this brand on his body a part of his life. A ground reminder of what he had endured to close out the thought of a future free of anything else. There was a future that he intended to aim for. They worked in unison to bring down the King of Pigs. This was their triumph. Hannibal doesn't go into much detail as to why he'd rather keep it on his body.

Lifting himself, he perches on the edge of the gurney. They found their time spent in this basement starting to invade their life more and more. This is where the disposal of Lawrence's victims was sent. This is where the harvesting was made.

And this was where the wounds were licked with one another.

A hand reaches up to grab Lawrence's wrist, bringing the knuckles to graze the surface of his lips. "I'm fine, Lawrence."

A smile. Lawrence knows his own words.

Lawrence had asked Hannibal to lay on his stomach. It was easier this way. A quick wash with sterile saline solution, a few gentle pats with a clean towel, and a fresh square of non - stick bandage. He cleaned the angry wound on his husband almost mechanically, blue eyes narrowed behind his glasses. Once he was finished, he set his crude equipment on the nightstand. Lawrence's fingers returned to Hannibal's back, following the fluid muscle of it up to Hannibal's neck. "I could cut it out," he finally said, voice soft. His fingertips wormed their way into Hannibal's loose hair and began to leisurely play with it. "I have done far larger on my players and sewn it successfully. At the very least . . . " Lawrence's voice broke for a moment, but he moved past it by clearing his throat. "It would not be difficult to remove the name." So no one would ever know, he would say. That was the polite answer, but they both knew the real one. Lawrence hated the fact that someone else had marked this body, this temple at which he made his professional and personal offerings — and Verger's brand was far more permanent than anything that Lawrence had ever done, even in their most passionate exchanges. The ring on Hannibal's finger could only soothe so much.

[il-mostrc]

Lawrence placed his cane to the side as he next to Hannibal on the sofa, bundled up in a thick sweater and cardigan. He held his glass of champagne against his crossed knees while he seemed to think for a moment. As always, his unoccupied hand sought out his husband — this time, he placed it on Hannibal's thigh. Lawrence instinctively leaned into the older man, eliminating any last pesky space that existed between them.

"2025," he murmured. Lawrence then cleared his throat and looked at Hannibal, blue eyes partially covered by the evening gloom and the edge of his glasses. "I am not usually sentimental about a new year, but . . . " He chuckled. "This one will mark fifteen that we have been married. Almost, what — thirty - five or forty ?? since we met ?? "

Lawrence's fingers stroked Hannibal's leg absently. A brow arched as he sipped his champagne. "Would you humor me with a drive in the Fury after dinner, darling ?? One last trip before 2024 comes to a close."

Lawrence was the sole family member of Hannibal. Typically, Hannibal reveled in the diverse cultural celebrations that accompanied the New Year. He found himself particularly drawn to the French customs, where one would gather for an elaborate feast, indulging in culinary pleasures until the early hours of dawn. However, in recent years, he had adopted a more intimate approach, one concentrated solely on the companionship of Lawrence. This arrangement suited him well, as it allowed them to focus entirely on each other.

On this occasion, Hannibal cradled a delicate flute glass in his hand, the soft melodies of a classical piece wafting gently through the air from the victrola nestled in the corner of the room. He had planned to perform a composition he had been diligently refining, always cherishing the opportunity to play for Lawrence during these calm evenings. Their journey together had been long and woven with intricacies, leading Hannibal to indulge in a playful banter regarding the divergent decisions he had made along the way.

"Could have been more…" he mused with a playful smile, bringing the flute to his lips for a moment as he savored a small sip of the bubbly liquid. "I wouldn’t change anything," he added with confidence. Their lives had unfolded beautifully, and he took comfort in this realization.

As the prospect of a night ride emerged, Hannibal turned to gaze at Lawrence, his interest piqued. “Really?” he asked, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Winter is typically a season when The Fury is put into hibernation. You are offering a most rare gift tonight.” A smile danced upon his lips. “Perhaps we could find a vantage point to watch the fireworks as well. That would mark a deviation from our usual traditions.”

By now, Hannibal had come to understand the nuances of Lawrence’s love language — the way his hands often reached out for physical connection, even amidst moments of sharp words. It was irony that Hannibal's profession as a surgeon demanded precision with a scalpel, engaging in interactions that involved touch and incision. Yet, it was Lawrence who found ways to bridge the gap between them through affectionate gestures.

At this moment, Hannibal covered Lawrence’s hand with his own with a grasping light squeeze. "Let's make a memory."

[il-mostrc]

Hannibal was not a man who relied on tools or instruments for his destruction. Unlike his companion Lawrence (@bloodypuzzle), who meticulously orchestrated his chaos with elaborate contraptions designed to ensnare and manipulate others, Hannibal thrived in the raw intensity of the moment.

