Daydreamerbean

You did not choose to be beautiful the way the others were beautiful. You didn’t think you were. There was nothing to affirm that feeling, either.

But you were a noticed of beauty, that was your dose. That’s how you needed to where you were now. You had noticed that about the ones who came before you, the vampires you'd glimpsed only in passing before you became one yourself. Back when you were still warm blooded and alive and afraid of them.

They moved unlike anything alive. Like they were always being watched and the entire world was their audience. You had never been given the luxury of an audience. You had been made in a gutter muck city, half-drained and left to finish the change alone, gasping into the wet pavement of an alley three blocks from the apartment you'd never see again.

Your maker hadn't stayed to see what you'd become. You didn't even know her name. You knew the taste of her blood, dry and bitter and painfully endless. You knew the shape of her back, and her long blonde tresses as she walked away from you without once turning around.

That was four years ago. Four years of learning this sort of hunger was endless, that it had no bottom. Four years of terrible killings, both in morality and manner. Four years of work done sloppily and waking in strange places with blood dried under your nails and against your skin with no memory of how it got there. Nobody had taught you control because nobody had stayed long enough to teach you anything. No one was there to teach you the ways of the new life, abandoned again and undesired. The same as before.

You survived on the heightened emotions of instinct and rage, and because your maker's blood ran so old and thick in you, you were fast and strong. Way more than you should have been this young, which made you hard to find. You'd feel eyes on you sometimes, a prickle at the back of your neck on a crowded street at midnight, and by the time you turned there'd be nothing there. You told yourself you were imagining it, that’s all it could be. You told yourself a lot of things to get through those times.

But tonight you couldn’t have been imagining it.

The couple came out of the restaurant a little after midnight, arm in arm, laughing about something — you didn't care what. You'd been watching them through the window for twenty minutes from across the street. Watching the way the woman touched the man's collar to straighten it, her eyes groaned on his lips. The way he caught her hand and kissed her knuckles, making sure to linger on the silver band wrapped around her finger.

They looked into each others eyes with such love and adoration, as if they'd been married thirty years rather fifty that they were currently celebrating.

Once, that tenderness might have made you feel something. That flutter you used to get in your chest as you watched people in love and hoped to have that one day. Or even the way your gut would clench in jealousy and you tried to suppress the burn such love left. Now, hunger had scraped every feeling out of you ago and left you bone dry years ago. Now it just made the pair look soft and easy.

They turned down the side street to walk through the park, and you were already ahead of them, already folded into the dark mouth of the bridges underpass, before they'd taken five steps into it.

It was a fast process, but it was not clean. The man tried to shield her and you didn't let him; you had him by the throat before he could get a single word out, and when the woman screamed you had silenced that too. You were just filled with this rage all of a sudden. Your hunger brew deep and your intrusive thoughts got the best of you. You took every hurried feeling out on them.

And somewhere in the tearing of flesh, splatter of blood, and the hot flood of copper down your throat, you lost track of which sounds were theirs and which were the low animal noises coming out of your own chest. When it was over you were on your knees in the wet brick, shadowed in the dark with two bodies cooling beside you as blood soaked to your elbows.

For one dizzy, gorging moment, you felt powerful. Full of…a feeling you couldn’t name.

Then you heard the clapping.

Slow, unhurried taps. Agonizing and echoing. Three claps, and then silence while you sat utterly still. Every fledgling—if you can even call yourself that anymore—reflex in you screamed to run, but under that, something older and stranger telling you to stay exactly where you were.

"Bravo," Said a voice from the mouth of the tunnel. Your head snapped to see a figure haloed by the nightlights of the outside city. "Truly. I don't think I've seen anyone make quite such a mess of a kill in a very long time.”

He was leaning against the brick, one shoulder against the wall, hands in his pockets. As if he was entirely unbothered by the two corpses at your feet or the blood on your face.

He didn't look dangerous. That was the first trick of him, you'd learn later — he was very unassuming. In the sodium light of the streetlamp behind him his hair caught amber, curling soft around a face that belonged in a painting some dead Italian artist had spent a lifetime trying to emulate perfectly, but failed in the end to capture such beauty.

