#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]

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]

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]

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."

[il-mostrc]

They shared the same bruises that were marked on one another's bodies. In some areas, Hannibal's bruises were far darker, for he made sure to take the brunt of all the blows when possible. He knew Lawrence was more of a mastermind when it came to ending another man's life, the one that maps out the scenes for the grand play. In contrast, Hannibal was a predatory hunter, skilled in the forte of martial arts. He was swift on his feet, silent when needed, and knew which blows would render his prey with buckling knees or a gasping breath. He seldom used a firearm at his disposal; he felt it cheapened the battlegrounds. A hunter worked for their prey. Make it all too easy, and one grows bored-- like a cat who plays with the mouse.

His lips stretched to produce a smile, splintering back once the elongation of thin skin on a split lip was felt. "I applaud you for your sense of self-awareness. There is hope for you yet, Dr. Gordon." With a wink, he shifts off the ledge of the gurney, grabbing his salmon color-collared shirt and slipping it on over bare flesh in a slower fashion than the elegant sweeping motion he often did when putting on clothes. Hannibal moved like art itself, poised and perfect, never faltering from his confidence in movements. However, he's slower now and more languid.

Lawrence had come face to face with Hannibal's mortality.

"If Mason was able to feast on me as he so intended to, would you have shared in the banquet?" To eat the flesh of your loved one-- he knew this intimately. "Let us hope he wouldn't have overcooked my penis." That slanted smile again, he slowly buttons the shirt up, eyeing Lawrence as he does. He's fond of those glasses, even more so when they are taken off by his actions.

Lawrence allowed Hannibal to take his hand. The brush of his husband's lips against his split knuckles sent a shudder down his spine. He leaned forward, elbows on his thighs and unoccupied fingers suspended in the negative space between his knees. Blonde hair spilled onto his forehead, ghosting over the red line striped across his brow. They had chosen to seal that with surgical glue in the hopes that it wouldn't scar too badly.

In the light of the basement, the bruising at the corners of Lawrence's mouth was apparent. These were not nearly as grotesque as what decorated his body ( presently hidden beneath a turtleneck shirt and jeans ). He had never stopped fighting them, not really — even at the macabre dinner, finally somewhat soothed by the sight of Hannibal, Lawrence took the flesh he felt owed.

[ A bad dog, ] they scolded, and Lawrence grinned at them. To call him a dog insinuated that he could be tamed. No, he was something else, with sharper teeth and a taste for raw meat — like a wild coyote that had gnawed off its own foot to escape a far more intricate trap once and now refused to sit quietly in another. The collar that existed around his throat was by choice, not from a yearning for captivity or companionship.

Lawrence's black ring caught in the light. At Hannibal's words, he snorted. His thumb lifted and traced the scabbed mark trailing down from the older man's lip. Another potential scar, another mark he could not take responsibility for. It itched under his skin, though not to the degree that the brand did.

"I'm fine, in the language of Dr. Gordon, usually means that one is very far removed from it," Lawrence murmured. "As you are fond of reminding me, darling." An odd English accent crept into the oncologist's voice, staining his words with the evidence of an exhaustion that had yet to leave his bones. He looked again at the square of bandage on Hannibal's back. Lawrence's lips pressed together, and his fingers unconsciously squeezed Hannibal's.

"The bear trap was too good for him," he mused, eyes staring intently from behind his glasses. "I knew of a man once — an ungrateful man — who nearly drowned in a vat of liquified, rotted pig corpses." Lawrence inhaled sharply. "I would have rebuilt that, perfected it . . . if nothing else because he made you bleed."