His methods were rooted in the unpredictable flow of opportunity. While he might lay the groundwork with subtle distractions—a car that had been mysteriously tampered with, engine sputtering ominously at the side of the road, or the quiet, patient pursuit of his target, stalking them through the shadows until the perfect moment presented itself—Hannibal's true artistry lay in the element of surprise.

He reveled in the thrill of the unexpected, crafting his plans not with the precision of a mechanic, but with the instinct of a predator, aware that the best-laid schemes could often be rewritten in the blink of an eye. In his world, chaos was not an accident; it was an invitation, a canvas waiting for the bold strokes of a master.

He did enjoy Lawrence's take on things. Even if some were ridiculous. He'd never understand the significance of the cloak and pig's head, but he kept it as an endearing trait that Lawrence holds. It is here, when he's concentrated on one of those contraptions that he can stand and reveal in the intricate cogs that Lawrence creates for his machinery of destruction.

He likes it when he curses. Lawrence was an emotional creature, unlike himself at times. It was one of his strong points and one thing that Hannibal loved about him.

The sharp, relentless menace of the machine almost severed Lawrence's fingers, causing a harsh click of disapproval from his tongue, echoing like a distant warning just behind the other Doctor. "It's bad enough that an inordinate number of animated dolls clutter this place," he continued, shaking his head with a slice of disdain. "You genuinely emanate those chilling horror movie vibes, Lawrence." This time, there's a curl of a smile.

His hand settles on Lawrence's shoulder, fingers squeeze into the muscle. "I may be a Doctor but I have no desire to sew your limbs back on if you managed to sever them yourself." Hannibal could smell the blood on the trap, all the different layers of aging. What was it with him not cleaning up gadgets and clothing alike?

"Come, humor me with a coffee break."

Lawrence hadn't heard Hannibal enter the room. He was simply too engrossed. In front of him sat, perhaps, his most treasured possession : the rust - colored, grisly looking apparatus that had become rather crudely referred to as ' the reverse bear trap ' among his kind. Amanda, Mark, and Jill's blood were all embedded in the metal ; in spite of its damaged state, it was still beautiful to Lawrence. A holy relic, as much as his robes and the [ filthy, red - stained ] pig mask. Some little clock ticked away the seconds — and then abruptly stopped. Lawrence hissed out a curse through his teeth. He lifted his gloved hand from the table and stretched his fingers toward the bear trap. Suddenly, it whined. With enough force to shake the furniture, the instrument of execution sprang open. Only a hair from Lawrence's fingertips, but he didn't react to the potential danger. Instead, he grinned at the way the soft mimicry of flesh and bone that the bear trap sat on was ripped open. Pale jelly and plastic rods spilled out onto the table. For a moment, Lawrence laid his palm on the bear trap and did not move. The sense of reverence in the action was undeniable.

[il-mostrc]

Diana had made her deposit thrice without her father's knowledge. Hannibal's chequered woolen coat with navy blues and browns blended well with the collection of trinkets that were starting to fill the pockets. Leaves of varying colors, not yet crisp from the depleted moisture in the air, are settled down with slick rocks. They would be deposited in her father's (@bloodypuzzle) hands before the day ended.

As soon as the child was away from her father, she wrapped her arms around Hannibal's long, slender legs, removing his ability to step any further. Carefully kneeling, he retrieved some of the wet leaves she had given him, twisting them tightly until he fashioned a bracelet vibrate with the colors of fall. It dangled around her thin wrist, a treasure made from her own findings.

"One for sorrow, Two for joy, Three for a girl, Four for a boy, Five for silver, Six for gold, Seven for a secret never to be told." A smile was brought on and, in turn, shared with her with an echoing giggle bouncing off the walls of a nearby tunnel. "That is the magpie poem." He opted for the less sinister version of such folklore lyrics.

And it was then that Diana was given the title of Little Magpie. One that traveled with her long after her years of pocketing leaf litter in pockets of her beloved.

Lawrence stopped talking to Hannibal as Diana returned with yet another deposit for his pocket. It was fall, and, in spite of the cool temperature, they had opted for a walk. The five - year - old in front of him beamed as she offered her latest prizes : vibrant leaves, slick with moisture from the rain ; interesting rocks ; and a few beetle shells. Lawrence patted the pocket of his long coat, showing that he intended to keep the items safe. He noted that Diana still had more in her hands - and his confused quickly turned into an attempt not to laugh when the little girl rounded on Hannibal, searching for a place on his person to do the same. She giggled with her collection outstretched. "Sweetheart." Lawrence quickly bent lower, grabbing her shoulders to steer her back toward him. "Here, Diana. Daddy still has plenty of room on the other side, and ---" He cleared his throat and spared a glance out of the corner of his eye at Hannibal. "Your uncle doesn't come home with us, remember ?? I would hate for you to miss your acorn tops." Another effort to quell his amusement was stifled with a kiss to her unruly curls.