He was watching you with an expression you didn't have a name for yet. You'd spend months trying to find one. Hunger wasn't quite it. Delight wasn't quite it either. It was closer to the way you might look at a stray animal. A helpless one that you had no idea how it was surviving. One that’d been around the neighborhood that’d you’d feed now and then, and it’d vanished for a few days before turning back up,

"Who are you.” You said. It came out flatter than you meant it, mouth thick with blood, more like a growl than words.

He started for a moment, the words on the tip of his tongue that you saw peek through his slightly opened mouth. "Someone who can help." He said. “Though I’ve given you no reason yet to believe that." He pushed off the wall and took one unhurried step closer, and every muscle in your body coiled to run. You tensed, raising some from the wet ground. A chill ran down your spine, and you weren’t sure if it was the wind hitting the water on your exposed knees, or the unmoving stare of the man in front of you.

"You've been very hard to find, little one. I've been looking for you."

You were too stunned to speak, freezing under the man’s amber gaze. To him, you looked ready to pounce, though not confidently. Your stance showed a shaky guarded defense, but your eyes showed the fear you held deep within.

"I know you.” He started again. “Nearly the entire city, knows you. You kill very inefficiently and leave quite the mess in your wake." He said, tilting his head, studying you.

"I know that you feed like you have never been taught, not even in the slightest. I know your maker left you in an alley very much like this tunnel and never came back, and that every other fledgling they made that night has died.“ His element rendered you with less words than before, but you did have questions that began to stir.

"I am not here to finish anything." It was like he read your mind, his voice becoming more gentle as his eyes gave you a quick once over. Your hands were shaking, blood dripping to the floor from your sharp finger tips.

There was a feeling that was still hot in your gut, and not at the fact that a stranger had just reached into your chest and named the shape of the wound there with a precision no one — not one living soul, not one of the dead — had ever bothered to use on you before.

"How do you know all that?” You asked, your voice quieter now.

"Because there has been much array in the city since your maker departed.” He said simply, like it was nothing.

"For longer than you'd be comfortable knowing. And it all traced back to you once the other ties came up dead.” You gulped at his words, sensing where this night was going. If it were anyone else, you would’ve fought back. You’ve done a lot of damage, not that you remembered most, but you knew what you were capable of in your new-ish form. But with him, you wanted to flee. His power was immense, you could feel it from feet away. And he knew you could, he knew everything you felt.

“You're very good at disappearing. You are unknown, so it has taken me a great deal of patience to find you every time you slipped away in the nick of time." There was a ghost of amusement that washed over him them, a split second trace of a smirk. Then, and only then, did you forget for one full second that you were standing over two dead bodies in an alley with blood drying tacky on your skin.

You didn't answer. You couldn't. There was a whole argument happening inside of you.

I should run, run as fast as I possibly can. Maybe until the sun comes up. I mean, I don't know this man.

Whatever he is, he is older and stronger and I have no idea what he wants. Or I do know, and I…actually don’t want it to happen.

I don’t want to die.

And under it, drowning it out inch by inch, something that wanted, badly, humiliatingly, for him to keep talking. For him to say something else that was true about you again. No one had said anything true about you in four years. No one had said anything about you at all, ever. At least, not to you.

"W-what do you want.” You finally managed, unfazed by your trembling voice, and a flicker seemed to shine in his eyes just then.

"Right now?" He considered the question like it deserved any real thought, as if this wasn’t planned from the very beginning. He glanced past you at the mess you'd left cooling in the alley, and something flickered over his face again— not disgust, you'd realize later, but an almost ravenous, private amusement. The look of a man watching a fire he intended, eventually, to put his hands into.

"Right now I'd like you to come with me before the sun makes this conversation a great deal less pleasant for both of us. Everything else…” He said, already turning, and walking away, so certain you'd follow that he didn't bother to check, “we have time for."

He was three steps away before you realized your feet were already moving.

You didn't decide to follow him. It wasn’t even a thought that registered in your mind. That was the thing you'd turn over in your mind for years afterward, long after his name had become the center of gravity your whole existence orbited — you never once decided.

