#c. lestat

“ Call it a morbid curiosity, but do you ever regret it ? “ He doesn’t feel the need to clarify what he’s referring too -- they both know.  Hannibal prepares himself to have the question turned back on him.  A wicked mirror.  What would his own answer be ? 

Regret is such a foreign concept.  Heartbreak, not so much.  ( What is left in you to love ? )  What he experienced in his kitchen, though, transcended heartache.  Transcended all previous pain.  A tragedy the likes of which even the greeks could never have written.  ( I gave you a rare gift, but you didn’t want it. ) 

( didn’t I ? ) 

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 ? ) 

time becomes little more than an elusive blur. It’s been at least a week, though— if that, he’s certain. Long enough to have found his foothold here. Survivors are easily charmed outside of trials, and always startled by his sheer brutality inside of them. Hannibal has gotten to traverse various realms, familiarize himself with them—

He loathes finding himself standing in his own kitchen. It’s like a sick circus trick. His stomach flips. Survivors rarely make it out of his home alive— he has a home field advantage in the close quarters.  ( But the state of his home unnerves him.  He’s never been so reckless or disorganized in life.  Blood and bullet holes.  Smashed cabinets.  Showers of glass.  A dent in his fridge. ) 

Currently, he’s sitting at the fire, staring into its blaze and browsing the unique library of his mind. Revisiting his favorite books. When Lestat returns, Hannibal is surprised by how startled he looks— skittish, in a way that hannibal is unfamiliar with. He surmises the trial may not have gone well— but it’s still unusual.

His care had been PAIN - STAKING.  It was a reckless thing, but an impulse altogether impossible to ignore.  He skinned Anthony Dimmond.  Trimmed and folded him into the desired shape -- transporting him had been troublesome.  Setting up his display had been even more so.  While the CHAPEL was at present deserted, it was not a PRIVATE area by any means.  He’s lost, just for a few moments, at the prolific image -- his single reminder of mortality.  A skull graven on the floor.   ( There is an echo, a ripple breaking water surface in his mind, disrupting everything.  In the end, shall Will’s memory be one more floor that isn’t safe to tread in the halls of his mind ... ?  Will is going to come here -- he will, eventually.  Perhaps not today, or tomorrow -- perhaps he is not yet recovered from his wounds.  But that NIGHT sticks out in his mind.  It must in Will’s, too.  Surely --- standing before the fire, speaking of their NEW LIFE.   His hopes cruely dashed at the realization of deception -- ) 

He thinks of that moment, and the supper where Will sealed their fate, while he sets the display up.   An anatomically correct heart -- a VALENTINE written on a BROKEN man.   THE THREE OF SWORDS.    heartbreak.  Betrayal.  Will is convey all that he wishes for Will to know ?  ( it stands reversed:  FORGIVENESS.   Is it seeking it ?  Or giving ? ) 

unprompted asks || accepting ! 

The question catches him rather thoroughly off guard.  Hannibal blinks, hands stilling in their work.  something tells him Lestat is not seeking debates of morality, in his question – that he is seeking reassurance that they are good people – the sentiment is entirely pedestrian to him, but he loves Lestat dearly.  He returns to chopping vegetables while he speaks.

call hannibal by his full name lmao || accepting !