[il-mostrc]

Lawrence did not often borrow Hannibal's kitchen, as he called the act of cooking in what had become their home. It was only ever for special occasions, such as today. Hannibal returned to the house in the midst of a soft snowfall — a perfect backdrop for the smell of baking dough and mixed spices that greeted him inside of the door.

At the sight of Hannibal, Lawrence paused the old Ozzy album playing on his phone. Spread out in front of him were dishes with cleaned fruit ; a homemade syrup with nutmeg and cinnamon ; and cooling racks of finished palm - sized pies with stars baked on top of them.

The oncologist washed his hands, dried them off, and then offered one of his cooled creations to his husband. Lawrence's version of the dessert was far more savory than sweet, even with the customary dusting of powdered sugar on top. While Lawrence was not nearly as gifted as Hannibal in the kitchen, he did enjoy himself — and it was clear he was capable of far more than cheap ramen packets when it suited him.

"I used a greater amount of strawberries this year and less raspberries," Lawrence said, moving back. He smiled. "What are your thoughts, darling ?? "

During this season the demands of his patients were greater than ever, often prompting the addition of new clients to his roster. The decision to continue their sessions post-holidays remained uncertain, as this time of year could often prove isolating for many individuals. Yet, for Hannibal, there was a comforting relief in returning home late in the evening to be greeted by the resplendent wreath that Lawrence had carefully selected. He paused at the threshold, allowing a deep breath to fill his lungs, his eyes closing momentarily to shed the burdens of the day. Only when he had tucked away the events of the evening did he walk through the theshold of his house.

The senses were greeted with the aroma of baking goods and spice and instantly Hannibal held a smile on his face as snowflakes that nestled on his coat and hair started to melt with the warmth of the house. Lawrence always kept it warmer than he would ever establish.

Upon entering, he was enveloped by the irresistible aromas of baked goods and warm spices, which filled the air and elicited an involuntary smile. Snowflakes that had settled on his coat and hair, began to thaw in the inviting warmth of the house. Lawrence always kept it warmer than he would have chosen himself.

The only thing breaking the enchanting atmosphere was the sound of heavy rock emanating from the kitchen. He tilted his head to the side, that sliding grin returning. “How is it that you embrace the holiday spirit with such music?” he asked, amusement lacing his tone. Nevertheless, he took a moment to sample the delightful array of savory treats that adorned the counter, closing his eyes to savor the flavors before reopening them.

“Labai gerai,” Hannibal remarked in his native tongue, appreciating the strawberries for their remarkable sweetness and velvety texture. Aware that Lawrence did not seek a detailed explanation regarding the qualities of the berries, he instead drew him closer by the apron that cinched around his frame, bestowing a gentle kiss upon his lips. “Exquisite, dėkoju,” he expressed with genuine appreciation, maintaining his embrace. “A perfect conclusion to the day. Well… perhaps,” he added with a charming wink.

"The apron suits you rather well. Perhaps you should consider spending more time in the kitchen." Moving away from Lawrence and releasing him from his grip, he had already begun to reach for the wine glasses, carefully placing them wherever there was available space. A light dusting of flour adorned Lawrence's cheek, prompting him to lean in, his smile warm, as he gently brushed his thumb against it. "Even amidst the mess."

[il-mostrc]

Hannibal had never been one to join in the festivities of his other schoolmates. They all knew how his taste for wine far outnumbered the draft beer they ordered for the table and how acute his smell was when it came to the dive bars that they frequented. He had opened the door only to take a few steps back, only to have Lawrence (@bloodypuzzle) incredulously shoved in his direction for him to gather in his arms. He could distinguish from the smell alone that he had far too many drinks.

Hannibal sneered as the raucous laughter of the other young lads abruptly halted, swallowed by the thunderous slam of the door, which he had kicked shut with a forceful thrust of his foot. His arms were too occupied with Lawrence, who fumbled in them and lamented his own disdain towards those they call 'friends.' Hannibal opened his mouth to rebuke, only to quickly close it upon feeling Lawrence's tightness against him and the heat of his body, as the warning signs were evident. He was ready to expel all that he consumed.

"No, you don't!" He wasn't going to have to clean up the floor ... AGAIN. Grabbing Lawrence by the back of the neck, he directed him to the nearest sink in the room-- the kitchen.

Hannibal crossed his arms, turning his back towards the kitchen counter while he waited for Lawrence to finish up in the sink. “I can’t fathom why you keep associating with them,” he said, his voice laced with frustration. “This happens every single time. It’s as if they’re utterly incapable of enjoying themselves without dragging you down to this dismal level.” He opened his palm wide in an expressive gesture, inviting attention to the sorry state that Lawrence had found himself in—a cascade of disheveled hair and the remnants of a night gone awry.

