NO BITE MASK.

Lithuania.

Hannibal Lecter hasn’t called this country home for years, decades even. Yet, he’s been housed in it for almost a year now by the waterside, the morning bright and filled with bird song he was familiar with in his youth and the nights dim and silent, the occasional chirping of a cricket cutting through the constant cicadas.

On the run, dormant.

It’s been eleven months, two weeks, and four days since ex-FBI agent William Graham had thrown the both of them over a cliff in hopes of their end.

After the death of the dragon.

The soft confession before the wild beats of waves.

It’s been eleven months, two weeks, and four days since ex-FBI agent William Graham has spoken a word, a constant, a vowel and Hannibal is familiar with selective mutism, when he was eleven his entire world went silent, a simple refusal to acknowledge the outside world and now watching Will pass paper and pen over to Hannibal, the scar on his face visible through his facial hair making him wince slightly reminds him a bit too much of childhood.

Perhaps it's the scenery, the fact that everywhere Hannibal turns it smells a bit like the Lecter residence despite him not being there in a very, long time.

Will’s last spoken words were “It’s beautiful.”

His most recent written words on the small paper pad are “How are you feeling?” and then a furrowed brow as Will tongues at his lip to add on; “You’ve been biting your lip. Stressed. I can tell.”

Hannibal chuckles, Will can see right through him, almost as if he’s glass, his person suit is not as tightly tailored anymore. He blinks at Will and sighs. “Do you ever think of home?” Sometimes he still expects the gruff sound of Will’s voice to enter the noise, instead he hears the etching of a pen hitting paper and the scratching sound of a notebook against the table. The waves outside hit the bank, the notebook pages turn with the wind, Hannibal sets them straight.

And then he reads, the glasses he was prescribed months back drifting down his nose.

“When I’m drunk I think about Louisiana. It feels warmer, like cinnamon. Sometimes I think of Wolftrap, even Baltimore. Like snow and dirty rain.”

Hannibal hums, sitting back and crossing his slack clad legs. His style is more relaxed now, opting for long sleeve thermals, sweaters, the odd simple t-shirt. His suits have been abandoned unless you count the nights he takes Will out on dates. Yet, there is still that same air of arrogance, the betterness that hangs around Hannibal, simply because he knows how to carry himself well.

He ponders what Will said before responding.

“Being here reminds me of everything.” Here, is this country, everything, is his entire life wrapped neatly in a bow. “Everything reminds me of being here.”

Hannibal pauses, he fusses with Will’s hand on the table, still grasping the pen, running his thumbs over the younger’s knuckles.

“How nostalgic.”