𝕯𝖆𝖒𝖓𝖊𝖉 𝖉𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖈𝖎𝖔𝖚𝖘

      𝕳𝖊'𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖎𝖓 𝖆 𝖌𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖜𝖎𝖓𝖉, the scent of ancient death and rust riding on his coat tails. It matters not if the windows were locked- the mechanisms of man do little against the wills of the damned. But Lestat is sure if Stephen didn’t want him here he would have made entry impossible the moment he felt his presence on this side of the world.

Still, the vampire can’t help but revel in the theatrics of it all as he steps pointedly(heel - toe, heel - toe), boot heels muffled atop the fine oriental carpeting and his skin rendered almost alive in the warm candlelight. Even if none of this drama was genuine, even if Stephen anticipated his arrival-- it feels nice, doesn’t it?

CONFIRMATION OF THE IMPOSSIBLE.   Hannibal stills, glass raised against his lips but without drinking, and eyes him over the edge of the glass. IS IT COMMON FOR MEN TO SURVIVE NAUTICAL EXPLOSIONS.    “ Only if they’re incredibly lucky – or if they weren’t in the explosion to begin with. “  There’s something apologetic in the quiet way he says it – but this isn’t the time or the place for such things.  Too much attention they could draw.  ( Hannibal is prominent, well known in the Baltimore social circles, it wouldn’t do to draw attention further. ) 

He takes a drink from his glass, and eyes Lestat’s full one.  

There’s a dozen questions pacing his brain, a dozen trains of thought.  Mostly, he think Lestat smells of BLOOD.  Curious, but not particularly unusual – he’d been exposed to violence so young.  He’d been exposed to Hannibal’s violence, so young.  ( As young as he looks now, standing before him looking like Hannibal’s very own variation of the Blood Countess.  There’s barely a flush to his skin, pale and pallid – Lestat has always been pale.  Not this pale – ) 

“ You haven’t touched your champagne … unlike you to leave a glass untouched. “ 

Quiet acknowledgement of recognition – a quiet, yes it’s me, how is it you? That passes between the eyes.  Hannibal offers his arm politely, in invitation to find somewhere more private to speak.  “ What brings you to Baltimore, old friend? “ 

       𝕺𝖋 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖘𝖊 𝕳𝖆𝖓𝖓𝖎𝖇𝖆𝖑 𝖜𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖉 point out the drink. He's always had a keen eye for details overlooked by the general public. He already suspects something amiss- and oh, how Lestat would LOVE to lay it all out on a platter for his dearest diable. To watch intrigue and disbelief morph those fine-cut features in ways only Lestat could draw from him. But wasn't it Hannibal who taught him to savor the moment? To relish the build before the peak?

@fopvamp

It’s a familiar face in the crowd – one he most certainly did not expect to see at this particular charity gala.  He’s been a patron to the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra for many years now, is aware of practically everyone who runs in the same social circles – as aware of them as they are of him, perhaps more so, considering the little rayskin box occupying his kitchen.  This one, though, he knows he’s never seen here at one of the Gala’s – 

Knows, because he has not seen him in YEARS.  Unfathomable and briefly befuddling, Lestat seems untouched by the years.  Golden curls halo his shoulders, a glass of chardonnay untouched in his hand that seems there purely for ceremony.   ( impossible, isn’t it ?  How many years have passed since that night in Paris ?  How many years has it been ?  30?  Something like it, it has to be – Impossible for Lestat to look so … as he does.  Beyond time.  Immortal.  Untouchable. )  

Eyes that meet amidst the crowd but show no outward recognition.  Eyes, impossibly blue and ethereal, burned into his memory — find him and drift away just as quickly.  It isn’t possible for that to be Lestat, it isn’t, logically, he knows that.  Hannibal lets his eyes drift away, tries to put it from mind, enjoy the gala.  ( Find a new business card for his box. ) 

It’s difficult to shake the specter of the past, though.  It clings to him, reminds him of ages past now – of the lithuanian hillside and how Lestat had not shied from violence, had taken part of his delicacy offered without question.  His first feast.  