The fumbling of keys and inevitable knock on the door of their dorm announced Lawrence's return — or, rather, the return of Lawrence, although in much poorer condition than when he had left. His friends muttered their apologies through inebriated smiles as the blonde was thrust through the entrance. Shirt untucked ; the smell of several dive bars wreathed around him ; skin flushed and kissed with sweat ; and feet clearly unable to communicate with his brain. Lawrence stumbled forward. Almost instinctively, he fell into the front of his sturdy roommate. The room swam, and Lawrence was forced to curl his fingers into Hannibal's shoulders to keep his knees from buckling. Were he sober, he would have cursed the moment of weakness that the other students briefly glimpsed. Slowly, their door closed. Lawrence's keys glittered on the floor. "Fuck them," Lawrence hissed through his teeth, forehead pressed to Hannibal's shirt. "Not you, though." He seemed adamant that Hannibal was not meant to be included in his disdain. Lawrence's stomach flipped, and something similar to a growl escaped his throat. "You should move . . . I'm going to throw up."

[il-mostrc]

Hannibal sweeps Lawrence's (@bloodypuzzle) side, just over his shoulder as he tips the nozzle of wine to his glass. The robust red paired well with the meal tonight (or rather the person tonight.) A smile spreads across his face, slanted and genuine, as Lawrence invites what Hannibal would do to him (in a culinary sense.) The meal that was presented to him tonight was a technician, a rather rude one at that. His business card was shredded and placed in the rubbish later. It had served its purpose in the rolodex of the rude.

He can pick up Lawrence's cologne and the splash of his aftershave with this proximity. There's also a detection of what he did today- oil, grease.. the ingredients of tinkering. Whether it was with his contraptions or his prized red car itself. With the bottle back on the table, he unlatches the buttons to his suit and takes his seat across from him.

"Je mangerais ton coeur," Another edge of a smile, he lifts his glass to him. "It would be in the fashion of coeur de boeuf. Deliciously prepared warm surrounded by a bordeaux cognac sauce.." He takes a sip of wine, almost crestfallen it does not share the flavor of the brandy he was mentioning.

"You'd taste exquisite, my dear. Truly an mouth watering affair." His tongue sweeps the bottom tier of his lip.

Lawrence stopped eating for a moment. He sipped his wine before he spoke. On the end of his fork was a bite of meat. Perfectly prepared, of course. The oncologist knew that it had come from an arm, though he was not sure which of their victims the limb once belonged to. That made him smile, and Lawrence's eyes looked over at Hannibal. "Tell me, darling," he said softly. "If it were me, on one of your slabs down there - how would you do it ?? Prepare me, serve me. I am . . . curious." Lawrence took the meat between his teeth then and savored it. He looked forward to Hannibal's meals ; nowadays, he consumed his fellow man with as much enthusiasm as his lover. The rude and the ungrateful belonged on their plates.

[il-mostrc]

Among his study's artifacts and lithographs were small framed photos of flowers on the walls. Lawrence never questioned such items; they seemed to be for aesthetic purposes. Each one held a small plaque of the flower's species. Each one was marvelously intact, with care transposed from the original owner. Lawrence didn't visit his office often; it was where most of the frames with these little flowers were showcased. Sometimes, the letters didn't have any words attached; other times, there was a paragraph or two.

They exchanged more information than Lawrence (@bloodypuzzle) ever spoke over the phone. When the divorce was finalized, Hannibal knew that the thread that kept them all together would be tried. While Lawrence's thread that attached him to his daughter had thinned, Hannibal's had only grown more robust over the years. He would fill in the holes that Lawrence didn't speak of-- if he spoke at all.

Diana knew of her father's accomplishments, even if she didn't have an intrigue interest. It was, after all, what kept him away from the family. Hannibal spoke of literature overall, recommending books (even of the Botany variety). Other times, he added his trinkets of rocks that he painted—acrylics with beautiful renditions of flowers lovingly brushwork on. These details of their relationship were kept from Lawrence. It wasn't out of malice but respect for Diana. When she was ready, she would know plenty about her father. When Lawrence wanted to reach out more to his daughter, Hannibal would know all the fine details for conversation points-- and to prove that there wasn't a moment he missed as long as Hannibal could share the snippets of her life.

All his letters ended with the same sentence.

Your father loves you. And now, he adds another framed flower to his wall.