He simply started walking, and some current under the current of your own will pulled you after him, the way you imagined a tide pulled at something that had spent four years believing itself unmoored, unwanted, unclaimed by anyone at all. And as you learned more, you didn’t know if it was his doing or yours that brought you along.

You didn't know his name yet. You wouldn't know it for another hour or so, whispered finally in the dark of a doorway while he watched you with those big, patient eyes of his. Staring into yours like he already knew every question you were about to ask and had already decided how much of the truth he'd give you.

"Armand.” He said, when you finally asked. Just that.

It was then the invitation had been handed to you, a door he was opening only halfway. It would be a long time before you understood how much of him stayed on the other side of it.

First, there is no explicit or implied confirmation in the show that Will and Hannibal had sex. The claim that NBC forced Bryan Fuller to “hide” a sex scene behind metaphor is completely made up. This is the same network that aired an entire dream sequence of the characters engaged in a trippy threesome/foursome. If Fuller wanted to confirm a sexual relationship, he would have found a way. The idea that sex was “implied” but had to be hidden is purely headcanon.

The argument that Bedelia “essentially states it as fact” is also wrong. Bedelia confirms that Hannibal is in love with Will, but that doesn’t mean it was sexual. The idea that her language was specifically about sex ignores the fact that Hannibal’s love for Will is directly compared to his love for his sister Mischa, the only other person he truly loved. There’s no evidence that Hannibal ever wanted or needed a sexual relationship with Will. What he wanted was complete and total emotional intimacy. That’s why his idea of a perfect life with Will included raising Abigail together, not sex.

The idea that Hannibal “replaced” Will with Bedelia because he needed someone he was familiar with "psychologically, emotionally, and physically" also falls apart. Bedelia was a means to an end. He didn’t love her, and she didn’t love him. She was convenient. Hannibal's ideal was never "finding a new Will"; it was making Will understand and choose him.

The claim that Will and Hannibal’s violence comes from "repressed sexual tension" and that their bond is a metaphor for "sexual awakening" isn’t supported by anything in the show. If their relationship was about sexual repression, there would be some indication that Will experiences that kind of desire—yet every single one of his physical relationships in the show is with a woman.

And let's get into Word of God:

Bryan Fuller himself has said that if asked, Will would identify as heterosexual, but that his bond with Hannibal is beyond labels, tied to intellect and emotion, not physical attraction. If Will’s love for Hannibal is so intense that it transcends sexuality itself, then an ace reading makes more sense than a sexual one.

And then there’s the blatant acephobia in the original post. The entire argument hinges on the idea that intimacy is only fully realized through sex. That if Will and Hannibal truly loved each other, it had to be sexual. That sex wasn’t just a possibility but a necessity for their relationship to be real. That’s not just bad media analysis—it’s the kind of thinking that asexual people constantly have to push back against in fandom and in real life.

The post even goes as far as saying that Will and Hannibal are "deeply sexual, intensely erotic figures" and that people "projecting" asexuality onto them are "distorting" canon. That kind of language isn’t subtle. It frames asexuality as a lesser, invalid reading while treating sex as the default, superior interpretation. It directly suggests that people who read these characters as ace are only doing it because of their own personal issues with sex. That is blatant acephobia, and it's part of a larger pattern in fandom where ace readings are treated as something that must be defended, while sexual ones are accepted without question.

Even beyond the acephobia, the post is hypocritical. If Hannibal is a show that relies on symbolism and metaphor, then an asexual interpretation is just as valid as a sexual one. You can’t say, "The show never explicitly confirms they had sex, but it’s obvious through implication" while simultaneously saying, "An ace reading is wrong because it’s not explicitly confirmed." That’s not how this works.

Will’s love for Hannibal was deep, overwhelming, and life-altering, but there is nothing in the show that suggests it was sexual. His only physical relationships were with women. And the fact that people feel so threatened by ace readings that they have to act like they’re distorting canon should really make them reflect on why they’re so desperate to erase non-sexual narratives.