He can’t help but gravitate back to the stranger before the night is through – 

“ Good evening.  Forgive me, I don’t believe I’ve seen you at one of these events before.  I’m Dr. Hannibal Lecter. “ The introductions is perfunctory and rehearsed, as second nature as the rest of his meticulous suit.  He kindly prays that this newfound stranger won’t be one more rude person to be added to the list – he isn’t certain he could resist killing them recklessly, right here, in the crowd, for daring to spew filth with the face of someone so beloved.  ( What would give them the right, after all ? ) 

“ Are you from Baltimore ? “ 

     𝕷𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖙 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖉 𝖓𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗 𝖐𝖊𝖊𝖕 𝖍𝖎𝖒𝖘𝖊𝖑𝖋 from indulging in the company of an attractive man. Though Mrs. Walker kept gabbing on (surely, another story about one of her loyal pooches-), his gaze looks past her, over her squat little frame and to the man of mystery settled oh-so perfectly in his line of vision. He's a vision. A unique beauty in the sea of mediocre and artificial-- he's like a Grecian statue come to life.

YES! That's it!

His features could have only been carved by the most divine of hands. No natural born man could look like THAT. A slave to his vices, Lestat peers again. Just a peak. And his long-dead heart thrills to find that his marble mystery is peaking, too. His first impulse is to cut right through the crowd and capture ALL his attention (just as he did Nicki, just as he did Louis)--- but the pull he feels now is far.. different. Similar, but different. There is no dire ache to know this man. No burning need that screams 'if I don't know him now I never will'. With this man- this Adonis with a wolfish edge- Lestat finds a strange sense of calm. A sense of FAITH that whispers 'all good things come to those who wait'. He can wait. And to his surprise- his patience pays off. Though there was hardly a moment his brain wasn’t on his john-doe romeo, he made no move- and Just as the night's crowd began to thin there he was. Monsieur mystery. Marble Adonis---

HANNIBAL LECTER.

Lestat nearly dropped his champagne.

HANNIBAL LECTER? No it couldn’t be the same, he begins- but one quick reassessment of the figure before him is all that is needed to confirm his identity. The cheekbones, the eyes, the nose. The tact in every syllable, the hint of his accent-- the POLITENESS.Oh mon dieu, c'est vraiment Hannibal! And Lestat has whiplash.

“ Uhh--- ha, non. I’m afraid not, my friend. “ Lestat laughs somewhere between wry and shock. He’s about a second too late for his response to sound natural. “ But neither are you. “

  Lestat had seen the ghosts of men many times before. He'd seen Magnus, sunken and cruel in his pasty Celtic flesh. He'd seen Nicki-- oh, dear Nicki-- waste away in the recesses of his own mind. He'd seen Louis, a ghost of his own grief before Lestat even laid eyes on him... but never before has Lestat seen a ghost with such fire in his eyes.

He recognizes the name, but only distantly – Hannibal keeps up with the news, of course, but not dutifully, and has very little interest in pop culture.  THE VAMPIRE LESTAT.  Hannibal’s smile is polite as he steps away from the finished tableau and towards his unexpected visitor.  ( He thinks of Will, shying away from his own violence and this man who calls it ARTFUL and lovely. ) 

“ My name and face have been in the papers lately, I believe … perhaps you’ve seen it.  Hannibal Lecter. “  He reaches, draws his companions hand and presses his lips to the back of a hand.  ( Chilled to the touch. )  “ I do believe it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lestat.  But I shouldn’t linger here much longer – the church will be opening it’s doors in a few hours. “ 

“ how do you feel about dinner ? “ 

     𝖀𝖓𝖑𝖎𝖐𝖊 𝕳𝖆𝖓𝖓𝖎𝖇𝖆𝖑, Lestat can't remember the last time he took a peak at the news. Hes always been a social creature, any news he heard of nowadays was usually while in the makeup chair or over drinks- but that name rings a bell. Hannibal Lecter, Hannibal Lecter-- his first thought is just how refreshing it is. It's a perfect name for this man. Just like him it's a revelation: full of unique mystery and intrigue. Interesting- Not overplayed and seen a thousand times before like every 'john' or 'dick' or 'tom'-- but it is familiar. Hannibal Lecter is deju vu and Lestat can't put his finger on why.

He's still reeling from the ghost of Hannibal's lips on his knuckles when he finally processes his offer.

" Oh- I daresay dinner is my favorite of all the meals. " Lestat offers, his smile so wide he was sure if it were any less pleasant he might look as if he were baring his fangs. And it falters only as he's hit by disappointing realization. " ... Im afraid I'm a bit of a bother to cook for, however-- special diet. You know how that goes. Most aren't up to the challenge it poses. " It's so late most decent men would have already had dinner by now. Normal, decent men. They would be in bed by now, too. But here Lestat and Hannibal stand, together, in the dead of night. Two ships passing in the vast improbability of the ocean, going it alone but for a moment, just a moment. They're going it together.

Lestat doesn't want to go it alone anymore.

Fuck it. He'll wake up achey in the evening from all the blood it took to digest- but this man is worth it.