The manilla bubble envelope had no return address, only Hannibal's and a large FRAGILE sticker. Inside was a folded letter, wrapped around a Polaroid photo from Diana's latest cheer competition, and a carefully - packaged white Peruvian lily bloom protected by wax paper. She had grown fond of gardening in her older teen years, even potting flowers that didn't do well in the climate of her new home state to keep indoors. Inevitably, a sample of her work always found its way to Hannibal. They were preserved perfectly after being pressed in her textbooks for weeks. There was a small wax stamp on the letter, featuring the crest she made for herself once. Of course, it had only felt fitting to use a magpie.

A white Peruvian lily was a symbol of friendship, as well as a representation of mutual support, as she had learned in her quest to understand the language of flowers. Your father loves you, Hannibal said - and perhaps this was a tentative acknowledgment that the girl heard.

[il-mostrc]

Hannibal did well reading rooms. He did well with reading Lawrence (@bloodypuzzle.) The feeling was always different when he faced the turbulence of his mind, how it churned with memories. He remains silent when Lawrence fastens to his side, his hand outreached, and with gentle care, cups the side of his neck. He listened with an attentive ear, picking up all the slight differences in tones as he spilled out his thoughts. Hannibal always encouraged his thoughts to formulate into words; he's grateful this is occurring.

"A life without regret would be no life at all." He assures him, gripping the base of his elbow and motioning him to take a seat on one of the antique canapés. A crinkle of a frown line forms between the bridge of his nose. "What is it Lawrence? What has you spilling out thoughts such as this." It wasn't as if he didn't see the signs. The rubbish bin was full of plastic coffee cups, all marked with the same siren of the sea in green on them. She taunts Hannibal with that smile; her ownership of Lawrence rivaled his.

On most days, Hannibal's pulse was a steady sixty. But on the days he killed, it never reached above eighty-five. And then there were the days with Lawrence, when it skyrocketed. Despite his nature, Hannibal chooses to have a heart; he chose this man who sat beside him many years ago, a choice that continues to shape his life.

A doctor's life was a relatively safe one. Florescent lights and a cushy lifestyle shelter them. They were entirely different. They played dangerous games and inflicted hazardous wounds. Hannibal would rather Lawrence be behind a desk to fiddle with contraptions and sew clues in human bodies. There was a safety behind that.

"If you ever feel the tug of your old life, I would not stop you." Diana was forever something embedded in him. "One day, Diana will come calling."

It was Diana's birthday. She would be sixteen, Lawrence knew — but he didn't reach out to her. They had not spoken since the day she moved away with Alison. All of that hurt had scarred over years ago. Still, he was oddly withdrawn. Out of bed earlier, gone for his favorite coffee at dawn, and stood silent at a window in their grand home when Hannibal appeared for the day. Something was festering in the empty hole where his heart should have been that Lawrence couldn't place in to words . . . until he saw him.

Lawrence limped over to Hannibal and greeted him with a kiss. He gave his lover a bit of his weight, which allowed him to drop his cane. One hand held Hannibal by the throat while the other pressed to his chest. Lawrence savored the moment, along with the feel of Hannibal. The warmth of him, the sturdiness of him, the lingering smell of his soap on his perfect skin. When he was satisfied, Lawrence pulled back, though he didn't release Hannibal just yet. "You were right that day," he said, voice oddly soft. He now understood how to communicate the itchy, maddening sentiment under his flesh. It didn't matter that today marked a significant milestone in his daughter's life. That version of him was gone, buried with his broken marriage to Alison and attempts at hiding his true nature. Lawrence saw it : how that decade had been nothing more than a betrayal of who he really belonged with. "My first wedding. I never should have gone through with it — and I never should have left you."

[il-mostrc]

The house hummed alive as it kept its constant cool temperature of sixty-six. The summer solstice was in full impact and a heatwave had swelled in the last few weeks. They were just shy a month of both their birthdays; summer sweltering never bothered Hannibal all too much. A few plans were arranged, but nothing was set in stone. Lawrence (@bloodypuzzle) had his eyes set on another prize, one that had been running strong for a year now. Hannibal had noted the shifting in their once close-knit relationship. While he was no stranger to having his own affairs, he didn't speak of them nearly as often as Lawrence did with Alison. Seeing him sprawled across his leather couch was a treat, even if he disapproved of the alignment of his feet on the end of the sofa, soles digging into the leather.

The cutting of parsley came to a slow cease; pans in the backdrop were sizzling while fish on another counter section was being prepared. Lawrence had become a test subject for many of his new dishes. "Promises are promises, commitment takes action," Hannibal said in his usual tone. He believed in the value of commitment, but he also knew the weight it carried. It was soundest to stay corroborating. It was all he ever was to his long-time friend.

Another slice bit into the wood cutting board, creating a fresh, deep notch depicting his feelings in a way that wasn't noticeable to anyone but himself. "Are you positive this is your calling?" His eyes lifted from the task, eyeing him from across the room where he could see him in clean sight.

Your time belongs to me.

With each slicing motion, he knew these meals for two would dwindle down to just himself. Newlyweds had the insufferable shroud of doing everything together. Their time together was now a ticking bomb, the seconds, minutes, and hours all slithering away as each grain of sand fell from the hourglass.

"Perhaps you should wait.." It was a vain attempt to delay the inevitable. "If she is quick to be wed, the winter months are particularly harsh here. We are, after all, born of the summer." A slight nudge into promoting those plans that lingered stagnant, much like the oppressive humid air outside. "I know how it aches in your bones." Among other things that he had come to know about Lawrence.

Did Alison know of his aversion to the cold? Did she know his favorite dish? How he racked up loyalty points on his coffee cards and, consequently, the same place he hid from his problems. How often would Hannibal find him in these places after the ring slipped onto his finger?

A sigh spilled out, concealed by adding butter into the pan. It sizzled and popped, allowing for a moment of reprieve against the raging storm of his thoughts.

Lawrence laid on the couch, back pressed to the cushions and head propped up on his arms folded behind it. The news was mindless watching, enough to keep his eyes occupied while his thoughts churned. Eventually, he spoke, and the volume on their television coincidentally turned down at the same time. Lawrence wanted to make sure Hannibal heard. "Alison and I have been dating for a year," he said, gaze flicking up to the ceiling. "Something like that. She keeps it all straight better than I do. I've started thinking about getting her a ring, Hannibal." Lawrence paused, unable to help the slow curl of a frown across his lips. "I want to marry her. We love each other, and it seems . . . right."

[il-mostrc]

In these poignant moments, Hannibal found solace, etching them into the recesses of his mind when the world around him became overwhelming. It was a sanctuary, a mental crawlspace he could retreat to, enveloped by the warm, swirling steam rising from cups of tea and illuminated by the soft, inviting glow of Lawrence's boyish smile—a smile that lingered charmingly at the corner of his mouth. As he set his cup down, his gaze fixated on the deep, captivating blues in Lawrence's eyes, which he often found himself lost in, akin to a ship adrift on the vast sea.

“I fear I have subjected you to an excess of museums,” Hannibal remarked with a gentle smile, his fingers wrapping possessively around Lawrence’s forearm. “It has been far too long since I last stood within the hallowed walls of a cathedral. My once fervent interest in the collapse of churches has waned.” He tilted his head slightly, his gaze falling to where his fingers settled in the soft folds of Lawrence's shirt sleeve, gently exploring their way upward.

“Basílica de la Sagrada Família…” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, reverence blooming in his tone. “…Duomo di Milano…” His fingertips traveled further, reaching the strong contours of Lawrence’s bicep. “…La Cathédrale Saint-Pierre…” His gaze lifted from the fabric to Lawrence’s face once more. “…Sainte-Cécile Cathedral of Albi…” At this moment, his eyes drifted from Lawrence's expressive gaze to the curve of his lips, where the tea lingered, glistening softly against the warm hue of his skin.

While the concept of 'total retirement' remained a distant aspiration, Hannibal felt a profound sense of ease with Lawrence's decision to endeavor in a different path, setting aside the scalpel. He himself had embraced this transition years prior, having discovered a quiet peace and contentment in his choice. The realm of private practice suited him well; he was granted the freedom to dictate his own schedule and selectively curate the individuals who entered his life.

Lawrence squeezed Hannibal's arm as the older man left his side. At the realization that his husband intended to make tea, the oncologist limped toward one of the chairs at the island. On his way past Hannibal, he plucked his glasses from his lover's collar with a chuckle. Lawrence gingerly slid onto his seat. Usually, he would read in this spot while Hannibal cooked or cleaned up. There was an intimacy to being here, as a result, and a comfort.

"Thank you," Lawrence whispered upon receiving his cup. His fingers, eager for its warmth, wrapped around the object. The curling steam glanced across his cheek as he inhaled the aroma. Lawrence silently patted the space beside him. A plea for Hannibal to remain close, if his husband was willing to indulge him.

"I had not thought about retiring too much," Lawrence confessed, lips twitching into an amused smile. " — not yet. Teaching does seem to be very much on the table, judging by the offers that I keep receiving." He sighed, brows moving together thoughtfully. "At least, I would retire from active practice. Give up Head of Oncology at St. Eustace, close my last office, and put down the scalpel . . . in that life, at least."

He laughed softly then, gaze moving from his beverage to Hannibal once more. "I don't know what I will do after if I agree, whether that is publishing or teaching — but I cannot deny that the extra time with you is appealing. That would have me saying ' yes ' before anything else." It was the same sentiment that he shared not long ago in the basement, fingers laced through Hannibal's belt loops. "Tell me more about Europe, Hannibal. Where would you like to go, if we were to run away there ?? "

[il-mostrc]

Another scar to add to his collection. In the natural order, a predator may sustain injuries while pursuing its prey, especially when the latter demonstrates resilience. In this particular encounter, he found himself significantly outnumbered yet emerged victorious. With careful steps, they ascended the stairs. His house was not equipped for Lawrence's difficulties, though he never imagined anyone being down below his pantry in his lifetime. As much as he felt a deep-rooted disdain for John's creation, he could not fully impart hate on him. Lawrence was born again, tapping into an area that Hannibal had never imagined would blossom.

He was a lion in the room next to Hannibal. Though his ways were more tactical. Hannibal was very hands on. "There, it is not as daunting as it seems," he remarked, offering a reassuring smile as they paused in the kitchen. Hannibal permitted him to rest against one of the countertops.

He measured the loose tea leaves with precision, their rich aroma wafting up as he added them to the pot. As he poured steaming water, the gentle bubbling sound mixed with the quiet rhythm of his words. "In light of recent developments, considering your retirement may prove beneficial. It would afford us an opportunity to recuperate in Europe." Public interest tends to be fleeting and unpredictable; any discussions regarding Jigsaw would likely be overshadowed by emerging events capturing the audience’s attention.

"What are your thoughts?" The tea was poured and presented to him, accompanied by a warm smile. This vacation could serve as an honorable reason for their temporary departure from the country—a congratulations for Lawrence's journey ahead.

Hannibal's words and the brief pressure on Lawrence's throat prompted his lips to curve into a smirk. His eyes moved down when Hannibal reached for his hands ; Lawrence loved to see his fingers twine with his husband's. It was as much a symbol of their relationship as it was a comfort to the oncologist. After a minute of staring, he accepted Hannibal's assistance.

Lawrence's right hand slid up to Hannibal's shoulder, curved into the salmon - colored fabric, while his left gripped the older man's digits. He used the strength and natural stability of Hannibal to pull himself up and off of his seat. Even with their present wounds, the motion was fluid — largely due to how familiar it was to the pair, who had long perfected such gestures. As Lawrence straightened his back, he entwined his forearms behind Hannibal's neck. This gave him the time he needed to test placing weight on his prosthetic again. It was always difficult following a long sit, particularly at the unnatural angle that bending over on a stool offered. Once he was confidently on his feet ( so to speak ), Lawrence's left arm fell, and his fingertips dug into Hannibal's waist instead. His right limb remained hooked behind his husband — really, Lawrence just wanted the angle to look at him. It would be easy for him to turn and reach his cane in a moment.

"You are right," the oncologist said, visage not far removed from the overly satisfied individual that had kissed Hannibal's sleeve just moments prior. "It is . . . chilly down here. I do enjoy your playing, Hannibal, but I'm afraid I would not be able to focus — as cold as I am. My suggestion is that we warm up first."

Carefully, he added in his head. The little addition to his thoughts prompted him to draw a shaky breath, and his lips twitched. Hannibal's burn haunted him still ; Lawrence's stomach turned at the reminder that the grotesque image was there.

[il-mostrc]

There was always a sense of pride that came with Lawrence's side of the killing field. For so long, Hannibal held the urge to slay-- simply if someone slighted him in a way he found rude. He had slain when he was a young boy, only years before entering school and subsequently transferred to the States for further education. It was there where he encountered Lawrence, his hands already stained with blood without any regret layered on the unusual quirks that young lads found in him.

He was always polite, the key phrase they would fondly mention whenever Hannibal's name came up. They also noted that he often kept Lawrence in check, tending to him even more than a parent would at times. "I have no doubt that you would." That slanted smile reaches the corner of his eyes this time. "Now, come along. It is far too chilled for healing bodies to stay here." He knew the cold bothered Lawrence far more than it ever did him. "Shall I play for you tonight? The harpsichord needs her strings plucked." There's a slight pause before he tacks on, "and so do I."

His fingers linger on Lawrence's neck, giving it a slight squeeze. They find Lawrence's hands then, chilled to his touch; they had stayed far too long down below. Their conversation would be brought up again later that night, where the talk of laying low would come into focus. He could sway the authorities only so much; Verger was wanted dead. The millionaire held many devils at his door, including that of his own blood. The authorities believed Jigsaw was involved. To free Margot of the crimes inflicted on her brother, the trap was left at the scene. As part of their truce, she was finally free of the burden of her brother but not liberated from the trauma that he embedded in her.

Lawrence's hands moved. Now that he was confident he had Hannibal in front of him, they splayed out over the older man's hips. The removal of Lawrence's glasses prompted a soft noise to escape him. In his contentment, his lashes fluttered shut, and he tilted his head to perfectly fit Hannibal's movements. His fingertips dug into his husband's trousers for a moment ; it quickly became clear that Hannibal had the ( serial ) killer at his mercy.

For anyone else, Lawrence would have never rolled over and given his metaphorical belly. Especially with his eyes closed. He had stopped being such an open creature a long, long time ago. Hannibal, though, was afforded a level of intimacy and trust that no other could claim with Lawrence.

Hannibal knew him — the rot in his morality, the void he filled with split flesh, the empty ( now aching ) thing that served as his heart — and Hannibal loved him. Perhaps, that was what Lawrence was afraid of most : without Hannibal, he would be alone, and there was not a soul in the world who would ever understand him like this again. After all, he had tried before, hadn't he ?? with Alison. That marriage almost suffocated him to death.

Lawrence turned his face, brushed his lips against Hannibal's sleeve, and looked up at him through a half - open gaze. He carried the same air as an overfed predator. Relaxed, with his teeth hidden, but no less anxious of the next potential threat. "I will not accept anything less than forever," he replied. The talk of his career was temporarily buried ; it had been a flimsy subject, anyway. "There are others who know us now, Hannibal, without our . . . suits. If they lay a finger on you, I will cut them and drown them in their own blood. I do not need to test what I can see." After Verger's escape, it seemed that [ Jigsaw's ] appetite for second chances had grown sour.

Or, maybe, where Hannibal was concerned, his philosophy was simply far less noble. John had set Lawrence on Mark for what he did to Jill once, and it was in that event that Lawrence found his justification.

[il-mostrc]

His fingers slipped the cuffs through the slots of his wrists, feeling Lawrence's gentle tug as he drew him close to him utilizing belt loops. A soft exhale fell through, he could tell the expedition that they had endured greatly disturbed him. For Hannibal, it was simply a means of another survival story. Bruised and battered as he was, he felt the thrill of ending those who got in his way. The threads of life were severed that evening, but Lawrence and his own were kept intact. Another defiance, in his own way, towards God. He had prevailed above all others alongside his companion, who dabbled in the means of ending life.

His wry smile returned and he threaded his fingers through the blond of Lawrence's hair, the other gently sliding the glasses away from his face and hooking them upon the edge of his salmon neck collar. Hands fell to smooth over his cheekbones, ending with cupping the sides of his face, fingers trailing down his jawline. "Do whatever pleases you. I will be supportive as always." Those thumbs lightly caressed the bruised flesh just under his eyes.

Hannibal understands Lawrence's urges. To be near the one that had almost been seized from their life. He felt the same when Mischa was taken from his outstretched hands-- latching onto the air, feeling the door slam on his arm repeatedly until a snap was heard. He had tried in vain to protect the one he loved and failed. Lawrence didn't fail, but the prospect of that outcome still hung stagnant and heavy in the air. "I'm here and plan on staying as long as I can." Through all the shattered teacups that would one day renew if the fates allowed.

Lawrence's sharp gaze followed Hannibal's movements. He bit his tongue as his husband got off of the gurney. Unlike Lawrence, Hannibal was more than sure of his own physical boundaries ; if he felt too unwell to move, he would not have. The oncologist drew in a deep breath at the sight of how slow the motions that Hannibal used to dress himself were. Beneath his flesh, the itch worsened. It took everything in Lawrence not to find the nearest scalpel and cut away his skin to get rid of the sensation.

"No," he said, smile suddenly thinner but persistent. "I saw the food that Doemling put down. He would have ruined you. Thrown you into the oven to ' roast ' you and drowned you in a cheap sauce . . . "

Lawrence trailed off, and the curve of his lips twitched. He had hoped to indulge his husband's humor, but the subject was fast becoming a strangely uncomfortable one. The two of them spoke about cooking Lawrence, from time to time — but it was always with the macabre intimacy and reverence for each other's craft that had shaped so much of their later lives. It never involved Hannibal, either ; Lawrence simply wasn't a good enough cook.

— and, up until now, Hannibal Lecter had been damn near invincible. So much so that even the mere idea of his death seemed blasphemous.

Lawrence waited for Hannibal to finish buttoning his shirt before he reached for him. His hands grasped the older man at his hips, thumbs hooking through his belt loops. Lawrence needed him in front of the stool he sat on. He looked up, blues piercing through his glasses. Lawrence cursed the name of Mason Verger ; the brand etched and burning in his eyes ; and all of the marks their enemy had dared to carve into this perfect, deathless figure that Lawrence adored. To see Hannibal bleed ( outside of their private affairs ) had spooked the oncologist in a way that he had not been able to confess to yet.

"While we were away," Lawrence said, instead, "I received another offer from a university for a position. It's generous. I wonder if it would be worth retiring from active practice." He exhaled a large breath. " . . . I would have more time to spend with you."